Sunday, 21 September 2014

I walked a long way today, through eight spiders’ webs



I walked a long way today, through eight spiders’ webs. I had dead flies webbed to my shirt and face. 
         Tree litter, safely bagged nappies, and BMW’s covered the slippery Driveways of Distinction. 
         A builder on the main road was loading a heavy-duty radio back into his van. He slammed the doors shut as I strode across his freshly laid concrete path leaving three deep footprints. I apologised and made a weak joke about the current vogue for pattern imprinted paving. The builder said nothing, just turned round, opened the van doors, and unloaded his radio and tools again. I disappeared round a corner and was washing my shoes in a puddle when a small boy of about 4 or 5 years old ran out across the road. His dad came after him, picked him up and dragged him back to the pavement. 
“I’ve told you not to do that, It’s dangerous!” He yelled.
“I know” said the boy.
“So why did you do it then?”
“Because … because it was a secret ninja job.”

PS: The Most Difficult Thing Ever has been shortlisted for this years Blog North Awards, the final results of which are partly decided by public vote. If you feel inclined, you can vote here:  www.blognorthawards.com
         The event itself takes place at The Deaf Institute in Manchester on Wednesday 8th October. Details here: www.manchesterliteraturefestival.co.uk
         Also, if you're interested, there is a Most Difficult Thing Ever dedicated Facebook page here: www.facebook.com

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Out in the sticks where 50% of women are inside Range Rovers.



Out in the sticks where 50% of women are inside Range Rovers, I followed the deer down the gravel driveway to the barn conversion where the new faux-modernist chrome-plated garden sculpture is ‘something a bit different’ and ‘absolutely beautiful to look at’ according to the woman with the ‘glass of something lovely’ in her hand. I lost a fiver around here yesterday, I retraced my steps for about ten minutes but there was no sign of it.

Later, a police dog pissed on my van and a bright red man inside a bright red BMW nearly took my wing mirror as he swerved to avoid some horse shit.

In the village, the grown-up paper-girl in distressed denim passed me in the street. She tucked her phone under her chin and folded a copy of The Sun for her next drop without pausing her conversation, ‘She’s having another baby,’ she said, ‘Royal twats!’ She pushed open the gate with her hip, ‘… Yes, well, if I had a decent job I wouldn’t be doing a paper round, would I?’

I parked my van at the end of another long driveway — in the same place I have every day this week. I opened the door and there, screwed up on the pavement was my fiver.