ghost in the room

It didn't make sense as a reason for a group of people to be together, but he couldn't formulate any other unifying factor.

He never knew if it was just an expression of his own insecurities but it was a scenario that had played out in his life over and over again. Any time he got to know someone he was slightly in awe of he couldn't bring himself to believe that their relationship had any degree of parity. Far more likely, wasn't it, that someone was just doing him a favour by deigning to let him spend time with them than that they were his friend. In fact he started to feel guilty for wasting their time on him. Not only was this person in a different division of cool than was he, but he was actively dragging them down every time he imposed himself.

In such a situation he always seemed to come to the same conclusion: if he really admired someone that much he had to stop preventing them from being admirable. It was never hard; he knew these people would forget about him if he only stopped reminding them of his existence. Retreating gracefully, he vowed through tears of regret never to contact them again.

And here they all were, at some sort of party in some sort of function room which someone had spent a scant few moments decorating. He wandered amongst them but nobody saw him. People he had known years and miles apart were laughing together like old friends, though they couldn't possibly have met. This was a room full of wonderful people. This was a room full of people who were, as he had posited, much better off without him.

Pausing only for a last cautionary glimpse of each formerly familiar face, he slipped unnoticed out a back door.

holy matrimony

He felt supremely privileged to have been invited to lead worship at Llinos's wedding.* It is always a privilege to lead people in sung worship, of course, and always a joy to be included in someone's wedding plans and this was further compounded by how perfect for each other Llinos and her fiancée seemed. Both of them were so fun and silly and warm-hearted and God-centred and gifted and so obviously deeply in love with each other. He had known Llinos since childhood and - though she had one of the brightest smiles he knew which was so frequently demonstrated - he had never seen her light up the way she did when she was with Faith.

 

And now he was afforded to stand at the front of church watching over Faith's shoulder as Llinos walked slowly down the aisle towards her, giggling somewhat with the embarrassment of finding every eye in the room fixed on her but with her own gaze firmly locked on the woman she loved. He was so wrapped up in thoughts of how beautiful they both looked and how blessed they each were to have found someone who loved them that much that he nearly missed the pastor's cue for the time of sung worship to start.

 

Glancing down at the setlist he remembered the meeting he had had with the couple to decide on it and how vehemently Faith had championed the opening song. He signalled to the drummer, listened for those four clicks behind him and launched into the introduction. Catching Faith's eye, they shared a momentary conspiratorial smile as with the whole congregation they lifted their voices in praise to the Lord.

 

Something he had learnt about worship leading was that, assuming a basic level of competence, how well it went had very little to do with how well he sang or played. Worship can only be a reflection of the hearts of the congregation and the state of their relationships with the Lord. In that sense you can never really lead, merely point out the direction in which you are headed and encourage people to take a similar path. Looking round the room, however, he saw a great outpouring of praise and, possibly more than he ever had, felt that he was helping to bring people close to God. Humbled, he stopped singing and just allowed this choir of the couple's family, friends and loved ones to raise his heart.

 

Truly this marriage was blessed and would be lived out in shared relationship with God and he felt privileged to have played some tiny part in it.

 

___________________________________________________

* The actual subject of the dream was a real person I know, but since she has never actually given me any indication of being gay (not that I've ever asked), her name has been changed and other details kept vague. For the record, this is not because I feel calling her gay would be in any way an insult and, as I hope this piece shows, I would love her no more or less if she were. Llinos is just a nice name that is not that of anyone I know.

good read

"Number Withheld" flashed across the screen of his mobile and, uncharacteristically, he answered.

"Good afternoon," came the familiar voice he just couldn't place, "this is Harriett Gilbert"
"Of Radio4's A Good Read fame," he replied, trying and failing to disguise the dawning recognition infecting his inflection.
"Of renown for a long and somewhat distinguished journalism career," Ms Gilbert retorted, "but yes, that is one of its current forms."
"I apologise if I have offended, Ms Gilbert, how can I be of help to you"
"I took no offense," she reassured him, "it was in fact of A Good Read that I wished to speak with you. I was calling to invite you to be a guest."
He nearly dropped his phone in shock. "I wouldn't know how to pretend it was anything other than an honour and an ambition, thankyou"
"Thank you for your enthusiasm," she chuckled. "Obviously this is still a very early stage of procedings, but do you have any preliminary thoughts as to what book you might recommend"
His pause for thought was barely a beat. "I'll take Rose Biggin's latest Philip Marlin novel, please."
"Sorry," and she genuinely sounded it, "but the rules are that it should be currently available as a paperback and that's not out in hardback until next week."
"I've read it though, Ms Gilbert," he argued, "and it's the best yet."
The slight pause that followed was where he realised he had interrupted her.
"Besides which, someone has already chosen the first of the series for later in this run, and - i'm sorry if this sounds harsh - that someone is more famous than you"
The noise he made as he attempted to suppress a deep sigh of disappointment was not his suavest moment.
"Could I push you for another choice?"
"Well, previously I always thought I would choose Anthropology and 100 Other Stories by Dan Rhodes, so I suppose I'll revert to that," he conceded.
"I don't believe I'm familiar with that; I look forward to sharing it with you. One of our people will be in touch with you soon."

honey

He knew by the honey.

The muted crunch of the hot, buttery wholemeal toast that transported it, sure that too, but the sweetness flooding his tongue and the aroma of that honey mixed with the smell of the home he knew so well meant he could only be at his grandparents' house, any Saturday morning of the late 80s. The angular primary colours and Schofield-babbling of Going Live had him transfixed, although they never seemed to achieve focus or be comprehensible - surely it would be Trev and Simon soon.

Just as he finished the last mouthful of his breakfast he heard someone behind him call his name. He began to turn, but everything slowed down and continued to slow more and more. He saw the orange plastic hairpin which had fallen to the floor, he panned interminably across the myriad tiny imperfections in the smoothness of the tiled fireplace, he began to make out the fabric of his Grandma's armchair in the corner of his left eye and everything got slower and slower, everything slipped further and further away, every outline grew less distinct, every colour bled and faded. All the comfort and familiarity, all the warmth and colour, all the love drained away as as the aftertaste of honey slipped away from his tongue all he felt was alone.

callback

http://bitly.com/6Mpwlm

He sat, powerless, behind his own eyes and watched this situation play out exactly as it had before.

Only this time it was worse. It was so much worse because he knew he had had the dream before because he knew he had written the poem about having had the dream before. H knew her every word before it left her beautiful lips. H knew every pause for breath rushed so he couldn’t interrupt. He knew the exact words which would be reinforced by the polyrhythmic drip-drip of tears splashing on his shirt. He silently whispered the words along with hers with the lips behind the mask of the self who was in the situation. He tried to force himself to do something different, to say something, to reach out to her in a different way, but he wasn’t in control of the situation, merely spectating its replay. Not that he would have known how to make any of it any better. What was there to do but weep?

getting another try

He was surprised to find himself back in The Weekend It All Fell Apart.

 

Everything physically seemed to be the same: the solidity of the cottage, the foreignness of the feint background bleating, the characterfully dilapidated guitars on the wall, the comforting aroma of cold lasagne, the silent Olympic highlights flickering across the old tv. The way he felt was the same: that special emptiness that comes with not having slept, that tension of needing to create but being prevented which is so like taking too deep a breath so your lungs are crying out to exhale, that ill-defined cocktail of anger, frustration, uselessness, disappointment and waste.

 

The difference was him. He was residing in the person he once was, but fully in the character of the person he was now – complete with the knowledge of what was about to happen and the over-analysis he had subjected it to in the intervening time. He was getting another chance.

 

He turned down the volume of his passive-aggressive slide guitar exercises – which he had also editorialised to a far greater level of competence than he had probably actually achieved – and as he channelled his aggression into the barely-audible instrument he was formulating what he wanted to say.

 

She was still disturbed and still came down to tell him to shut up, though with a significant reduction in the level of her rage. He got her to sit down, and began the  speech he had been preparing for so long.

 

“Why don’t you understand, Soph*” he implored, “I have spent considerably more money than I actually have and endured the second most uncomfortable journey of my life for the opportunity to come here and work to save one of the most important things in my life. When I say work, I mean really work hard. I came here expecting long hours of sweat and aching fingers punctuated by moments of drunken, exhausted solidarity. I fully intended to be asleep right now too, because I thought we would not long have finished yesterday’s epic eighteen-hour session. I spent the whole day yesterday slowly lowering my expectations with each wasted second and convincing myself that working harder for eight hours at night would at least be enough to justify the whole thing. When you went to bed after three uncooperative, unproductive hours you broke my heart. It was all I could do to stop myself screaming after you ‘why don’t you care?’ because, seriously, why don’t you care? How can something that means so much to me mean so little to you? Didn’t you realise that, however much we try to pretend otherwise for the next few months, yesterday means it’s all over? Can’t you see that, despite my own numerous shortcomings and failures, whenever I cry myself to sleep wondering where it all went wrong I’m going to look back at yesterday and hold it up as example of everything being your fault? In real life I was so much less erudite than this and spent this morning fuming silently at you and childishly annoying you. In real life after today I never speak to you again, so in real life I never get to explain how much you’ve hurt me. In real life I never get to beg you to explain: why don’t you care?”

 

“I don’t know the answer to that,” she admitted, “because I’m not really her. I’m an avatar of her created by your imagination and as such am unable to understand her emotions any better than does your subconscious mind” and with that she faded from view along with all those tangible memories of the room until all that remained was fuzzy Olympic highlights and a distant baa.

 

“It is, at least, comforting to know” he thought “that even if in this situation neither of us comes out of this any better.”

 

 

 

*names have not been changed to protect the innocent

the sous-vide cistern

Like most genius ideas, this one had been born out of a restriction: just as the butterfly’s wings are formed through the process of forcing their way out of a chrysalis. Not that he was touting this idea as genius. Modesty would forbid such boldness, the epithet was for others to bestow and for him only to pretend not agree with. The restriction in this instance was space. The miniaturisation boom has started three decades or so before for the same reasons – we all want more stuff and we all have less space in which to keep it.

And so it was that fateful day as he stood in the centre of his kitchen noting ruefully that it was full. His work surfaces were a tetris of devices, utensils, foodstuffs and related necessities, his cupboards a very real potential hazard to any who tried to open them without foreknowledge of which items would fall on them and his walls over laden with hooks and brackets. He wracked his brains to imagine a potential rearrangement for the latest object of his coveting but rapidly reached the conclusion that his equations were insoluble. Impracticalities, however, could never be sufficient to quell his insatiable lust for a sous-vide waterbath. Cooking sous-vide was so trendy he could barely avoid seeing it on tv and his fervour was constantly being reignited, but where on earth could he make room in his home for a ten litre watertank.

A dubious CGI such as would be seen on early episodes of House played out in his mind’s eye as he could watch forks of energy leap across a synapse forming a connection of unique brilliance. Sat in his bathroom was a small tank of water that spent the majority of each day being under utilised: his cistern.

Nothing facilitates speedy exposition like an 80s movie themed montage sequence, so please join me in picturing one now. Imagine if you will numerous short scenes of tinkering, plan-drawing, plumbing, testing, minor setbacks, hilarious tiny moments of physical comedy, patent applications, spinning newspaper headlines and piles of money growing.

The irony, of course, was that he made so much money from inventing the sous-vide cistern that he could afford a house with a kitchen big enough to keep a normal sous-vide bath in, but millions of lower-middle-class wannabe chefs in bedsits and small terraced houses throughout the world would forever wish that they had come up with something that with hindsight was so obvious.