NATURE'S BACKING BAND

The syncopating rhythm of rain; freeform jazz falls in paradiddles and drizzles as quiet energy bristles. Storms rarely arrive with a set-list; they arrive broody and moody, cigarette lit, on the guestlist. Nature's backing band. Here for one night only to blow you all away.

KODACHROME - A LOVE LETTER

Kodachrome - The filter to our youth

Kodachrome - Takes colo(u)r to the truth

Kodachrome - Your vibrancy holds sway

Kodachrome - You still open gateways

Kodachrome - Wrings poetry from light

Kodachrome - I wallow in your might

THE VIRGIN MARY AND THE DONKEY

A line of shepherds, stars, donkeys and wise men pass along my street. Local school kids off to the local church for a Xmas concert. I count four wise men. Different from my day. Perhaps they're allowed substitutes? The Virgin Mary argues with a donkey. Apparently, both smell!

GOSSIP

Gossiping gusts of wind; tittle-tattle touching the tops of bristling trees, urgent rumours folding and unfolding with the sway of the grass.

Yet dowdy dowager bushes shake their windy bustles, dismissive of such idle hearsay and blustery scuttlebutt, thank you very much indeed!

LURKING

Sticky, velcro rain grips stolid air; a gravity-defying, hideaway-highwayman, looking to divest (those of us blessed) from any semblance of comfort or warmth. If today you're made to stand & deliver then it's too late for you. To everyone else-be mindful of Dick Turpin. Lurking.

WET FLOOR: A CAUTIONARY TALE

I never knew

the hidden message

this thing hid.

"Caution: Wet Floor" it said.

So I did. 

FOSSILISED AMBER

The mulch of leaves from trees of the avenue. Pavements as temporary ice-rinks. Embarrassed slips become much vaunted skips from folk who walked here, hitherto. One man slips but attempts to fly into a jog but the fossilised amber of this tweet will trap his fly. Forever.

THE WEARY CRITIC

Wintry rain. Not thick enough for snow, not clever enough for sleet. Instead it falls hesitantly onto the ground, almost an understudy playing Rains part, not quite sure of the lines. The wet earth, sodden under the mulch of dead leaves, sighs the acceptance of the weary critic.

BADLY-DRAWN DANCING SANTA

Frost normally tickles this time of year leaving intricate patterns in its wake. Today its white knuckles have gripped firmly upon my lawn. It looks like a child's homemade Xmas card with all the glitter glued to the base. A badly-drawn, dancing Santa could dislodge the lot! ❄️🎅

ADVENT MIRABILIS

Chocolate advent calendars began

In nineteen ninety-three

(which was rather late for me)

Between the time of the Milk Tray man

And my own kids and our tree.

DREAM

Last night I dreamed of Sisyphus

He filled my sleeping head

Last night I dreamed of Sisyphus

And rolled right out of bed.

CLIMBING EVEREST

we're all just a rock in Earth's boundless history

barely a beat upon vast wings of time

so spend it exploring its wonderous mysteries

and find we become that great mountain we climb.

FIRST CUP OF TEA

Some like it so strong that the spoon stands straight up,

Some like it so weak it's transparent.

Each sip that I sup I call King Of The Cup,

And the next one I call Heir-Apparent.

LOVING THE LIBRARIAN

I loved a librarian

She didn't love me back 

She said I was contrarian

And filed me under 'Quack.'

DAWN

"Stick or twist?" says Morning to Night

Who's going to win in this Battle of Light?

Night thinks a while and asks for a card

Light gently smiles at Dawn's own front yard.

Night's hand is played, he's feeling quite slick

But Light wins the Day with its own Five Card Trick.

ONE LAST DROP

It's raining here but no real thought's gone in to it. No effort. In fact I'd be embarrassed to call it rain. It's just going through the motions. Barely a drizzle. I'm surprised Rain's even put its name to it. Soon, the last drop will fall. 

Any minute now.

One last

.

.

.

.

drop

THE CUSP OF CHANGE

Dawn; the trailer to the main event, revealing just enough to keep us all watching. Winter; the scolded child, petulantly hanging from the coat-tails of Morning, not yet old enough to play out on its own. 

We are on the cusp of change as I drink my second cusp of tea. ☕☕

DAD JOKE

I heard Jay-Z tried to run a charity marathon but failed to finish due numerous medical emergencies.

He had 99 problems but the stitch ain't one. 

AMATEUR NIGHT

I rise no further than my back door. Cold won't wait for an answer, barging in as I consider a waking world. The steam from my tea cup briefly dances around the rim before being pulled inside by the draught, like a novelty act being given the thumbs down at Amateur Night.

THE MUSE OF MEMORY

Wednesday bleeds through from Tuesday, which bled through from Monday, which bled through from Sunday.

We paint upon a canvas of memory, swilling our brushes in a watery pot, seeking fresh inspiration as before, summoning the Muse to rise again from its feint, familiar outlines.

WHISPERS FROM THE DARK

Dawn plays shove-ha'penny with light as Monday slides into view. The sound of a distant, rumbling train reaches my back door; but not the sound of distant, grumbling, Monday morning commuters. In this hinterland of a new day, endless unwritten possibility whispers from the dark.

SUNDAY MORNING PATHOS

A man outside the corner shop forensically examines a scratchcard. His expression denotes his loss. Our eyes meet. We share an unspoken 'tut'. We shake our heads. He scrunches up the card, throws it towards the bin - and misses. Sunday morning pathos. Just scratch the surface.

IMAGINARY FRIENDS - A WARNING

I once had an imaginary friend

and he took all my imaginary money.

I was then left to imaginary fend for myself

(which I imagine he found funny)

TIME'S CHANGING ROOM

Periodically, I seem to find myself in Time's Changing Room. There, I notice an old, grey man in the mirror, staring straight back at me, in an accusatory and pleading way, as if he almost knows the answer to why he looks so different from the young man who lives inside my head.

BETWEEN THE TICK AND THE TOCK OF A CLOCK...

When we hear a clock tick it's the sound of Time marking itself present in a register. When we hear a clock tock Time marks itself present once more. This is where we can understand the immediate fragility of Now. But between the tick and the tock? There lies beautiful mystery.

NIGHT'S DEEP PIT

 I wake from a dream

where I was dreaming

of waking from a dream;

I must be still in Night's deep pit,

digging at dreams seams.

DUCKS AND DRAKES

Some random thoughts on memory and recollection.

DUCKS AND DRAKES

skimming flat stones 'cross a lake

straining to take flight; and

where they duck, there

memory aches, on 

ripples of delight.

RUNAWAY CHICKEN

Night lends Day an hour. Day promises to pay it back by tonight. A broken egg on the pavement makes me think of a runaway chicken. A discarded lottery ticket makes me think it wasn't them. An unkempt hedge makes me think of broken shears. Maybe that's where the chicken's hiding?

THE AMBULANCE AND THE BIRD

An ambulance waits patiently for a patient outside a house. A fettered bird breaks free from a bush and flaps and slaps itself into the air, transforming into graceful flight as it sweeps the sky clean.

I watch the ambulance.

What's the story?

I really hope it's to be continued.

THE LYING DAWN

Dawn. New light's born. It wobbles about until it finds form. Houses and gardens are still smudges and what I thought was a bush reveals itself to be a shed. Light this new is yet to learn honesty. Believe nothing. The flash new car down the road turns out to be a yellow skip!

A CUP ON A WALL

Uneven pavements reveal the ghost steps of those who have walked before. Telegraph poles criss-crossing the street are weavers looms of communication. Each car that's parked on my street signifies both the end of one journey and the start of another. 

A cup on a wall is lost.

AMPLIFIED SILENCE

Sunday arrives. Much like Saturday but without the Terms and Conditions. There is a cloistered, hushed feel about Sunday mornings. As if they're a present so precious you dare not open the box in case the noise invades the amplified silence.

I tear gently at the wrapping paper...

FOG

Fog mingles indiscriminately around town. Chimney tops are all that's visible from houses struggling to breathe. My wet lawn may be from overnight rain or the infinite number of miniature droplets which lie trapped in the air, waiting for a one-bar autumn sun to carry them away.

THE PICTURE ON THE BOX

Early look out of my window. It's darker than a chimney sweeps frown. The world is still being rearranged into Thursday. Most of todays pieces will be the same as yesterday. Yet life is all about moving these tiny pieces around while remembering the bigger picture on the box.

FIRST MUG OF TEA

One sip from you can calm the nerves,

Unleash the waves of warm reserve,

The thing with making just one pot,

I really don't know when to stop.

FIRST MUG OF TEA

I sup from my late Pap's mug:

"World's Best Grandfather"

Chipped, stained, strained

Over time and tea and time

And though I may struggle to remember his voice

I hear him telling me

That though we may sup from chipped mugs

We must savour such chipped memories.

TO DO LIST

I look at my To-Do-List for the day and how I wish it was already a Done-List. Then it could become waste paper - binned for recycling - but would it return as another list, as part of a novel, poetry, a love letter?

I add spuds to my list and dream of what could've been.

PASSING FLATTERY?

I pass a man mumbling to himself.  I realise these days we're unaware if such mutterers are talking to themselves or merely chatting away on a hands-free mobile. I catch a brief snippet of "I love you" as I pass.

If he's not on the phone I'm equal parts flattered and concerned!

NO ENTRY IN THE SUN

The Hill Shop in the sun. I see a Missing Cat poster stuck lovingly to a waste bin and hope against hope that it is not a metaphor from the future. I notice small adverts for The Sun and presume that the shop has run out of No Entry signs

STICKY FUTURE

The air is so still it feels like it's about to pounce. 

We are the insects trapped in amber; stuck to everything we touch, destined to be found in a million years by scientists who will marvel at our clothing, a flimsy pair of shorts and a pillow stuck to our heads!

NO HOT DOG STANDS

The sun is not quite yet bullying the sky and allows a few light clouds to pass by. Many people seem to be walking their dogs earlier. Presumably to save their padded paws from the upcoming, unrelenting heat of the pavement. No hot dog stands today on the streets of Northampton.

BLACKBIRD DANCING

Autumn gently taps at Summer's door; precocious, tiny blackberries,ripening to the colour of coal. Yet most blush red, embarrassed at their confidantes haste. I watch a blackbird hop from side to side, impatient for the harvest, dancing in earnest to the berry Gods and me.

BLUE NUN SUNDAYS

The early morning sky hosts rain clouds like some people host unpopular guests at a house party. It's ushered them to a corner of the heavens where no doubt they're huddled together around a single bottle of Blue Nun awkwardly trying to strike up a conversation in the kitchen.

PUNCTUATING CONTRAILS

I look up to see a passenger plane so far overhead in the deepest blue of the sky that it appears to make no sound. The tiniest speck of silver in an otherwise uncrowded sky; at most a host to many untold tales, punctuating contrails, a jet stream of consciousness passing me by.

GLUGGERS, SUPPERS AND SIPPERS

We all glug a mug

And we all sup a cup,

The difference is plain to see.

We change it at will

And here's the key,

We sip, ambidextrously.

BON VIVEURS

At my back door with a cuppa I briefly exchange glances with next doors cat, home from a night on the tiles to sleep. I fondly recall such youthful indiscretions and raise a mug in appreciation to a fellow bon viveur. 

Then I notice cat poo on my lawn and I swear the cat smiled.

TRANSCENDENDENT DISINFECTANT

At the cornershop the bread aisle's being mopped. I breathe in an aroma of Dettol and find I'm suddenly back at my primary school sat outside the Headmaster's office. I gulp, yet when I breathe out I'm once more back in the bread aisle at the shop.

Transcendendent disinfectant?

PENUMBRA

An empty, upturned recycling bin; a victim of a tip and run? Large billowy clouds; as uniquely formed as the tiniest fingerprint. A breeze so gentle it may be a memory of a breeze just passed. A penumbra of lost, distant road sounds leads me to look up the meaning of 'penumbra'.

THE UNSETTLED VAGABOND

Blue sky,can't stop,fleeting visit,prior engagement.

A sweaty jogger splashes out.

Is that a cat crossing the road or an electric Slinky?

A man lights a pipe as he leaves the corner shop.

I cling to its briar-smoked aroma.

An unsettled vagabond floating on the relics of a memory.

APPOINTMENT WITH REALITY

You are Number 3 in the queue

Please hold

Your call is very important to us

You are Number 2 in the queue

Please hold

Your call is very important to us

You are Number 1 in the queue

Please hold 

Your call is very importa...

*call disconnects*

🫤

HEAD START

Pillows of fluffy dandelion heads pepper my lawn. Emboldened by overnight rain with their stalks thrust skyward, patiently waiting for a fleeting wind or the beating of a wing. Such is fate. Time and its limitless possibilities. Thoughts, no doubt, better suited to Tik-Tok!

EARLY DRIVE - 17/07/2023

Early drive. A brick wall sighs and sags so alarmingly I'm convinced it knows it's Monday morning. An articulated lorry approaches a tight turn with the confidence of a dog considering calculus. A jogger looks at his watch and vigorously shakes his head. Time speeds up for a bit.

BOOTED

Factory conversions,

flattery, aversions,

to Northampton's past.

The old boot and shoe place

ripped into new space,

boxes to last.

Ghosts of the closers,

the sounds of bulldozers,

memory, bruised.

All selling like hot cakes

to people of all shapes

in Chinese shoes.

THE LONDON UNDERGROUND

The sun's behind a slate-grey sky; the world no longer in Kodachrome. A man vigorously rubs a scratchcard as if his life depends on it. It could be you. The cracks on the pavements are  beginning to resemble a map of The London Underground, courtesy of The Northampton Overground.

OFFICIALLY SUMMER

Sunday's blue sky fever has broken and small clouds, like guests at a school reunion, mingle awkwardly. I hear the sound of a distant passing train. I wonder if it knows it's in a distant, passing tweet? It's officially Summer. Both butter and aftersun gel now live in the fridge.

PESKY KIDS

I wake from the heat of the night, a sticky toffee-apple. Birds lollop about, sapped of the gift of flight, frolicking instead in the dew of an invitingly cool lawn. The sun hides in plain sight. Only later will it be unmasked, like a Scooby Doo villain, in our weekend whodunnit.

BREAKING SWEAT

Early Drive. A vigorous rain shower disappears into a jaundiced grass. I follow a petulant double decker as it swings from side to side, winding its way through the industrial estate like a moody teenager. The rain shower ends and the world looks like it's hardly broken sweat.

CATCH THE PIGEON

Early drive. Ouroboros, snaking traffic; the greed of impatience snarling nose to tail. Suddenly we're all driving Miss Daisy as we pass a police speed camera van until the Wacky Races restart and I'm passed by a number of Dick Dastardly's, destined never to catch that pigeon...

DAWDLE AND BUSTLE

Early Drive. A cloudy, Etch-a-Sketch sort of sky. The myth of sunshine balances on such days. Cars bustle along and dawdle; dawdle and bustle along. Punctuality is recovered and lost; lost and recovered. I dawdle. As if a reward for my patience, I hit every green light home.

DECORATIVE TIME

I slept in late

And Time found Time

To decorate

OTHER CARGO

Adaptation of an original short story, Other Cargo, by Stephen Kerr – 2014)

Cast List :

Frank Johnson: thirties; Sergeant; stoic; unofficial father to his men.

Rob Atkins: early twenties; frantic joker; broken.

Nipper Reid: Sapper; early twenties; proudly Welsh; dreamer; cod philosopher

Willie Macintosh: Corporal; late twenties; Scot; tough and fiery

Bobby Wilkie: Lance Corporal; late twenties; Scot; Ying to Macintosh’s Yang

Ryan Carter: Sapper; late teens; baby of the group; best friend of Davey

Drayman: fifties; hardworking; honest

Pilot & several radio voices

FADE IN:

INT. AIRBORNE HERCULES TRANSPORTER PLANE. DAWN.

The rumbling sounds of the airborne Hercules fail to move SERGEANT FRANK JOHNSON sitting silently strapped to his seat in full dress uniform. He stares rigidly at an ornate coffin draped in the Union Flag. Five other men are also seated around the coffin. No words are exchanged amid the repetitive hum of the aircraft.

(silence)

The sound of the airborne Hercules immediately ceases and a sound not dissimilar to that of a man in freefall envelops the aircraft. Nobody reacts. This is as familiar to the men as the sounds of the aircraft in flight.

(silence)

Again the sound of a man in freefall breaks the silence.

     (silence)

The sound of a single unseen fly now fills the aircraft. No other noise is heard. Some of the men start to react.

MONTAGE:

Johnson continues to stare intently at nothing but the red of the flag.

ATKINS frantically searches, with eyes only, for the fly, similarly rigid.

NIPPER is daydreaming, oblivious to the fly, the flag or the others.

MACINTOSH picks at the buttons on his dress uniform. Looking down for the noise.

WILKIE stares slightly upwards to where he thinks the noise is coming from, also picking at his dress uniform.

CARTER blinks repetitively, unable to shake the noise of the fly or take his eyes from the coffin 

The aircraft intercom crackles into life and the noise of the fly instantly disappears.

PILOT

(voice only)

Royal Engineer Military Bearer Party Number One. Military Bearer Party Number One. This is Flight Lieutenant Amies speaking. We will shortly be landing at RAF Brize Norton where it is a cool 7 degrees centigrade and conditions are set changeable for the day. Estimated time of arrival is 0721 hours. Please secure all cargo for landing. Communication Ends.

Johnson glances up from the Union Flag toward his men. As one they snap their heads back to the front and ready themselves, adjusting dress uniforms and straightening ties and berets. The sound of the extending landing gears of the aircraft seems to synchronise with their preparations.

EXT. RAF BRIZE NORTON. 0720 HOURS.

The rumblings of the plane can be heard before it punches through the cloud. A reception committee of a single lone piper, chaplain and hearse awaits the landing, standing silently in the breeze just off of the runway. The kilt of the piper and the chaplain’s robes struggle with the wind.

INT. TAXIING HERCULES TRANSPORTER PLANE. RAF BRIZE NORTON. 0721 HOURS.

As the plane halts and the noise from its propeller’s slowly fade the Seatbelt Off sign pings as the men stand in unison and unclip themselves from their safety harnesses. Johnson nods to Atkins as they both silently unclip the coffin from the floor of the plane. Standing either side of the coffin the six men lift it onto their shoulders and stare intently at the vast, closed, cargo door.

EXT. RAF BRIZE NORTON. DAYBREAK.

The chaplain battles the wind and stands before the cavernous cargo door as it slowly opens. The lone piper’s rendition of Amazing Grace cuts through the air as sunlight battles through the clouds. The hearse is now on the runway and ready to receive the coffin, its tiny open rear door dwarfed by the vast mechanism of the airplane’s.

INT. HERCULES TRANSPORTER PLANE. RAF BRIZE NORTON. DAYBREAK.

Chinks of sunlight begin to cut through the interior of the plane as the cargo door continues the long process of opening. The men are as statues holding the coffin. The sunlight and piper’s lament now fill the plane. Johnson takes in the scene that awaits them on the runway and draws a silent single breath.

JOHNSON

 Come on boys, let’s get Davey home.

FADE OUT.

FADE IN.

INT. BOLD DRAGOON PUBLIC HOUSE, CARTERTON, NEAR RAF BRIZE NORTON, LUNCHTIME THE SAME DAY.

The low groans and muffled mumblings of a busy lunchtime pub crowd see the same six men from the Hercules seated around a wooden table close to the bar. Their dress uniforms are as messy as the empty pint pots and half-finished lagers that fill the table.

ATKINS

(gulping his pint)

 So where’s Davey gone now, Sarge?

JOHNSON

(sipping his)

 John Radcliffe.

ATKINS

 John who!!??

JOHNSON

(sighs)

Local hospital, their mortuary until Thursday then we travel up to Glasgow – 

WILKIE

(cheering)

 Glasgow. Come on!

MACINTOSH

(joins in cheering, holds pint aloft)

 Aye, the City of Reality.

JOHNSON

(ignores them, continues)

 We travel up to Glasgow on Thursday for the service on Saturday.

ATKINS

(dismissively)

Well, Davey’s got a pretty decent excuse for not getting them in but it’s not my round and I can still taste desert. Who’s getting ‘em in? Nipper? Nah! Not you, Boyo, they don’t do Welsh translations this far from whatever pit village it is that you come from. Wilko! Mac! They take Scottish Monopoly money in here, you know. Do you need a hand to open those wallets of yours? What about the boy soldier, Carter? You old enough to finish that, lad?

CARTER

(smirking)

 Piss off Rob.

Atkins slams his empty pint pot down onto the table as if challenging or pleading with the group, casting his eyes frantically for a response.

JOHNSON

(rising slowly from his seat)

 It’s my turn.

(sighs)

It’s always my turn.

Johnson slams his wallet down onto the table amid cheers from all of the group.

JOHNSON

 Give us a hand, Nipper.

Nipper and Frank sidle up to the bar as Atkins follows them.

NIPPER

 So what’s a Dragoon then, Sarge?

ATKINS

(butting in over Nipper’s shoulder)

Your mum, that’s who! She’s a right dragon so all the men in your valley tell me, very accommodating and – 

NIPPER

DRAGOON! Not dragon, you prat. The name of this pub, see? The Bold Dragoon. 

(musing)

Still, I’m very proud of the Welsh Dragon, me, very proud indeed. I’m proud of my mam too. Raised eight of us she did, all alone she was. Very proud indeed.

ATKINS

(winking at Nipper)

Couldn’t have been that alone if she had eight kids. What was her bedroom door? A revolving one? 

(pause)

Failing to get a reaction from Nipper, Atkins greedily grabs his pint from the counter and heads toward the beer garden which is adjacent to the bar and visible through the French doors.

ATKINS

(swaggering)

 Miserable bastards, I’m out for a smoke.

NIPPER

(ignoring Atkins, turning to Johnson)

The Bold Dragoon. That’s the name of this pub, Sarge, isn’t it? Why’s that?

JOHNSON

(listening to Nipper but studying Atkins as he leaves)

 Why’s what Nipper?

NIPPER

What’s a Dragoon? And why’s it Bold? Now The Bold Dragon I could understand, red and fiery and the like, a bit like me on a Saturday night, mind you, it’s not just Saturday’s with me - 

JOHNSON

(snapping)

JESUS! Nipper, man. Give it a rest will ya? What do I look like? Google!?

Physically shrinking at the rebuke, Nipper sheepishly grabs two pints from the bar and heads back to the table. Johnson grabs the other three and turns and stops to briefly consider Atkins through the glass of the French doors, alone in the beer garden, sitting silently for once and staring at a delivery truck that has just pulled up. As the sound of the air brakes hiss through the garden and filter into the pub, Johnson sees Atkins faintly flinch upon their application. Johnson notices that Atkins cigarette has burned through to the filter and is still being held, his pint already empty. Johnson turns to walk back to the table as the rumble of the beer barrels trundling off of the lorry mix with the mumblings of the bar through the barrier of the French doors. He arrives as Wilkie and Macintosh seem to be in deep discussion.

MACINTOSH

You pull the front down first, slide your fingers to the side and hey presto.

WILKIE

Rubbish. Always the back first, you work your way around to the front. 

(sneering)

 Amateur.

MACINTOSH

(snorts)

Aye, and what you know about women you could write on a G-string, pal. Your knowledge of the fairer sex, Wilko is – 

NIPPER

(quiet and gentle)

I shared my birthday with him, did anyone know? Same year and everything.

(musing)

Though he was all of four hours older. Very important that can be. Four hours. An awful lot can happen in four hours.

(silence)

CARTER

(dispassionately)

 An awful lot can happen in four minutes.

The group fall briefly silent in collective remembrance of the particular four minutes on a roadside in Helmand Province to which Carter is referring.

MONTAGE

Voice Only – various anonymous voices set against the silent image of the group in the pub, all briefly lost in the same memory.

Papa Tango One. Papa Tango One. Request immediate Med-Evac, co-ordinates are 534 – 

(radio static)

Davey! Davey! Stay with me Davey. Hold on – 

(radio static)

This is F.O.B. Angus, F.O.B. Angus, repeat, I say repeat those – 

(radio static)

 Sarge. Sarge! We’re losing him here. Please tell them – 

(radio static)

 Rob, draw that fire. Rob, Rob, Rob, Rob –

(radio static)

 I can’t see them. I can’t see. I can’t see – 

(radio static)

WILKIE

(proudly, breaking the silence)

 We were born in the same town.

MACINTOSH

(incredulously)

Same town, my arse! You were born in Airdrie, Davey was from Coatbridge. Chalk and cheese pal.

WILKIE

(pleading to the group)

Three miles!? That’s the same town in my book

MACINTOSH

(scoffing)

 Ha. Like you’ve ever read one. 

CARTER

(talking to himself, the group listen)

We passed bricklaying together in Chatham. Were gonna set up a nice little construction company when we got out. Had it all planned out apart from the name. Carter and Howells Limited sounds so much better than Howells and Carter Limited, doesn’t it? Has more of a ring to it, doesn’t it?

(closing eyes)

 Well, I mean, it did.  

(opening eyes, raising voice)

 It did!

(blinking, whispering)

 Did.

Johnson leans over towards Carter and silently nods. A gentle smile is returned by Carter. Johnson checks the rest of the group and stands again, moving towards the French Doors.

EXT. BEER GARDEN. BOLD DRAGOON. LUNCHTIME.

Atkins sits alone in the beer garden. Motionless. The noise of the beer barrels rolling from the ramp of the lorry seems to hold his attention. A sweaty DRAYMAN struggles to push a barrel over the cobbled stones of the beer garden toward the open door of the cellar, situated to the side of Atkins. Once the drayman reaches the cellar door he kicks the barrel down another ramp and it is swallowed by darkness. Atkins remains silently transfixed by the process. 

(silence)

The imperceptible sound of a man in freefall once again fills the air. The drayman continues his delivery, oblivious to this noise.

(silence)

The sound of a freefalling man returns.

(silence)

Atkins slowly stands. The drayman walks toward him roughly kicking the barrel along the cobble stones. Atkins blocks the path of the drayman, thus blocking the barrel to the cellar drop. 

ATKINS

(quiet menace)

 Oi. You. This is my fucking beer. Not yours.

DRAYMAN

(confused, taken aback)

 Er, yes? Hello. Are you signing for this lot then?

ATKINS

(through pursed lips)

 These barrels, these beers. They’re not yours. 

DRAYMAN

(nervously)

 OK, then. If you say so. Can I have a signature then?

ATKINS

(a single tear forms in the corner of his eye)

 These barrels you’re chucking about. You need to take more care.

DRAYMAN

(sympathetic)

Whatever you say mate. 

(studying Atkins dishevelled uniform)

I’m not sure, I don’t know. What do you want? I’m sorry. This is my last delivery. I just need someone to sign for this drop and I’ll be gone. I’ll leave you alone. Look, I just want to get home.

(silence)

A tearful Atkins faces the fearful drayman. Atkins glances toward the French doors. The hustle and bustle of pub life continues from behind the glass but not a sound can be heard. Johnson is standing behind the glass of the French doors, observing Atkins but not moving. Atkins glances at the last barrel lying before him, ready to be pushed down the cellar. The drayman shifts nervously from foot to foot. The silence is replaced by the familiar sound of the buzzing fly. The sound of the buzzing increases. Atkins frantically looks toward the bar, then looks to the barrel, then looks to the drayman. Atkins clutches his pint pot even tighter and smashes it down onto the table, onto a single buzzing fly, squashing it and smashing the glass and cutting his hand. The buzzing instantly ceases as the blood starts to trickle over the fly, onto the table and onto the cobble stones. Broken glass and blood sprinkle the last barrel.

ATKINS

(smiling, chuckling)

 I can’t sign for them, now, can I?

(raises his bloodied right hand)

I need another pint.

The drayman stands there. Stunned by Atkins immediate return to calm and confused by the situation, he cannot draw his eyes away from the bloodied hand.

ATKINS

(noticing the drayman’s stare)

 You wanna go home?

The drayman can do nothing but nod in mute agreement to this request.

ATKINS

 I’ll put this barrel away. I’ll put it away carefully. We got a deal then? 

DRAYMAN

(confused)

 Er, I really don’t, I, well…

The drayman watches Atkins turn towards the table. 

ATKINS

(Looking at the squashed fly)

 Gotcha.

FADE OUT

Performance Time – 35 minutes and 45 seconds

THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE

Early drive. Mist lifts like a growing realisation. The rest of the world quietly redrawn from memory. The warmth of a sun is yet a distant promise while it hangs from a night-chilled sky. 

I'm The Tarmac Trappist, trapped along empty roads, part of the sound of Sunday's silence.

FIRST CLASS FAILURES

 I know 'em as 'The Co-op 4.' 'When AI Goes Rogue' is probably how Channel 5 will remember them. Not much is known of their relationship with the postbox. Rumours abound they send communications to the Mothership via 1st Class post.

This is why they'll never take over the world!

SLIDING DOORS

Early Drive. Sunday greets me plump and green, full of Saturday rain. I drive past The People's Republic Of My Youth where I count the memories in bunches, scrapes and abandon. I pass the house I nearly bought. I wonder of the life being led behind the front of that sliding door.

HOW TO WRITE 'TIME'

You dot the 'i' and cross the 't'

But leave the 'm' and 'e' for me.

CORONATION CHICKEN

Robots near a royal postbox

waiting for the day.

Robots near a royal postbox

eyeing up their prey.

Robots near a royal postbox

leave me terror-stricken.

I'll get no closer in this game 

of Coronation Chicken!

BEDRIDDEN

a beat, a bump, of my own heart

the whump of car doors closing

a distant train's persistent strain

time passes; decomposing.

a tweet, a chirp, a cryptic bird

singing in my garden

mating pleas and preening sprees

time passes; and it hardens.

#chronicPain

ROADKILL DESSERT

Early drive. Saturday, the extrovert of the weekend twins, gets out the magic set as low-lying mist transforms into a golden sun. I pass a large group of joggers (a sweat of joggers?) A bus sighs as it comes to a stop. A crow feasting on roadkill narrowly avoids becoming dessert.

DRIVING PAST

past that road where the radio cuts out

past that hill where I once knew that girl

past that new factory that used to be fields

past that new field that used to be factories

past that shop who were so rude to mum

past the past we all go

driving fast

driving slow.

HOPSCOTCH MONDAYS

A rumour of rain hangs louchely in the air much like a threat from a school bully. An overgrown garden hedge is a messy chugger as people step aside it to pass. A milk bottle on a step has broken all laws of time. A rapidly-fading, chalk hopscotch pattern sums up Monday mornings.

IF WE HAD TO SPEND TIME LIKE WE SPEND CASH

"Have you got any change for an hour?"

"I've only got two days and a week in my wallet."

"A week? Nobody will accept that here."

"I think you'll find it's legal tender in Scotland."

FIRST CUP OF TEA

between all the ticks and the tocks

unknown to the watchers of clocks

when we sup from the cup

we send Time backing up

and memories lost are unlocked.

EARLY DRIVE 7AM

I saw three robots in the rain

The Co-ops metal huskies

They stood so still 

I think they're ill

In fact they might be rusty.

STUMBLE-RUNS

Early drive: I cast my eyes quickly away from the glare of a rising sun as if I'm avoiding eye contact with a disgruntled elderly aunt. 3 big men in hi-vis jackets in the back of a tiny car look like commuting fruit. A man walks, trips, then 'stumble-runs.' He's fooling no one.

I AM NOT THE RESURRECTION

The sun is resurrected from the night to reveal the poker face of inscrutable grey cloud. A light breeze chips away at warmth. A half-finished extension shivers in a tarpaulin wrap. Today is one of the earliest days we remember. Sickly sweet, those tin-foiled, chocolate memories.

THE PRICE OF LOVE

I tell my wife she doesn't snore

Because I love her dearly,

Truth be known it shakes my bones

And half the street, severely.

YAWNING CHASMS

Sleep; that duster of dreams

that pickpocket of hours 

that river who cuts through mountains of time

leaving yawning chasms in its wake.

HI-VIS ANTS

 The early drive to the industrial estate. The Night Shift sticks to the bus stop like hi-vis ants on a drop of jam. Giant warehouses; giant Lego bricks scattered by the Warehouse Giant. The early bus lets the Day Shift off and transforms into the Night Shift's last bus home.

ANCIENT SYMPHONY

 I wake early to catch the last ancient forest sounds before heading home. Every tree sings along to a constant cacophony of birdsong. Unlike the odd thrush or pigeon I may hear back home, this is nature's full orchestra, a symphony for the ages, played to primordial perfection.

BOB

 Our dear old dog, Bob, who passed away in January used to bark at every letterbox delivery. Now when I hear the letterbox go I swear I hear a bark. But of course it's only a memory. 

Pavlov was definitely onto something, although I appear to have been conditioned via love. 

🐾♥️

HEARTY COUGH

It's mufti day for Saturday as it dresses down for the weekend. A cat on a wall is a Slinky at a fashion show. Dark clouds, fixed in uncertainty, colour the sky with doubt. A neighbour smoking a fag on his doorstep gives me a cheery wave and a throaty cough. Tar very much, mate!

LITTLE BOXES...

Saplings peek over a chain-link fence to see how their houses grow. A large branch reminisces. A broken wooden fence is a metaphor for the cost of progress. Is the 'Danger. Keep Out' sign meant for me or the trees? 

Little boxes. On the hillside. And they all look just the same.

THE OTHER SIDE OF YESTERDAY

A light dusting of snow has fallen overnight, distinguishing houses with salt and  pepper rooftops. A snowless, tarmac rectangle under a parked car gives me a glimpse into the past. My lawn is flecked with white. The grass was indeed greener on the other side of yesterday.

LANDING RIGHTS

The puffy grey cheeks of a sleet-laden sky. A box filled with polystyrene is a snow-capped mountain. A single can of opened beer, forlorn atop a garden wall, parties all alone. I catch the first drops of sleet as they fall, rain and snow perpetually arguing over landing rights.

WORD SCULPTOR

I chip words and phrases

from languages block

I've a really large chisel

It's a really large rock

With shingle from language

And pebbles and gravel 

To pave my word journey

To walk far and travel.

YOU'VE BEEN FRAMED

The sky's the colour of dirty ice as the new day filters through this slushy light. Monday manages a weak smile; a pallid, sickly, insipid attempt at colour. Monday with the prison pallor. Monday is a wrong 'un, they say, but Monday is innocent, merely framed by Sunday & Tuesday.

THE POTHOLE GODS

Early drive 7am. The sky's the colour of cabbage water & potholes now rule the Earth. Unmanned roadworks & temporary traffic lights now rule the town. 

"As flies to wanton boys are we to the Pothole Gods. They fill them for their sport."

(Shakespeare-after driving in Northampton)

HINTERLANDS OF THOUGHT

Rumours of rain turn to gossip in a tittle-tattle sky. The first drops on my face are nothing more than secret whispers. So light are these hinterlands of precipitation that I'm unsure whether I'm experiencing or remembering rain, perfectly balanced between nature and thought.

A RANDOM TANDEM

Confined to bed

I stroll with my thoughts

Who was the first postie

I saw in shorts? 

Who first started sentences

With the word 'So...'? 

Will my grandkids kids

Ever see snow?

Will my confine be brief?

Will my thoughts stay this random?

I've ridden a bicycle

Never a tandem.

THE NOURISHMENT OF YOUTH

Early Drive. 7am. A sky of semolina as we spin around to sunrise. Silhouettes and shadow people. Ghosts in the machine. The great warehouses on the edge of Northampton stand like giant, alien boxes in need of nourishment. I drop my lad off at one. He's a light snack, at best!

THE DILEMMA OF TIME

I once wrote a limerick on time

Where I showed our dilemma entwined 

Our present's so brief

And our past is a thief

But our future's not cast or defined.

THE MEMORY OF THD IDLING CAR

In our street, a crushed can of baked beans are now baked been. A jogger runs downhill, fast, as if he's been pushed & can't quite control his descent. A car's been warming up for so long outside that I begin to think the owner may have forgotten they started it & gone by bus!

THE SEPIA STAGE

Dawn's reached that sepia stage. Where everything, everywhere could be a faded Victorian photograph. Birdsong is timeless, however, and the simple tweets and whistles I hear before the colouring of the morning remind me that for some, each new day is a wonder and a joy to behold.

DEFIANCE

My tired, straggly back garden lawn could be a philosophy lecturer's beard. Those sinful Winter weeds on the garden path; penitent, patient, waiting for Spring's approval. My felled holly tree mocks my efforts. Tiny, prickly shoots stem from a stump,shivering in fragile defiance.

AVOID THE POTHOLE

Early drive. 7am. AVOID THE POTHOLE.A brand new game from Tarmac©.Complete your journey without hitting any road craters. Points are awarded for swerving skills, sudden braking and near misses. Can you avoid the potholes? 

Available at all bad roads.

Fun for the hole family. 🕳️

THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN ON VALENTINE'S DAY

These roses were red 

Don't be a spoilsport 

I know they weren't dead

At the petrol forecourt.

SMUDGE LIFE

Early drive-7am. Fog has descended upon our town. What is already quite dark is now quite dark and out of focus. Fog has that ability to cast us at its centre, where we struggle to make out each other. It delivers a blurry metaphor for our smudged lives, if only we could see it.

EARLY DRIVE - 7am

As a memory of nan's favourite perfume slowly inhabits a room, so the morning light reaches out to my senses. Shades and fades. Then lots of blocks of greys. Then misty sifting, shifting ochre. The morning inhabits a room. Overpowering,yet overwhelming familiar.

SMOKE SIGNALS

Friday arrives fully frozen. A pale, yellow, redundant sun, with about as much warmth as a 10 watt lightbulb, hangs in a cloudless sky; as if everyone, everywhere, all at once, has had the same not very bright idea. A smoker send signals at a bus stop from both Benson and Hedges.

DORMICE IN WONDERLAND

7am drive. Workers at the industrial estate begin to emerge from the rabbit hole of a Night Shift. They huddle around a bus stop at the edge of town. The edge of new light. The edge of a nascent morning. Dormice. Dreaming of wonderland, edging closer to the rabbit hole of sleep.

TEABAGS AND THE POST-APOCALYPSE

7am drive. I seem to be the only person alive at this time on a Sunday. Traffic lights bend to my will before I even stop. Roundabouts are clear. The world seems empty. Devoid of humanity. 

I decide I could survive this post-apocalyptic world - if only I wasn't out of teabags.

ALL LUMIERE AND UNRULY HAIR

7am drive. The sky's winter bruise slowly heals. Faint contusions of yellowy-blue appear on its puffy face. Trees retain the mystery of silhouettes, almost daring us to find colour at this time. Dawn joggers flit by like the earliest motion pictures. All Lumiere and unruly hair.

REMNANTS

The gentle whirr of the bedroom fan pulsates like a heartbeat in the dark. A single red dot from the TV in standby is a distant collapsed sun. There are no corners or edges in my own personal universe in my own waking world. Just shapeless imagination and the remnants of dreams.

UNIVERSAL FOG

Fog has descended overnight and  conspired to leave secrets in its wake. Lampposts wear smudged halos of light and look to all the world like disgraced saints. Garden walls fade to grey. We both star and are bit players of this universal fog. It plays hide and seek with memory.

LICHEN

Frozen lichen forms intricate white doilies on a path. A path in permanent shadow. A path which holds as petulantly onto frost as a spoiled child holds onto their ball. Only later when the weak winter sun wipes all other frozen art from view will this path turn into a gallery.

TALES OF THE UNEXPECTED

1 hour before dawn. Saturday's squeezed every drop of darkness from the fruit of the night. Cup in hand I open my back door. Cold doesn't wait for an invite. Pushing past, making the steam from my brew exotically dance. Tales From The Unexpected. If you're old enough to remember.

BLACK DIAMONDS

A miniature steam-train of people at a bus stop puff warm air into an uncompromising sky. Black diamonds sparkle in the tarmac. The spidery handwriting of frost is scrawled across car windscreens. A bus then sighs to itself to a stop, its doors hissing open in serpentine folds.

EARLY DRIVE - 7AM

Early Drive. 7am. A bruised sky. Clouds marked by the dawn/sunrise fight over light. My headlights catch a group of men walking to a warehouse in hi-vis jackets & trousers. Briefly they appear only as illuminated, animated shapes; a host of bright rectangles dancing in the dark.

A PREGNANT MOON

My phone says the moon is in a gibbous phase. I looked up 'gibbous' - "The illuminated part is greater than a semicircle, less than a circle. Can refer to a pregnant belly." 

I suppose 2023 is still in its gibbous phase. However, I'm really not sure who made the moon pregnant!

CLOSER

Look closer,

then closer,

then look closer, still,

and you'll find the world

unfolding,

gently,

at will.

MORE OF THE SAME

My street seems to have taken a vow of silence. Last night's epic revelry has finally been put to bed, presumably with a glass of water and several paracetamol. My dog still snores by my side, as he did at the end of 2022. Sometimes our resolutions are simply more of the same.