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    Short Stories From My Youth - Christmas Eve!

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    Laying on my back, barely visible in the garishly patterned carpet, I could see the reflection of the Christmas tree in the television screen; multicoloured fairy lights illuminating the window behind. Mum had decorated it a few days before, real glass baubles, family heirlooms, kept in a black biscuit tin, in the cupboard under the stairs; each one carefully wrapped in tissue paper, stored neatly away for next year. Below the tree, the stand was wrapped in bright orange crepe paper, a row of silver tinsel along the top. At its apex a fairy sat looking out across the lounge; waiting for Santa Claus to arrive. Expertly made from a toilet roll, paper wings and delicately placed head, made from paper mache, she looked rather warn, after several years of use; perched precariously leaning to one side. A splattering of glitter and some home made paper chains, multicoloured, produced at school and over a hundred Christmas cards filled the room. The ceiling was full of magic; shimmering lanterns, stars and foil garlands, gently swaying in the heat blowing through the hall. I loved this time of year; bright lights, sparkling decorations, smiling faces. Everyone seemed happy, alive and enjoying the festive cheer.

    I could hear Mum in the kitchen, preparing tomorrows feast. The biggest turkey I had ever seen. The smell of stuffing, drifted into the lounge; I sniffed the air, licking my lips. On top of the G Plan coffee table, sat a large unopened tin of Quality Street, as big as a drum. Next to it, a box of Milk Tray and some After Eight Mints. A packet of figs were already open, the cellophane wrapper placed next to the box; a wooden stick, used to pierce the fruit, covered in sweet, sticky, sugary syrup. Rolling over, I made a beeline for a packet of Twiglets, I spied from the corner of my eye. I was always a ‘savoury boy,’ still am, preferring Marmite covered crackers to an orange centred cream. Quickly I placed a handful in my mouth, before Mum walked in the room. Chocking briefly as a stray twig went down the wrong way. ‘Are you alright in there?’ Mum enquired, as a cough turned to a splutter. I replied as best I could, covering my mouth with my hand, placing a cushion over my face to dull the noise. Suitably composed, I hid the open box, behind the sitting room chair; wiping the crumbs from my lap, rubbing my mouth with a sleeve, I laid back down.

    It wasn’t long before Mum walked through the door, looking at me straight in the eye. Guilty as charged; I looked upwards, away from her gaze, grinning sheepishly, half closing my eyes. Mum stood there with her hands on her hips, shaking her head, with a twinkle in her eye. It was Christmas Eve after all, nothing could put a damper on that.

    It was nearly time for bed, just an hour of entertainment before shut eye. I always loved Yuletide television, sat with family on Christmas Eve. Dad in his favourite chair, me next to mum on the settee. Lights dimmed low, just the flickering tree in the corner and Bruce Forsyth on the box. The tin of Quality Street was finally opened, no longer on display. As a child I loved the multicoloured wrappers, holding each one up towards the lights on the tree, watching the bright colours shimmer through. Golden Cups were my favourite, filled to the top with caramel, which I used to suck out of the middle, after biting off the top.

    By eight PM, filled with chocolate, warm and cosy, my eyes slowly started to shut. Carried up to bed shortly afterwards, tucked in and kissed good night. By three o'clock in the morning I would be running downstairs, amazed by the mountains of presents; filled pillowcases, stockings full of sweets; celebrating Christmas day, surrounded by family, party games in the evening at Nanny’s, a sip of egg nog and extra helpings of turkey and Christmas log!
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    Betty's Revenge Part II!

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    In July 2015 I wrote a series of short stories entitled 'Betty's Revenge.' 'Betty's Revenge,' describes the turbulent, terrifying relationship between a Headmistress and her secretary. Betty had worked at the school for many years,  suffering bullying and abuse on a daily basis. As her predicament reaches crisis point, Betty finally snaps!

    In total I wrote three short stories about Betty and never finished the series; something I aim to do in 'Spanish Views.' I have readjusted the words and tidied up the grammar, for a new readership. 'Betty's Revenge,' was written at a stressful time, published in my first blog 'Bipolarcoaster;' as such a rehash is needed.

    'Betty's Revenge,' in part refers to the difficulties I was experiencing whilst, working for Oxfam, under a sociopathic boss. My writing then, very much centred around what was unraveling in my life and documents a very grueling twelve months. Betty was a way of offloading my frustrations and anger, without incriminating Oxfam employees, who at the time were under investigation.
    Betty's Revenge Part II
    I had always planned her murder, I knew one day I would; if she just pushed me enough, I would crack.  I could not take any more, could today be the day; could I really do it, push that letter opener straight through her cold heart.  Yes I could, I would, for me, for Frank, for the children and School, for the damn good of humanity.  I really will do it this time, she had it coming to her....

    For a brief second she nearly had me, down at heel, at her level of immorality and lack of self control; temporarily I had reached such depths of depravity, that I became her. I AM NOT HER!  I am a good, moral and truthful person, who only seeks to right her wrongs.  I may be just a secretary, but I am a damn good one and she knows it; I stay because of circumstances, not out of loyalty.

    She stood there, towering above me, as I lay on the floor.  I had such fear and loathing, I was unable to distinguish between the two; a momentary loss of faculties, that could have quite easily turned bad; I must practice self control.  I am better than her, she is but a spineless shadow, manipulating her way through life, through the misfortunes of others;  give me strength!

    Her alcohol soaked breath, engulfed my senses; the disgusting smell of a drunk, nothing more, nothing less.  Her strength came in a bottle, her control through hate and her violence through lack of character.  She could barely stand up and her voice was racing; virtually inaudible.  Suddenly I felt strong, better than her, above her warped deeds and for the first time, she was lower than I'd ever seen her.  She was an old, near blind middle aged spinster, caught up in her own game of power and control. What the hell was I doing on the floor, confronted by this shell of a soul.

    I placed my arms firmly on the floor, my nails dug vigorously into the parquet wood beneath; gripping onto all the wrongs that she had done to me and others.  The more I thought about her terrible acts, the firmer I gripped, the angrier I became and the more determined I felt.  One nail broke, followed by another, then the rest.  My perfectly manicured hands, turned into those of a navvy; I had always looked after my fingers, they were my livelihood, but today it did not matter, they became the hoist to lift me from the depths of despair; suffered all these years.  

    Arthritis or not, there was no pain today. I stood taller than the cheap heels on her feet, firmer than the bottle in her hand; I was now in charge.  As I pushed my self upright, I noticed, just how small she was; a fake person, stooped over through years of abuse and bitterness.  Her clothes were soiled, unkempt and her sarcastic grin became a quivering lip of submission.  She actually looked scared of me, the woman she took great pride in destroying, for her own satisfaction.

    This was my time and I wasn't going to let it go........

    First Written 18 July 2015
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    Rab's World!

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    ​"Welcome to my wall. Today's specials are Lack of sleep, up too early, and low on patience..thank you, come again!"
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    The Measure Of Success!

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    After a rather strange conversation last night when I got in from work, I thought today was the perfect opportunity to talk about success and failure. In today’s blog entry I want to talk about measuring success; what represents a happy and positive life? After my online chat, it seems people have very different opinions when recording their sense of well-being and prosperity. As I sit writing today, I don’t mind admitting, I have very little money or security living in Spain, but I do have enough to get by. In Britain I was always trying to live up to other peoples expectations, doing the right thing, saving for my old age, making sure I was comfortable. Well anyone who knows me well enough, will understand my life has had many ups and downs, which prevented me from following a more traditional path. A same sex relationship with an Australian, moving from country to country, with conditions attached to your every move, was just one hurdle I had to overcome. My relationship was fraught with challenges, because of laws designed to inflict damage on our union. We had to fight a discriminatory system with archaic laws, public revulsion, homophobia and hate in order to stay as one. We fought harder than anyone else I know. Don’t look into my relationship and judge my journey, when you did not walk in the same shoes as I.

    When I look at those around me, friends and family I am aware of how confused they may be about my general direction in life. After all these people are successful in their own right. They have fantastic careers, children, a nice home and money in the bank; I couldn’t be happier for them. I am however a little perturbed about their shallow materialistic outlook on life. How does one actually measure success? Is wealth and assets the only way we can prove our affluence? Or is their another way of calculating our self worth?

    I certainly don’t have any assets; I have owned property in the past, but sold the three houses I had many years ago, preferring to live a carefree independent existence. Once I came off the ‘property ladder,’ it was very difficult to jump back on, so I chose not to! I was not fortunate enough to have the same level of support others had, so very much stood on my own two feet; struggling to survive at times; I also had other periods of success in equal measure. I have not had any close bonds for many years; I certainly don’t rely on others for anything and only have a small income. I am not, nor never will be, wealthy; I spent too much time concentrating on my relationship to consider becoming a millionaire; I am happy with that.

    I would love the security of owning my own home, I just do not have the resources to do so, like many other people. Property costs are out of the reach of the majority of us these days. Saving for a deposit on a house and surviving each day, is not something I can achieve. I had to leave Britain under traumatic circumstances, giving up a career and home, restarting my life again; being able to afford to buy a home, just wasn’t a priority; recovery from adversity was. In truth Darrell and I are nearly free of the distress Oxfam caused. Once this current wrangle with them is over, we can fully move forwards, until then we have some fighting to do.

    Measuring success is deeply personal to the individual concerned. I am lucky to be living in Spain, with the person I love; 23 years together, looking out over fantastic views, enjoying spectacular weather and surrounded by a supportive network of friends, both here and in Britain. Does this constitute success? Yes it most certainly does! When one considers where my life was, after eight years working for Oxfam, it is immeasurably better now; I couldn’t ask for more. In most peoples eyes, my current situation would not be ideal and they would probably consider themselves a failure. My positive outlook  ensures a happy demeanour, despite the obstacles we still have to overcome. On the day I left for Spain, I regarded my life to be a mess and unsalvageable, today I see it as an opportunity, infinitely better than it was.

    No one has the right to judge someone else, especially when they don’t know them. By all means comment in a constructive way, but don’t assume we are all alike. I am certainly not you; I calculate my own personal success very differently. I don’t need oodles of money to be content; I would like a little more than I have, but I will survive without it. Yes I have made mistakes but I have learnt from them. I am not going to achieve everything I wanted in life, but for now, I am happy being who I am. I don’t lead a superficial life; I am not shallow, I don’t use or take from other people and I always give when I can, even if I have nothing. Most importantly I am in a rewarding, long lasting relationship, despite our trials and tribulations. How many of you can say that? For me these are the things, that measure success!
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    Rab's World!

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    "The secret to happiness is a good sense of humour and a bad memory!"
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    Betty's Revenge!

    In July 2015 I wrote a series of short stories entitled 'Betty's Revenge.' 'Betty's Revenge,' describes the turbulent, terrifying relationship between a Headmistress and her secretary. Betty had worked at the school for many years,  suffering bullying and abuse on a daily basis. As her predicament reaches crisis point, Betty finally snaps!

    In total I wrote three short stories about Betty and never finished the series; something I aim to do in 'Spanish Views.' I have readjusted the words and tidied up the grammar, for a new readership. 'Betty's Revenge,' was written at a stressful time, published in my first blog 'Bipolarcoaster;' as such a rehash is needed.

    'Betty's Revenge,' in part refers to the difficulties I was experiencing whilst, working for Oxfam, under a sociopathic boss. My writing then, very much centred around what was unraveling in my life and documents a very grueling twelve months. Betty was a way of offloading my frustrations and anger, without incriminating Oxfam employees, who at the time were under investigation.
    Betty's Revenge Part I
    We always dreaded Monday mornings, they were her worst days.  The stale stench of woodbines, cheap cider and bad breath always tainted the air.  As I approached the office, ever so gently, no shoes on, creeping slowly, oh so slowly towards her badly beaten door, my anxiety got deeper and deeper. Sweat began to pour from my brow, into my blood shot eyes, down my frequently broken nose and onto my dimpled chin. A bead of moisture hung there for just a fleeting second, before falling to the floor outside her nicotine stained office.  The sound of that single drop, was enough to wake her from where she passed out the night before; the slightest, tiniest most insignificant sound always heard, from her cauliflower ears; able to hear distances, only a cat could detect.

    'Oh crap, I'm in for it now!' Shaking with fear, I placed my trembling hand on the brass handle to her office. Inscribed on the door were the words, 'Worlds End;' I continued with the worst task of the week, entering that disgusting, decaying  room; a left over from a bygone era.  I never liked to knock, preferring if possible to keep her in a passed out state; a victim of her exhausting, timeless, painstaking task, of 'doing her best for everyone;' our boss, our friend, confidante, person to look up to.  She was feared throughout the building; everyone's nightmare; our poor misunderstood headmistress, as she always referred to herself.

    It was like a game of 'Cat and Mouse', would she move or not; had I got away with it this time or was she going to beat the hell out of me again.  I had got used to the bruises, but on this particular Monday, I was still in pain from her neck brace, inflicted as she passed out the Friday before.  She accused me of lies and falsehoods; ironic, considering its the only way she knew herself. She said I was scum, a no good for nothing used up old secretary, who only owed her existence to her kind and generous nature.  In her terrifying mind, she was a martyr, do-gooder and humanitarian; the truth was rather more terrifying!

    I know I should have stood up to her, but we needed the money; my husband was disabled and the medication wasn't cheap.  We ate very little, barely had enough to get by, but at least Frank had the pills he needed.  My only hope, was that she would change into that person I once knew, the one who used to help others, smile sweetly and cast a motherly eye over everyone, who worked in that run down dilapidated school.  Of course that would never happen; she had become unrecognisable, a deranged shell of evil thoughts and vicious ungodliness.  She was demented with rage, piercing even the thickest skin with her satanic, alcohol fueled eyes; a woman who cracked open bottles of Stella with her teeth.  She scared the living daylight out of me and she knew it; her nasty grin, decomposed voice, loud, gravelly and animated, booming from one end of the staff room to the other.  She was bitter and twisted, dangerous, a thing to be avoided and she loved it!

    'How dare you enter without knocking'  her booming voice, like knives through my nerves. Shaking uncontrollably, hardly able to speak, I offered my deepest apologies!

    'I didn't want to wake you, Miss!' I replied.

    With a single backhander, to my face, she knocked me to the floor.  Stunned, I shook my head.  Tears began to fill my eyes;  oh god, not again;  So much pain.  I was thin and pale, badly marked, and inflicted with the scars of my job, and for what, for taking her the post on a Monday morning......

    First written 18 July 2015
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