- They include names. The names we were given, how we feel about them, feel suited - or not; the names that writers choose for their characters - or sometimes their characters suggest to them; names that make us tingle or shudder - like the boss or the 'almost' aunt who was your confidant and mentor, before such words were bandied around, or the name of the school bully who made your life a misery.
- And Face coverings. And mandating. I wonder why people have to be told that they MUST do the right thing - and only start doing it the moment they are told they have to. When did we all become Sheeples (or should that be Sheoples)? Why was the person in our little shop not wearing one on Thursday. Because they didn't think it was as risky? Because they didn't have to - so just didn't? Because they just didn't think? And why is it, 4 months in, seemingly impossible to get the concept of how actually far apart 2 metres is. Why do people (sorry, but its mostly the fairly young and the fairly old) insist on passing close enough to brush my shoulder, hanging over my neck, breathing as I pay... I know there are few occurrences of Covid19 here; I known that most of us are more likely to die of various other things, but please - just be thoughtful and courteous.
- And Covid stress and anxiety. Especially in young children. Why don't adults (parents, teachers, media bods, scientists, politicians... ) speak the truth about the causes of the high levels of anxiety that is being suffered by our children? Perhaps it is because they don't or won't recognise and accept the truth. That is is THEM. Teachers doing headless chicken acts - 'I'm too scared to go back to work'...; parents anxiety on show daily; Scientists: - it's all symptom lists and death rates - seldom survival rates; Politicians massaging egos, pockets and waffling around the edges; and the Media - with all their 'Fear' and 'Warnings'. It's US. We are piling on the anxiety and our children are getting in full on. Will no one REALLY think of the children. This could be a biggie another time.
There are fewer walkers/cyclists on our daily walks now - but more and more cars - and cars in a hurry. It's a creep or a rush back to as much normality as can be mustered. I'm in no hurry.
Here endeth the chuntering of a butterfly mind this week, fluttering hither and thither. Perhaps I'll settle and really describe some deep and wonderful nectar next week.
I will close with a piece of Flash Fiction I wrote last week for a weekly submission to Writers HQ. Not picked for reading out on a live Crowdcast on Friday, but that's fine. It is fictional, but some people, particularly if in Scotland, may recognise a link to a recent news story, which
Content Warning. It does relate a story involving death, though hinted rather than graphic. It's a bit away from my usual style.
Marking Time.
Here she comes. You can set your watch by her. Bang on
time. Tick. Same time, same
routine, every week. But after today
nothing will be the same again. Ever. Today will end differently. Tock.
I watch, like I always watch, from my vantage point above
the station café; the café on the corner where a genteel residential street
meets the high street. It’s nowhere near
a station, tick, not now, nor was it ever. But I was. Then. My face fitted.
I saw then as I see now. Tick. They don’t see my eyes
burning into them. Few even look at me today; few look up. It’s down, down, down; engrossed in personal
time. Tock.
She really shouldn’t be here: Shielding, old, medicated. Small, cowering behind the steering wheel;
almost invisible. Independent. Tenacious. Stylish. Hands gloved; always. And
hat, and a neatly tied silk scarf, Hermes, at her throat.
She needs for nothing. Tick. Other than to be out.
Out of the fading grandeur of the town house; a different view for half an
hour. To exercise the right to freedom. Tick. It’s not far. But too far
for legs like spindles, ankles bearing knots like an old tree. The car is purple,
and familiar, and small. Tick.
It’s busier today. Busier than yesterday; that was busier
than the day before, and the day before that.
Tick. Spaces to stop are
smaller, fewer. She’s looking around; a
quarter turn of the neck, one way only, at street level. Tick. A quarter turn of the wheel, a slip of the
clutch. They see her too. Eyes widen, hands raise, mouths open. TICK. But still she comes. Hands wave,
heads shake, shoulders rise, gestures flow. TICK. My hand moves a second
closer. TICK.
Kangaroo hops, a handful of inches, then a handful of feet.
Not straight. Not strong. Seeing only
one way, she drives on. TICK. One last time.
A horn. Angry, persistent. Heads turn. Not hers.
Jolted. Startled. Confused. Tock. Grip loosens, eyes scrunch, shoulders ram.
Wrong foot reacts. TOCK. A sudden
jerk, a bump, a grind, TOCK. A
scream. Voices and hands raised.
They look at me now, some of the them. In shock. Stock
still. Tock. Others run. Some of them hold her; the woman. the mother?
Pinned by bumper; scattered glass in her hair. She can see him. TOCK. Small
and still. Crushed. Ruddy. Bloodied. Underneath.
She sees her. The other woman. Old. Bewildered. Belted in her seat. Staring.
TOCK.
I mark the time with a single chime.
I mark the seconds until help that is no help, arrives. In time. Just in time. Tick.
A mob wrench at the door. Still she sits. Shocked, broken, alive. Still,
he lies. I STOP.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
***
Thank you for reading.
See you again soon.
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