One Night

Writing, writing, writing, but not a lot that I can put on here. I've been very good with my diary this year. Every page is filled with nonsense. I'm very proud: I have never been able to keep a diary before. If bad habits die hard, good habits are just as hard to bring to life.

Anyway, I finally have something I fancied sharing. This started life as an Open University exercise that ended up leading me down a different path. It's only the start of a story and I haven't worked out where it goes yet, but I like it so far. Eventually, when the time is right and the stars align, I'll have a go at finishing it off.

* * *

The club was dark. Music was pounding. His mates were in a jovial mood, laughing and hooting, knocking back drinks and eyeing up the girls. James was not.

“You wanna get back in the game, mate.” Simon slapped him on the back so that he almost dunked his nose into the pint of beer he’d been nursing for the best part of an hour.

“Yeah.” Dave said. “You gotta go with the flow. Move with the groove.”

“Shots!”

James wasn’t sure which one of his mates had shouted it, but a few minutes later two dozen shots were lined up in front of him, glowing lurid colours in the club light-show. He chugged the first one and it burned its way down but the afterglow felt good. He followed up with several more; each time he lifted a glass his spirits lifted with it. Half an hour later he was feeling very happy as he leaned against the bar waving a twenty and waiting to be served.

There were two people serving: a young woman with a ring through her lower lip and bright green hair, and a tall spindly bloke with scruffy hair. They were busy at the opposite end of the bar, where a group of girls on a hen night was holding their attention. As he waited, a girl stepped up to the bar next to him. She smiled and then focussed on trying to get the attention of one of the servers.

“Hi. I’m James.” He grinned. She smiled at him but said nothing. “You’re pretty.” She smiled again but continued to try and call the attention of the bar staff. “I’m here with my mates, over there.” He turned to point them out but couldn’t see them. He looked around for a moment. “Well, they were there. I guess I’m on my own. Are you here with someone? Boyfriend maybe?” She smiled again, a little longer, trying to figure out if he was worth the trouble, maybe.

“I’m with some friends from uni.”

“Great. Having a good time?”

She shook her head.

“Me neither. I didn’t want to come out tonight. I didn’t feel like it. I’m James.” He said again.

“You said that already.” She laughed. She paused and bit her lip. “Do you want to get some fresh air? The music’s kind of doing my head in.”

“I’ll go out with you if you tell me your name.”

“Maggie.”

She took his hand and led him towards the door.

James woke in a comfortable bed, his face half-buried in a soft pillow that smelled freshly washed. The music from the club was still buzzing in his ears and pounding in his head. He rolled over, expecting to see his dorm room but what he saw was unfamiliar. There was a tidy desk against one wall, with a cork notice board above it. Photos and cards were pinned all over the board. On the wall next to the bed there was a Madonna poster. On the table next to the bed was a short stack of books: Pride and Prejudice, Great Expectations and Pet Cemetery. The latter had a postcard shove between the dog-eared pages. Where the hell was he?

                “Good afternoon sleepyhead.” Maggie entered, wrapped in a fluffy cream towel, with her auburn hair wrapped in another towel on her head.

                James smiled. In a rush he remembered the pretty shy girl from the club. The girl that he’d chatted with in the cold November night until the club had closed. She’d invited him back to the house she shared. They’d kissed and done more.

                “What time is it?”

                “Does it matter? Scoot.” She shuffled at the edge of the bed until he made room for her to sit, then she ruffled his hair. “You need a shower.”

                “I need coffee”

                Maggie kissed him on the cheek.

                “Shower first, then coffee. You’ll feel better.”

James stood naked in the bathroom, his hands either side of the designer basin. He stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was greying at the temples. A few light wrinkles had started to spread outwards from the corners of his eyes. When did he get so old? He looked down at the water running from the tap. The wedding band on his finger glinted in the early morning sunlight. He stared at it.

                “Are you alright in there?”

                “Yeah, I’m fine.” He called out.

                He splashed water on his face, turned the tap off and dabbed the moisture away with a bright white towel from the rail.

                The hotel room was well appointed, decorated in tones of cream, coffee and chocolate. The bed linen was white and expensive-looking, with one of those slippery sashes across the bottom of it. An empty bottle wine bottle bathed in a cooler on a walnut desk, the ice long-since melted. The remnants of room service lay on an oversized tray on the low coffee table in front of an equally low sofa.

                James slid back into the bed.

                “I was about to send out a search party.” His companion wriggled up against him, sliding her leg over his thigh. She propped her head up on one hand so that her hair fell around her bare shoulders in champagne waves. She pressed the duvet down to her waist. “Everything OK?”

                James glanced at the porcelain breasts so blatantly on display.

                “Yeah, fine.”

                “Good, cos I want you at least once more before we have to go down for breakfast.” She leaned over and kissed him, sliding her body over his. For a moment, he considered resisting, but it was only a moment, then she was straddling him and he was kissing her vigorously.

Elusive Sleep

This is a little something that originated from a diary entry. It's a semi-fictional piece in that it is not based on a particular incident, but it's something that happens to all of us sooner or later and something that I've experienced many times.

I lie there. Awake with my eyes closed. Perhaps if I pretend to be asleep I will go to sleep. If I just keep my eyes closed I'll drift off. But who am I kidding? My body isn't obliging tonight. My mind is still aware, still active, still thinking about the things I did today and the things I will do tomorrow.

I roll over. No... roll is the wrong expression; I flip myself over angrily. Angry at no-one and nothing in particular. Except for the sleep that refuses to come.

My arm is in the way now. I fold it under my head but it goes numb. I stick it out of the side of the bed but it goes cold. And my shoulder is getting crushed. There in the dark, with sleep eluding me, I contemplate how badly designed the human body is. It's all bits that stick out in odd directions. And what's the deal with snoring? I silently curse the creator as I flip over again.

Now the sheet has come loose from the corner of the mattress. It's wrinkled up under my shoulder in uncomfortable little folds, razor blades beneath me. Dammit!

I throw back the duvet and the blanket with a flair best reserved for the theatre, and rise from my troublesome nest. I can't tuck the sheet back under the mattress where it belongs without disturbing my softly snoozing partner so I do my best to smooth it out. I pull it under my pillow, which I move down, away from the headboard, hoping that it will tame the belligerent sheet. It probably won't work but it will have to do.

I climb back into the bed and check the clock. 2am. I'm cold now; my feet are tucked into each other and my knees are pulled up. But the sheets have remained blessedly warm from my own body heat. It's very welcome against my chilly limbs. My bed is now suddenly cosy. I pull the covers up over my chin and before I realise it the alarm clock is buzzing 6.30am.

I hit snooze. My cocoon is too comfortable to leave it just yet.

In Car Entertainment

I haven't posted for a while - so much for getting into a good habit - and I haven't written every day, but I have been writing. I wrote this little story last week when hubby was fitting his new car stereo. I should emphasize that this is fiction; it's not about him... or me. :o)


It all begins so simply.

"I think I'd like a new car stereo." He announces.

First comes the endless surfing of the net, the trawling all over eBay and Amazon and 'wherever car audio is sold'. Long late night sessions bleary eyed in front of the screen, researching until his eyes bleed.

"This one's good but it doesn't have a multi-channel radio controlled dual output dongle. I like this one but it's two-hundred quid; on the upside, it has a guided ground to air missile launcher and perimeter radar."

I smile and nod and nod and smile. I continue to flick through my crafting mags and listen to my music. Occasionally, I point out that he doesn't need supersonic navigation control or nuclear launch codes.

So he finds one he likes. He orders it. It arrives. The dog barks like a Baskerville Hound at the courier, who eyes the dog suspiciously, despite me firmly clutching the collar. The delivery guy legs it as fast as he can, leaving me with a heavy box inside a polythene bag that would be far easier to manage if it was just a box. He comes home and slices through the bag to produce a shiny cardboard box that's at least twice the size of the stereo inside. It's glossy and black and white with attractive photos of the product inside. He beams. He grins. He turns it over and over and gazes with desire.

"Yes. Yes." He mutters occasionally.

Then it's the weekend. It's fitting day. He disappears outside to mess about in the car. Fortunately the sun is shining and it's a mild day. He's out there for hours.

"Do you want a brew?"

"No thanks, I'm nearly done."

An hour and a half later he appears in the living-room door.

"All done?"

"Not quite - it's the wrong connector - but it looks great." He is upbeat. He only needs a little adapter to make it work.

And so recommences the research. Once again he becomes a slave to Google. I wake up in the middle of the night a roll over to find him sitting in bed with the laptop on his knees and dark circles under bloodshot eyes.

In due course a little jiffy envelope falls on the doormat. The dog nearly eats it, but I rescue it before the slobber can reach the contents inside. He opens up the package and with glee produces a pointless looking bit of black-plastic coated wire with lumpy bits of different sizes at each end.

"Aha! This is exactly what I need!"

It's already starting to go a little dark out, but he insists this is a quick job. When he comes back in I re-heat his cold dinner in the microwave and make him a hot brew. He blinks against the bright strip lights in the kitchen.

"All done?"

"No." He looks glum.

He eats his tea in silence in front of Watchdog. When he's finished I take away the tray and come back to find he's replaced it with his laptop. He's already on the motoring forums looking for a solution. Watchdog finishes. Panorama finishes. The News at Ten finishes. I excuse myself and go to bed.

"Don't stay up too late." I warn. He says he won't. I know he will.

Next morning he's triumphant.

"I've ordered a fascia." He explains how it fits around the front of the stereo to make it fit into the gap left by the one that came from the factory. He explains how it just clips in place. He explains how he found out about it on a forum and that the guy who posted the link is a real joker. I butter his toast and make his cup of tea.

The fascia is coming all the way from Japan or Korea or somewhere so he has to wait a couple of weeks. It turns up in a polythene bag surrounded by bubble wrap. That evening it’s raining but he disappears out to the car again. He's getting better at removing the old stereo and the new one has been sitting on the dining table for three weeks, so he doesn't have to waste time with the box. He's back in just under an hour. Looking like someone dipped him in a bucket of water.

"All done?"

"The screws don't fit the bracket. Honestly, why don't they make these things a standard size? It's stupid." He rants about it all evening. I can hardly hear what's being said in Holby City.

"It's alright," I say in bed that evening, "we'll go to B&Q at the weekend and get the right screws."

He's late home the following night. He's been to B&Q. He holds out a bag of screws.

"Egg and chips for tea." I smile.

"How long will it be?"

"About 20 minutes."

He huffs and puffs but agrees to eat before trying the screws. He shovels down his food and leaves half a mug of tea on the table. This time he's only half an hour. He comes back grumpy.

"All done?"

He doesn't answer. We go to bed that night. He has his back to me and  I can still feel his irritation.

The next day I finish work early. I get home and walk the dog and then take a good look at the stereo and the bracket. I find the manual, still wrapped in the poly-bag. I find the pages explaining how it fits and get on Google to see if I can find the right size screw. A quick visit to B&Q and I have a little bag of screws that look very similar to the ones he had bought, but they are thicker. He comes home.

"Chicken stir-fry for tea."

"How long will it be?"

"I'll make it in half an hour. Why don't you get changed and try these." I hold up the screws.

It only takes him ten minutes but he spends the next two hours in the car playing with his new toy.

This is our third time around. It is his third car stereo and the third set of problems fitting it. I'm getting to be quite experienced. Maybe one day so will he.

Further Development

I haven't got much to post today because I'm doing some Open University activities but the more I've thought about him, the more I like the character, Beach. I had an idea about him being lonely and longing for human connection but then rejecting that connection when it was offered. It's something that we are all guilty of doing: Holding a deep desire for something and either not being able to recognise our own desire, or shunning the very thing we want. People are often self-destructive, and I think it's something that readers might connect with. As a result, I want to try and develop this element of Beach a little more.

So my plan for the next couple of days, in between my Open University course work, is to work on my encounter with Beach and try and turn those few hundred words into a short story. I'll post it as it develops.