Terrorism

Tags

bombing, death, musings, outrage, peace, slaughter, terrorism, terrorist, war

I like to think that there is always another way to look at things. I often find “perceived wisdom” to be desperately unwise. Terrorist attacks prompt predictable responses from the status quo: “we will never give in to terrorism”, “the perpetrators will be relentlessly pursued”, “this is just senseless violence”, “the slaughter of innocents is never justified”, and so on. The outrage and passions expressed are understandable, but do they help?

We all want peace, don’t we? But not peace at any price. Which says to me, we want peace on our terms. Which is exactly the same as saying, we want to fight until our aims are achieved or our enemy gives in. So maybe, we don’t want peace enough.

Ah yes, I hear you say, but they started it. Well, did they? And even if they did, does that mean that they can have no grievance (real or imagined)? And, if they have a grievance (real or imagined), could we address it?

I utterly condemn the methods employed by terrorists. Problem is, every time we kill a terrorist, two more seem to step into the breach. We’ve been killing them for years but they keep coming. A dispassionate observer might imagine that terrorists actually believe their actions to be justified. Is there a way, other than killing, to persuade them that they are wrong? More of the same tactics doesn’t seem intelligent.

“Senseless violence” just says to me that we don’t understand: no-one really believes that terrorists plant bombs for fun. “Relentless pursuit” is another way of saying “carry on as before”. Is “we will never give in to terrorism” just another way of saying “we’re still not listening”? And, if we’re still not listening, what will it take?

Naked

Tags

dream, expose, Fear, naked, nightmare, work, writing

The Inkwell’s Half-hour Challenge for February “Dreams & Nightmares”:

I’m naked but I’m still hidden behind the half open door. Everyone else in the office is carrying on with their work regardless: they haven’t seen me. Somehow, I’ve got to get across the office and out the front door, so I can get home for some clothes, without anyone seeing me. My pal Jimmy is at his desk. If I can attract his attention without alerting anyone else, maybe he can help.
“Psst Jimmy!” Jimmy is still staring at his screen.
“Jimmy” I try a little louder. Carole looks over at me.
“Rob. Why are you hiding behind that door?” Now everyone is looking my way. Cynthia is laughing. “Are you naked in the office again?”
“No” I say, holding the door tightly against me.
“You are, aren’t you?” Carole is out of her seat and walking towards me. Cynthia and Sally follow her. I back out of the threshold, close the door behind me and hold on tight to the handle. They’re banging on the door and shouting variously “Come out” and “You’re disgusting” and “We’re coming to get you.”
Then someone starts to force the handle down. I’m fighting to hold it up but still it turns inexorably.
“No, no” I shout “no, no, no….”
“Rob wake up, you’re dreaming, wake up, it’s just a nightmare” I’m in bed and Maeve is kneeling beside me, shaking me by the shoulders “This is just a dream: you’re alright” she soothes.
“Oh God, that was horrible” I say and start to describe my dream to her, but she gently puts her finger to my lips to silence me.
“Shhhh” she says “you’re in a good dream now, forget about all that.” I laugh.
“I’m not dreaming now.”
“Yes, of course you are. This isn’t real. You just relax for a while and think about where you might have left your clothes.” Her words slap me out of any relax.
“What do you mean? That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. You went to work fully dressed but now you’re naked, so where are your clothes?”
“No, this is bullshit. I must be dreaming. I’ll wake up in a bit and everything will be fine.”
“Well, maybe, but you tried that once and look what happened.”

Brothers

Tags

crime, justice, life, musings, thoughts, threat, trial, writing

I wrote another piece for The Inkwell’s Half-hour Challenge under the theme “Bells”.

“Ah, Mr. Probert?”  Dave’s sixth sense had kicked in the moment the ‘phone rang and the unctuous voice on the line did nothing to dispel his trepidation.

“Yes, this is Dave Probert.  Who am I speaking to, please?”

“You don’t know me Mr. Probert.  It’s best for all concerned if we leave it that way.  Let’s just say I’m a friend of a friend or friends.  You may call me Mr. Bell.  I am of your brotherhood.  I have a favour to ask of you for a brother in need.”

Dave was trying to think fast but going around in circles.  The Brothers Of The Bell had helped his son Kevin with a string of bad debts, when Kev’s plumbing business looked to be going under for want of cash-flow.  It had seemed mysterious at the time: no names, no faces, just anonymous voices on phones.  But the people who owed Kev money had paid up P.D.Q., even those who seemed to have no money to pay.

Dave was aware all was silent.  Mr. Bell was waiting a reply.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bell?”

“You are employed as an Evidential Exhibits Officer at Lincoln Crown Court.”

Dave stiffened with dreadful anticipation. “I am.”

“The case of The Crown versus Landy is to be heard there next week.  You will loose the CPS’s exhibits for this case before the trial commences.”

“I can’t do that.  I’d get caught.  Everyone would know it was me.  It’s such a high profile case: it’s been in all the papers.  Everyone knows that Landy is guilty.  His fingerprints are on the knife and the victim’s blood is on Landy’s clothing.”

“I am not asking you for a legal assessment Mr. Probert.  I am calling in the debt you owe to the Brotherhood.  We did not ask any questions when you requested our help with your son’s cash-flow embarrassment and we don’t intend to offer any answers to you now.  You only need know that your brother is in need and that you are in a position to help.  We expect your help, Mr. Probert.”

“But that’s completely different.  Kevin had done nothing wrong.  He was owed that money fair and square for work he had done in good faith.  Landy is a cold-blooded murderer and gangster.  He deserves everything he gets.”

Mr. Bell barked an interruption “Mr. Probert!” then reverted to the quiet calm “None of that is your concern.  You need only do as the Brotherhood has requested: nothing more, nothing less.”

Dave was scared but angry too “I won’t do it.”

There was a pause, then slowly Mr. Bell said “You should not say that, Mr. Probert.  I find your attitude most disappointing.  It displays an unprecedented lack of gratitude for our efforts on your son’s behalf.  It also shows a breathtaking lack of understanding.  Do you imagine that your son’s debtors paid him willingly?  No, Mr. Probert: they paid him because we knew how to ask.  The Brothers Of The Bell ask in ways that people find very persuasive.”

Feminism

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feminist, happiness, life, murder, musings, rants, rape, relationships, respect, sex, sex 2, society, thoughts, women

There has been a lot of discussion of feminist issues on various social media, following the brutal rape and murder of Nirbhaya. Most of the outcry is emotional, necessary and laudable.  Predictably, there is a small minority seeking to blame the victims for the problem: skirts too short, drinking alcohol, not chaperoned, &c.  Thankfully, the vermin spouting these lies are relatively rare (albeit not quite rare enough).

What I also detect is a worrying undercurrent that seems to suggest that feminist ideas and ideals are pro-woman but anti-man.  I believe this is fundamentally flawed.  I am proud to declare that I am a feminist.  I absolutely believe that equality of opportunity is in the best interests of both sexes.

In my experience, women who are respected, supported and feel safe, are more likely to be happy.  Women who are happy, keep men happy.  I don’t know of any other way that works.

So, it follows, that feminism is in the best interests of even the most selfish man, and all the rest of us too.

Watch

Tags

Experience, life, musings, psychology, thoughts, writing

People get really fed up of my noise. Work colleagues and family members are constantly nagging me: stop tapping your fingers or give over whistling or humming. I tell them I have to make a noise, else I forget I’m here. They roll their eyes or shake their heads or laugh: they think I’m joking and I play along, humour them.
On a bad day, I allow my mind to wander. I know I shouldn’t do that: no good ever comes of it. There are places I can go to, dark places; easy to arrive, too easy; not so easy to leave. I have a terrible gnawing fear that I may not find the way back.
Time is rarely on my side. The second restraining loop for the free end of my watch strap is perished and broken. I replaced it with an elastic band. The band is not quite the same colour but it’s near enough. It holds the free end of the strap flat and stops it catching on my sleeve. I worry about that.
I can hear the normal hub-bub of the office but I’m not there. People are talking, laughing, saying things, arguing; they walk about with papers and files and cups of coffee. I can see my coffee cup (where is that?) but I’m not laughing.

Labyrinth II

Tags

life, musings, thoughts, writing

The fiends at the Inkwell know I can’t resist a challenge. Suggesting that my offering from Monday should be fleshed out was a bit like offering an alcoholic a drink. This is the two hour version:

I remember I am called David and I know I have a past, a life elsewhere, somewhere.  I also know that all the details of that life and past are stored away in my head.  But “stored away” screams at me.  “Stored away” is not a convenient cupboard, a functioning filing system; it’s a locked safe, a bricked up door, an unassailable barrier.

 It wasn’t my fault!  What wasn’t my fault?  I can’t remember but I’m sure I’m blameless just the same.  Well, culpability is an overrated concept, anyway.  I keep telling myself that I’m a good guy, I don’t deserve any of this.  How do I know?  I’m not sure how but I’m still confident that I’m right.  Does that suggest there’s some hope of finding my way back?  I hope so.

 My memory still performs on many levels.  I’ve sat for hours and thought about this.  I’m thinking in English: I’m pretty sure I am English.  I know I’m smartly dressed: I’m wearing a suit, tie and shiny shoes; I know this is smarter than jeans and trainers, say.  There’s a note in my pocket, scribbled on a scrap of paper, carelessly torn from the corner of a page: “milk” it says.  I know what “milk” means and I guess the note is a shopping reminder.  Is there a woman (or a cat!) somewhere, waiting for me to arrive with a carton?  I don’t know.  I can remember songs and books I have read though I can’t remember from where.  I have long finger nails on my right hand and short ones on my left and I remember that this is because I play guitar, even though I can’t remember owning one.  So I have retained some points of reference to the world outside, wherever that is.

 The world inside makes no sense, however.  The world inside is only the looking glass room and the corridor.  I know there must be more, but it is not accessible.  I walk in a straight line: I’m as sure as I can be that this is the case. I open the door at one end of the room lined with looking glass and enter the corridor. The door always closes behind me with a bleak click, though I can’t see what causes this. Then it’s locked: I cannot go back. The corridor is plain, clean and white: ceiling, walls and floor. The only feature is a steel door at the far end, which is identical to the one I just passed through. So my only option is to walk the twenty paces to this new door and pass through into the looking glass room. The first two times I did this, I assumed it must be a new looking glass room that I came to each time, because I was sure that I had walked in a straight line: how could what I left behind be in front of me? So I left my handkerchief on the floor in the looking glass room and went to the room down the corridor again. And there was my handkerchief waiting for me, mocking me, in the next room I came to. I’ve tried to smash the looking glasses but there is no give. I cannot make the least impression or mark on any wall, floor or ceiling. I have no tools or weapons, only some loose change in my pocket. There is no food or water. I slept for a while in the corridor, curled up like an abandoned kitten on the floor. I have no idea of the time of day. There is plenty of light but I can’t tell where it comes from: it just is. I’m feeling quite weak and a little dizzy. I keep trying to remember how I came to be here. There was a door. I knew I had to open it but I shouldn’t have stepped inside. As soon as the door closed behind me, I was lost.

 There’s a scent in the air.  And a taste.  The scent is like cheap soap from my childhood; pit-head bath soap; carbolic; coal tar.  The taste is water, but not good water.  It’s water boiled in a village hall tea urn; water that’s been sat in the pipes too long; metallic water.

 I get a feeling that I am not alone.  I can’t see or hear anyone but I am convinced that there is activity near by; a bustle and business.  I try to shout out for help but I get no response: no-one can hear me.  I am not sure that I heard myself even: did I shout?

 I sit, leant against a wall of looking glass and stare at my hands in my lap.  I have distinct tan lines from a watch and a wedding ring, both of which are missing.  Were they taken from me?  There’s no sign of any struggle, no injury.  But why would I remove them?  There’s a needle in the back of my right hand and a tube coming from it, running away over my shoulder.  I wonder where that came from?

 So I stare into the looking glass opposite and there am I, staring back.  There’s another reflection of the first reflection, just behind, and another, and another, each one slightly smaller and slightly less distinct than the one before, stretching away to infinity.  I squint and peer to see the last version of me but there is no last version.  There’s always another that I can’t really see, smaller and fainter.  If I look left or right or up or down, the same is true: endless mirror images of me looking, just looking, only looking, still looking, always looking.

 Then there’s a voice and pain: lots of pain.  The looking glass room has gone and the light is intense.  Someone is hammering nails into my head!

“David!” I can hear a voice that is not a voice.  How can a voice stab you in the ears?

“David, can you hear me?”  Go away, I don’t want this.  I try to open my eyes but the light is too bright.  I can hear moaning as well: is that me?

“David, you must lie still.  You’re in hospital.  You’ve had an accident.  We’re taking you down for a scan but you must not move.  You’re going to be O.K.”

Caesar’s Visit

Tags

humour, joke, life, musings, sex, sex 2, Skegness Latest News, thoughts

The emperor is in town and everyone is eager to please. It falls to the governor to lay on the entertainment for Caesar and his entourage. Now this is not a matter to be taken lightly. Caesar is very demanding, easily bored, and not too forgiving if riled. So the governor is wracking his brains to come up with something extravagant, unique and appropriate.
Asking around for ideas, one of the governor’s minions mentions that Dickus, the centurion, has a reputation as a great lover. From this is hatched a plan: Dickus will deflower fifty virgins in the arena, for the titillation of all.
Come the day of the games, everything seems to be going well. The wine is flowing and the warm-up acts have been well received. The fifty virgins are suitably tethered in the arena and Dickus has set about his task with great gusto. The crowd are urging him on and a quick smile and nod from Ceasar to the governor is most reassuring.
Ten minutes later, a very different picture is emerging. Dickus is only on virgin number twenty-eight and is clearly flagging. The crowd are getting restless, some are even throwing things, and Caesar’s smile has vanished.

Four minutes and only two more virgins later, Dickus looks beaten and the governor is staring into the abyss.  The crowd are howling and Caesar has a face like a butcher’s block.  The governor prostrates himself at Caesar’s feet to beg forgiveness.

“How was I to know?” he weeps ”Dickus managed fifty perfectly well in practice this morning!”

Labyrinth

Tags

life, musings, thoughts, writing

October’s Half-hour Challenge from the Inkwell:
I walk in a straight line: I’m as sure as I can be that this is the case. I open the door at one end of the room lined with looking glass and enter the corridor. The door always closes behind me, though I can’t see what causes this. Then it’s locked: I cannot go back. The corridor is plain, clean and white: ceiling, walls and floor. The only feature is the steel door at the far end, which is identical to the one I just passed through. So my only option is to walk the twenty paces to this new door and pass through into the looking glass room. The first two times I did this, I assumed it must be a new looking glass room that I came to each time, because I was sure that I had walked in a straight line: how could what I left behind be in front of me? So I left my handkerchief on the floor in the looking glass room and went to the room down the corridor again. And there was my handkerchief waiting for me, mocking me, in the next room I came to. I’ve tried to smash the looking glasses but there is no give. I cannot make the least impression or mark on any wall, floor or ceiling. I have no tools or weapons, only some loose change in my pocket. There is no food or water. I slept for a while in the corridor, curled up like an abandoned kitten on the floor. I have no idea of the time of day. There is plenty of light but I can’t tell where it comes from: it just is. I’m feeling quite weak and a little dizzy. I keep trying to remember how I came to be here. There was a door. I knew I had to open it but I shouldn’t have stepped inside. As soon as the door closed behind me, I was lost.

Greetings!

Tags

behaviour, humour, joke, life, musings, thought processes, thoughts, work

If you meet a colleague for the first time on any day, as you are leaving, do you say “hello” or “goodbye”?  I’ve tried saying both but it’s not satisfactory.
Do you talk to strangers? I do but, generally speaking, only if they have some perceived affinity with my situation, some “we’re all in this together” quality. So it is customary for dog walkers to greet each other, for instance, or folk waiting together at the bus stop or the level crossing barrier. Now this may seem simple enough, but it is riven with pitfalls. What should I do if I meet an erstwhile dog-walker without a dog?  I probably wouldn’t recognise him/her without a dog anyway: dogs are far more memorable than people.  And do the folk waiting at the barrier, on the other side of the tracks, qualify or not?  Tricky!

There’s a bloke who lives in the village, who walks past our house every working day, morning and evening, on his way to and from work.  Many’s the time I’ve been in the front garden or climbing in or out of my car as he’s passing and we’ve, very sensibly, kept things at a nod and half a smile.  Everyone is content and all is well.  But last week I met him coming out of ASDA (Walmart) and the silly man said “Morning!”  Well, obviously, I responded in kind but now we’re in a mess.  What should I do next time he walks past my garden?  Do we revert to nod/half smile status or are we now fettered in morning-hood for all time?  But it got worse.  I was about to leave for work the other day when I saw him strolling up the road.  Because I hadn’t yet solved the morning versus nod conundrum, I hung back behind the curtain, waiting for him to pass.  I realised this was ducking the issue rather but I thought discretion was better than valour, given the delicacy of the situation.  But he saw me and, as if that was not bad enough, gave me a wave!  So I was buggered: total zugzwang!  I couldn’t convincingly emerge from behind the curtain and pretend that’s where I belonged.  I couldn’t stay behind the curtain, peeking out: that would just be weird.  I couldn’t ignore him and pretend I hadn’t seen the wave: he knew I’d seen him.  Lives hang on split-second decisions and I was found wanting.  I think I panicked, if I’m honest.  So I waved back; knowing full well that I’m now doomed to wave for all time: what a mess!

This is a story in waiting: its denouement eludes me.

Dicing II

Tags

decisions, happiness, life, musings, thoughts

Those of you who saw my last post will know that I’ve had an “interaction” with the medical profession recently.  And, although I was never in any doubt that I was not suffering a heart attack, the experience has left me rather reflective.

The medics were trying to prolong my life.  That is their raison d’etre: we expect nothing else from them.  This is not intended to be a criticism of their actions but I ask myself “Is that really what I want?”

I think about the old blokes I shared a ward with.  Of course, I was not seeing them at their best but it was not a good advert for growing old.  Is that what I have to look forward to?

It is not realistic to expect my life to get better than it is now.  Though I am not infirm, several of my previous attributes are seriously faded.  Some things that I used to take delight in, such as basketball and motorcycling, are totally lost to me now.  As more time passes, I will only lose more and gain none.

So why carry on?  Am I just lingering, living for living’s sake?  I am not suicidal.  I don’t feel tempted to try to despatch myself.  I’ve had a good life, on the whole.  I’ve certainly had lots of fun.  What is there left to do?  More of the same or maybe, more accurately, more of mostly the same but with bits missing and less intensely.  Will that be enough to make life worthwhile?

I suppose everyone gets to think about dying at some point in their lives.  Being dead holds no fear for me but the thought of dying scares me, particularly if it’s long, drawn out and painful.  Some of you will remember my post about Yvette, my neighbour, who recently died under anaesthetic, during an operation.  I think a part of me envies her.

So, if I flake out, how do I want the medics to respond?  I doubt it’s an option open to me but I wonder if I wouldn’t prefer they just let me go?