‘Danny Boyle - Your Pipes Need Cooling!’

This is not a good day. Some mornings I get up convinced I’m living in a parallel universe. Today had to be one of them.

Even before I’d half woken up, I’d spilled coffee over my favourite t-shirt and then slipped and bruised my shin on the bit of the floor I’d missed  when I cleaned up.

To cheer myself up, instead of getting on with anything useful  I watched clips from last night’s Olympics’ opening ceremony and  read a free chapter from an e-book.

Hell, that Paul Theroux’s a great penman, so it just made things worse; made me sure I’ll never make a real writer and that it’ll be better if I give up the online course, save the dosh and try to get a refund. I could certainly use the cash.

Even better, I’ll go and chat up Kev at the cash-and-carry. Who knows, he could  give me back my old job on the night till and well …

But I’m really hopping mad about ‘The London ****ox’ as I like to call them. Why is everyone so crazy about Danny Boyle, David Beckham and The Queen? I can’t stand any of them and I think people are really stupid to believe H.M. did her own parachute stunt.  C’mon, we’re talking about an 86-year-old woman who’s become too stiff to go horse-riding, let alone sky-diving. Anyway, after the way the public received that other awful TV show, It’s A Royal Knock-Out, she ought to have known better. Talk about ‘bringing The Monarchy into disrepute’ – some people never learn!

And as for horses, sheep and God knows what else in the menagerie, who’ll be the one having to sweep up the arena after them? It won’t be the Queen, that’s for sure!

Then all that fairy-tale stuff was so demeaning. If it wasn’t J K  Rowling reading from Peter Pan, we had Kenneth Branagh quoting the monster Caliban’s speech from Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Are we really supposed to swallow that as well? Surely, John of Gaunt’s ‘sceptred isle’ speech would have been far more appropriate.

Then again. Branagh wasn’t portraying the bard but the inventor,   Isambard Kingdom Brunel. This rang a loud bell with me – as it should have done with Boyle - as Brunel’s father, Marc had to be extricated from a debtors’ prison.

The Brunel reference also got American viewers  confused for another reason - many thought he was playing their assassinated President Abe Lincoln! I could go on, but I’m getting wearier and more irritated, just thinking about everything.

So there it is: About twenty-seven million quid down the sewer on an over-long, embarrassing, boring,  infantile, flashy, flaky, tacky, sound-and-light show  which  could – no should - have been used to help people like me. I haven’t been in proper work for years.

And I’ve just remembered what my ex used to say: “If you want fairness and justice, you’ve come to the wrong planet.”

Which really brings me back to where I started. Y’know, this time I really will go back to bed!

 

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,The Olympics,London 2012,Paul Theroux,The Queen,Danny Boyle,David Beckham,Kenneth Branagh,J.K. Rowling,USA,President Abe Lincoln,Isambard Kingdom Brunel

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 28 July 2012)

‘Woody’s Rhapsody In Rude!’

Woody Allen couldn’t stop laughing.

“Honey, are you O.K.?”, asked his wife, Soon-Yi. “Have you’ve had another nasty ‘tweet’ from Ronan?”

“No,” replied Allen, wiping his eyes, “really, I’m feeling great for someone who’s received an almost rhapsodically rude letter from a total stranger telling him where he can – or should not - work.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“My correspondent – er, Sara Lapidus - is a British woman living in Haifa and she’s begging me not to work in Israel.”

“Now that is weird! Is it a security issue?”

“No, that would make more sense. She says she was so embarrassed by To Rome With Love when she viewed it at a screening last week, that she shuffled  home as swiftly as possible to avoid meeting anyone she knew. She says she doesn’t want to talk about it. Except with me!”

“Huh! We come across all sorts of cranks in the biz. It seems she’s trying to get something else off her chest. What does she actually say?” asked Soon-Yi.

“Here, read it for yourself:”

“’Dear Mr Allen, I’ve been one of your devoted fans since the early 70s and am thrilled that your films often open in Israel many months before they’re distributed in the U.K. Indeed, on my advice, last year several British charities held fundraising screenings of Midnight In Paris and made many thousands of pounds for projects here. We all thought you’d returned to your magically funny best.

“’But this latest offering – To Rome With Love – is nothing short of an artistic disaster. With its paper-thin multi plot, overdone picture-postcard images of Rome and hackneyed one-liners, it bears all the signs of  a vainglorious old man who should have folded away his director’s chair 20 years ago.

“’The world knows you have a penchant for younger women, Mr Allen, but did you have to make your own character the father of a girl in her twenties? For Heaven’s sake, you’re old enough to be her grandfather! You look ridiculous!

“’In my view, Rome was cobbled together quite shamelessly on the back of  Paris in the desperate hope you’d found another winning formula. It doesn’t work that way.

“’What if you come to Israel and produce another flop? You could set  our burgeoning film industry back   by many decades. Do you really want that?’”

“Well, she’s got balls. Who is this woman? A critic for The Jerusalem Post?”

“She doesn’t say what she does,  but my bet is that she’s been  reading the American Press. Did you see that Rob Eshman, editor of the Jewish Journal plans to raise $18M to get me over there? It’s very flattering but I’m beginning to feel cornered, especially as I’ve  also had direct invitations from the Mayor of Jerusalem, Nir Barkat and his counterpart in Tel Aviv, Ron Huldai.

“Even President Shimon Peres is backing the idea. For crying out loud, how can I turn down a request from a guy like that? Instead of a comedy, I could make his bio-pic. Now that would be a real honour. It would certainly be worth a visit, just for that. You’d come with me, sweetheart? Yes?”

“I’d love that. Maybe we could also go to South Korea,” mused Soon-Yi. You’ve got your homeland – I’ve got mine.

“And I’ve also heard there are Korean-born people who’ve met and married Israelis and then settled there. It would be really good to try to meet some of them.”

“Why not? Y’know, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. After all, what’s right about you and me could also be true of us both regarding Israel:

"The heart wants what it wants. There's no logic to those things. You meet someone and you fall in love and that's that.’"

“So it’s Israel and Korea – here we come?”

“You bet! Now come over here and gimme a kiss!”

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,Woody's Rhapsody In Rude,Israel,Haifa,Shimon Peres,Nir Barkat,Jerusalem,Ron Huldai,Tel Aviv,Woody Allen,Soon-Yi Previn,Israeli Film Industry,To Rome With Love

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 27 July 2012)

‘Ilona’s Island Dream’

David was beside Ilona’s bed, holding her hand while she burbled into her toy telephone. He  did not notice Marilyn Andrews walk in.

“I’m glad to catch you, Mr Bluestone. Something – two – remarkable things happened today, so I’d like a word before you go.”

“Sorry? Oh, of course,” replied David, now alert. “I was so long in theatre that I didn’t have a break. A talk would be nice.”

“As you know,” began  Mrs  Andrews as they entered her office some minutes later, “your mother has become an instant hit at ‘Oak Trees’.  She reminds us of an old-fashioned, exquisitely mannered child and my colleagues love her neat habits, which help to make our routine much easier.”

“Good. But you implied something’s gone wrong. When I arrived, she was sitting up, mumbling  as usual into her toy. Then I noticed a different nightdress and that her hair had been tied back with a ribbon.”

“That happened first. After breakfast,  Ilona suddenly stopped her incessant  ‘telephone’ chatter and became silent. About an hour later, she was heard singing “happy birthday dear Daddy” and she asked for her best dress and a hair ribbon. So we gave her something else to wear.

“Everything seemed normal until this afternoon when Nurse Evans found her asleep. But her face appeared tear-stained and the bedding was in a mess.”

“It’s my birthday today. She made the connection. “I’m lost for words!”, said David.

“That was not Ilona’s trouble!” retorted Mrs Andrews. “As she tidied the bedding, Miss Evans found a pencil and some paper on which Ilona had written a poem.

“We’re astounded; first by what she did and even more by the composition. We can but guess that she somehow clambered off the bed through a gap in the frame and, wondering about the room, found the stationery in the cupboard by the window.”

“It’s how my mother used to write,” gasped David as Mrs Andrews passed it over. “Those carefully formed, rounded characters remind me of the style she used when Kitty – my twin sister and I – were young.

“And the poem – I can tell you about it, too It’s the piece that made her well-known; which gave her the respect as a writer for which she’d yearned. Now she’s re-written it here, word for word. It’s like a declaration of faith!”

“Perhaps you’ll give me some background?”,  asked Mrs Andrews. “Can you start by reading me the poem as you recall Ilona  reciting it?”

“Well, I’ll  try.”

‘This Is The Heart’

This is the heart my parents gave Me: One room for wisdom. A second For hope. This is the heart.

This is the heart my parents gave Me: A third room for knowledge. The Fourth for pain. This is the hurt.

Here was the heart her parents gave Her: Defective. Deficient. Abandoned. Apart. This was her hurt.

This was the heart her parents gave Her: This was the heart; the hurt. This was …                                           This.

David paused  briefly  and  then  went on: “Ilona had more trouble than many as a young woman. She and her brother, Frederick were born to wealthy parents who were excessively strict. She told us that her father,  Graham - a cold, stern man – would punish them for even the tiniest misdemeanour. She hinted there was more – but we dared not think what.

“Her mother, Hazel, a fragile personality who had  ailed from birth,  died when the children were in their teens.  Ilona and our father, Derek met and fell in love at college. They married as soon as they were able and moved far away from her childhood home.

“Family life could have shattered after our father drowned in a swimming accident. Kitty and I were aged only eight, but Ilona coped somehow. Although her background was Modern Languages, she retrained as a legal secretary and earned good money working free-lance for top city law firms.

“But it was not her ‘real’ work, she said. Her true vocation was creative writing and she scribbled from late-evening, into the small hours, several nights a week.

“Nothing happened at first. But when Internet use became popular she gained an audience as a pioneer blogger, writing  as ‘Ilona Blue at Ilona’s Island Dreams.’ She also posted stories and verses on her site and the poem won her some belated fame.”

“Please go on, Mr Bluestone. I’m fascinated.”

“Kitty and I wanted to treat Mum to a holiday to show our appreciation for everything she’d ever done for us. So four years ago, our two families took her to Israel. She loved the trip but suffered from complications following heat exhaustion and spent three days at the Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem where an underlying heart condition was discovered.

“We were all shocked as Ilona had appeared well. Later she  confessed to being carried by a huge surge of emotion as she watched the  image of her beating heart on screen. The memory inspired her poem, whose rhythm attempts to imitate that of a heart in motion.

“However, the unexpected news about her health somehow altered Mum’s personality. It was as if she’d been hit by a train and her life has been on a speeding, downward spiral ever since. We now see her poem as her way of drawing a line at the end of her sentient life. You know the rest.”

“We’re both in medicine, Mr Bluestone. I fear that today’s events were the embers flaring before the fire dies out. I  don’t want to consider how long we have to enjoy Ilona’s company. But I appreciate your sharing everything with me. It’s explained so much.” 

“Thanks for giving me the chance,” replied David, his voice breaking. “I’d better leave now.”

--------

“’This the heart …’ ” muttered Mrs Andrews as she stepped to close her door.

“’…. my parents gave me,’ ” whispered David as he strode towards his car.

And somewhere upstairs, Ilona Blue’s fine heart beat for a final time.

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,Ilona's Island Dream,Dementia,Heart Disease

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 20 July 2012)

‘Remembering Mr Oliphant’

Roger Oliphant and my mate Sue were screwing like mad. She was aged 16 and he was 32.

Mr Oliphant was also our Civics and English Literature teacher at High Mere High School and this made me very cross indeed. Not only because ‘Ollie’ was dead cute and I was peeved as hell. I knew their shenanigans were totally out of order and lost no time  in telling Sue.

“Mind your own business, you nosy cow. It’s up to Roger’n’me and nothing to do with you or anyone else. I’m 16 and could get married now if I wanted. He’s just waiting for the right time to tell his wife, Margie, divorce her and then we’ll be free,” she said.

“You pratt!” I said. “That’s the oldest one in the book. Y’know what’ll happen if all his ‘rogering’ gets you pregnant …?”

“Shut up, you disgusting know-all! You’re a jealous, cross-legged ice-queen who’s never been laid. Bet you never will, neither!” Sue yelled back.

We didn’t speak after that and I was surprised when Ollie paid me a compliment in class.

“So you want to be a journalist, Deirdre?,” he remarked during a session about careers.

“I think that’s a good choice. You have a keen ear for language, an uncommon ability to find the core of an issue  and are beginning to develop a distinctive style of your own.”

Of course Ollie and Sue avoided unnecessary verbal or eye contact in public so he rarely, if ever addressed her in class. But everyone knew what was going on. So maybe I was being – well, bribed – when Ollie recommended me as editor of The High Mere High School Times.

This was a role usually given to a committee comprising a half-dozen of the top English students in the Upper Sixth, most of whom tended to be Oxbridge candidates.

But no-one else wanted the job in our senior year so I grabbed the chance. The experience would certainly put the shine on my application to the J-School at the University of Central Lancashire. I was thrilled to bits and went totally off the rails. Perhaps this was also what Ollie had in mind.

Even the head teacher, George Browning, said I had done  very well to produce a 20-page edition with sharp pictures and  unusual angles on traditional school activities. I ran a double-page spread on sports day and  wrote a sagacious editorial based on the speech the Lord Mayor had given at prize giving.

So I didn’t give a fig that no-one liked my lead story. I was very young and ridiculously self-important.

“Sixth-Form Sue Screwed By Elephant In Class-Room” ran my head-line, while the story below was a thinly-veiled account of what almost everyone knew had been going on for months.

Ollie, Sue and I were expelled the same day – except Sue and I returned to sit our exams. Unfortunately for me, we left by the same entrance at the same time and Ollie contrived to back his car out over my left-foot.

“Sorry, love,” he called through the driver’s window as I reeled in pain.  “I’m  a clumsy elephant who needs to be better kept. See ya!”

“Not if I see you first,” I muttered back. But I took no action as J-School  and the top papers were my aim and any  legal proceedings could have slowed me down. That’s how I became a chief headline writer for The News of The Screws and still laugh fit to bust every time I hear or read that boring line about ‘the elephant in the room.’ I definitely scooped the world there.

Still, I’d love to know what happened to Ollie and Sue. It smells like a great story to me ….

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,Remembering Mr Oliphant,Journalism,J-School,University of Central Lancashire

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 13 July 2012)