Happy New Year!

Hi!

It has been a long time since I last wrote a post on this blog.  Mostly because I have lacked inspiration concerning what to write about.

Most of my blog posts only get a few views - and I wonder whether there's any real point to my writing. But then I have to ask myself this question.  "Am I writing because I want lots of views, or am I writing because I want to write?"

The answer to that has varied somewhat over the years - At one point I wanted views, and so I signed up to some blog promotion service, and sure enough if you look back to a few posts I wrote in July and August 2017 I was getting 1300 to 2900 views.  Wow!  But then I realised they were just bot visits, not real people, and that made me understand that I'd rather have a few genuine readers than thousands of auto-clicks.

I also went through a phase of thinking what I had to say was either vitally important to the survival of the World, or was so funny and insightful, I was going to be discovered by some talent-spotter as the next Eddie/Billy/Michael touring the comedy circuit.

Sadly I was a fool.  But hey, that's OK! - We can all dream. 

Now I realise I just like writing, and yes, most of it is rubbish, but that's OK.  One day I hope my daughter reads my blog, and I guess it's always been about her.  My parents died when I was 6 (I might have mentioned that before?) and that was in 1970.  I know next to nothing about them. There's nothing written down, no letters, certainly no Facebook or Twitter or blog posts.  I had a photo album but that got lost a 30 odd years ago.  I want my daughter to know me - so I write. 

It's for posterity!

So - the title of this post is Happy New Year - today is December 27th and I write this in a quiet moment whilst I'm at work.  I retired from my job as an IT Service Desk support tech in May this year and returned to the same job but for 11 hours a week.  I put my request in around this time in 2018 so it took the best part of half a year to get sorted, plus a few more months to get the finances sorted and running smoothly.  I'm happy to say that as the year end approaches, we're doing alright.

My health has been good - my regular post-cancer check ups all show me remaining disease free.  I've put on a bit of weight through poor diet and lack of exercise, but I'm sure my New Year resolutions will soon sort that out - ha ha ha!

Looking back, we've had a few holidays - all in the UK, we've had quite a few good laughs - barbecues,firepits and games nights with our family, and some with our closest friends the Kellows, and I have to say overall it's been a very good year.

I hope, if you're reading this, that you too have had a good year - filled with adventure, laughter, love, prosperity and good health.  My wish for you is that 2020 is even better!

Happy New Year!!

Snapshot

This was a short story idea I had a decade or so ago, but never got around to writing it.
I think there have been other similar concepts since though - I promise I've not copied anyone's idea as far as I know.

Snapshot

A short story about the diversity of life.

It was during the winter on 1993 that I felt at my worst.  The chemotherapy was making me sick, and the morphine was only just doing it's job.  I was hanging in there, but only just.  Everyone said I was doing just fine, that I was a fighter, that I was going to beat this.  Some days I just couldn't bring myself to believe it. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst - isn't that what they say?

So on a particularly dark day I decided to shake the demons. Under my bed is a shoebox.  I don't know why I keep it, it's filled with stuff I don't want to keep. By the time I pulled it from the clutches of the lost socks and dust bunnies I was exhausted, close to tears, knowing the pain I was feeling now wasn't a patch on what I was going to feel once that lid came off.

Inside the box are the trophies of a happy, healthy past. Cinema ticket - first date. Place card - wedding day.  Boarding card - honeymoon. It's a 13cm by 9cm by 10cm memory prison. These inmates are hard - maximum security, very dangerous, no chance of parole.  Visiting privileges long since revoked.  Keep Out!  Unsafe Structure!

There's one faded photograph I go back to time and time again. Piccadilly Circus, May 1987.

She's sat beneath Eros with our daughter in her arms, both smiling at me in the late Spring sunshine as I stand by the Tube entrance with my camera held to my eye. Whenever I look at that picture all I see is those smiles, those eyes looking at me full of love, and I feel that familiar tearing sensation inside my chest again. It feels like something thick and black is desperate to get out but I'm afraid if it does rip itself free, the avalanche of emotional upheaval will leave me hollow forever more.

This time it's different.

The glossy paper feels heavier, thicker.  The image has more depth.  And for the first time ever I notice other details.  There's a guy on a bicycle with a satchel swerving around a taxi.  A happy couple holding hands as they start to cross the road in the background.  A child with an ice cream skipping into frame - all frozen in time as I pour all my attention into my two girls sat beneath that iconic statue of love.

Something about that ice cream girl draws me in.  I don't remember seeing her on that May day, and yet there she is, immortalised in my photograph for all time.  She looks about 6, so that would make her... what? 12 now?  Did she live in London, or was she a tourist? Was she there with her mum and dad, having a fun day out like we were?  Or was the ice cream a distraction?  Take her attention away from the memory of her mum hooked up to all those machines in the ICU?

I glance away, unable to continue that train of thought, and catch sight of the cyclist.  It's not a satchel, it's a courier bag.  Where's he going in such a hurry? What documents is he carrying in there?   Some vital evidence needed at a high profile court case perhaps?  Legal documents that decide whether someone gains or loses custody? The image has a deep sense of urgency about it.  I hope he got there in time.

The taxi driver's gesticulating out of his window, waving his anger at something unseen, his mouth frozen open mid obscenity. He doesn't look angry though. He looks concerned.  Maybe he's shouting a warning?  I can't quite make out what he's looking at.

The happy couple are holding hands.  She has a wedding ring on her finger, but I don't see one on his.  Are they married, or is this an affair?  Are they heading to an hotel or from one? The smiles are real, but her expression looks a little strained.  Is it guilt?  Fear of being seen in such a public display of affection?  Her free hand is resting on her stomach.  Was she smoothing her dress, soothing an ache, or is the outcome of her liaison already germinating in there?

As I lay the photograph back in the box with more care than I've ever shown it before, I realise that I am not isolated from the world, I am an integral part of it. I am not an individual, detached from everything else, I am a leaf on a tree - connected to all the other leaves by the planet that I live on.

I look one more time at the taxi driver.  I think he was looking at me.