The Jumper

The jumper is left draped over the futon with a casual familiarity. He notices it minutes after she has left. The jumper is turquoise flecked with green. It looks comfortable against the cushion, as if in this is the place it should be when not adorning her long slender back. He can't help feeling she has left it behind deliberately, as a message: get in touch.

He steps over to the sofa, picks it up, buries his face in the wool. He wrinkles his nose in anticipation of her smell, imagining  lily-of-the-valley, soft, subtle - his mother's favourite perfume. But the aroma exuding from the left-behind garment is less fragrant. Cigarette smoke and sweat. She hasn't washed it in weeks. Now he looks close up he can see red soup stains by the V-shaped neck, sugar crystals stuck to the mid-riff, and what appears to be chocolate on the hem. He hasn't expected this. For a moment he hesitates.

Then he remembers her smile as she left. He picks up his mobile and texts: You left your jumper behind. Shall I bring it to you? He sits back on the futon, hugging the jumper close to him. It is a little piece of her. Soon, he will have the rest.

***

She arrives at the bar and orders pernod and blackcurrant. Tiny Tempeh is blaring out from the music system. It is early still. Soon this place will be full of Friday night screeching, but right now she has time to nip out the back for a quick fag. She has her pick of tables, so she chooses one furthest from the door. She takes the cigarette packet from her back pocket, pulls out a slender cigarette, caresses it in her fingers. The lighter flares orange as she places the cigarette in her lips, lighting the tip. She drags in the sweet smell and breathes out a long sigh. The first fag of the evening is always the best - full of hope and desire, before a night's smoking causes her throat to rasp.

Though there are heaters in the courtyard, she has placed herself too far from them. That was stupid, it is November after all. She shivers, reaching in her bag for her jumper. It is not there. Where can she have left it?  She retraces her steps in her mind. The post office? No, she wasn't wearing it then. The tube. She definitely didn't have it then. She knew she was wearing it at lunchtime because  it was cold when she nipped out for a sandwich. She is still trying to work it out when a message blinks on her phone. You left your jumper behind. Shall I bring it to you? For a moment, she struggles to remember the number and then it comes to her. Jan's friend. The one who's DVDs she'd borrowed. She'd dropped them off earlier. She'd forgotten all about that.

She is about to text back, but the door into the patio opens. Her date for the evening. "I thought I'd find you out here." He smiles. She smiles back, shoving her phone in her bag. She'll phone wotsisname tomorrow. There's no rush.

***

It will take him three weeks of persistent texting to arrange a meeting which will last five minutes. His love will last for a few seconds more.

At the top of the scree slope

If you've been paying any attention to my blog in recent months, you'll have noticed me banging on about the second draft of my novel. And how I intended to finish by the end of the summer. Or at least by the time I went to the Festival of Writing in York.

Well I didn't manage it. Of course, I didn't. My life is just too busy for that. But going to the Festival of Writing was so inspirational that, once I returned, I was possessed by a manic energy to race to the top of my particular novel mountain. For the whole of September, and most of October, despite an absolutely crazy workload and busy family life, I've been getting up at 6, and sometimes working to 11 just to revise , add to the word count and generally beat the book in submission. For several weeks this was an absolute exhiliarating joy. The kind of joy you get, when the air is in your lungs, the sky is blue, the breeze pleasant and the sun warms you on your way. I strode the slopes with energy, verve, each day finishing with me looking forward to the next

But as I began to near the end of my goal, with only a few chapters to go, I hit a nerve wracking scree slope. For every step up, I slid three down. The sun went behind a cloud, the wind whipped up, no longer exhiliarating but cold and hard. I was bone tired, and desperate to stop, but I knew that if I did, I might never start up again. Inch, by inch, I clambered over sharp pointy stones, now forward, now back, some days stuck at the same point, paralysed by the effort. Until, at last, this time last week, I found myself inches away from the ridge. There was half a chapter left and it literally raced off my fingers and on to a screen. And for the time being I was done.

The view from here is rather satisfying. I've printed my second draft off, satisfyingly twice the size of the feeble first draft I finished last year. I've read it twice, and though there are still places where the language makes me wince, where I've lost my thread, where I've been inconsistent, it's beginning to take the shape I want it to.

I'll be off again in a minute, pushing myself through a third draft which will no doubt be as painful as the last two. But I can see the summit now, and I know, without a doubt, that I can reach it. And after eight years, I can tell you, that's quite a sight.

An experiment in twitter fiction

Very early on in my #fridayflash career, I wrote a story entirely told in tweets, based on the idea that if you looked at someone's timeline you are effectively reading the story backwards. The result which you can see here, had mixed responses. Some people felt I'd been a little too obscure with what had happened, others that it was very hard to read a story that way. I took the helpful critique and left it for a while till my good friends at Blank Media announced they were looking for submissions for a booklet to accompany their art exhibition "Inside". I re-jigged my Miss Piggy story, mocking up a twitter page to give  a bit more information about the other characters, who else she was following and what pictures she had recently posted. I was delighted that my story was selected (the first time I'd been paid!) and I floated the idea with the exhibition organisers that we could consider doing it live. They felt that was an interesting idea, but too much to organise, but ever since, I've been itching to do something similar.

It was on my game plan for next year, but the announcement of the first twitter fiction festival seemed to good an opportunity to miss. The festival takes place from 28th November to 2nd December. Submissions are required by 15th November.

So my proposal is this:

I will create a Miss Piggy like character  on twitter (I think the realmisspiggy is alas, now taken!).  You can be involved in two ways.

If you want to get involved as a writer, you can create your own character to interact with mine. In the two weeks before the festival we will speak to each other on twitter building up a network of relationships and discussions. Every now and then my character will be referring to her son in disparaging terms (as she did in the original story). Something will happen at some point during the festival which affects them both. Your characters can either be sympathetic or appalled at my character's response. I'd also like someone to play the part of the son who can give an alternative point of view.

If you want to get involved as a reader - you can be yourself, follow all the characters and interact as and when you wish.

We'll draw it to a conclusion on the Sunday & I'll then try and reproduce it on a specially created blog if it isn't too crazily out of control.


It's quite possible the twitter festival will reject the submission, so if it does and people are still interested, I'll find a good time for us all to do it next year as I'd originally planned.


Please feel free to invent your own characters, here's a little bit I came up with on characters for the story.

jollyjenny2 Jenny Hastings


I’m a kid at heart, up for all sorts of jolly japes…



laser_light Bob Morgan

DJ by night, Rock God by day, I follow the music wherever…



2nd_handman Harold Steptoe

Obsessive fan of all things Steptoe, handyman in my…

  So far we have two writers interested and two signed up.  If you are  interested please DM me your email on twitter and I'll sign you up.   Here's to an interesting experiment!

After she has gone

He stands at the door watching her taxi depart, the red brake lights blinking as the driver slows at the bend. And then the car disappears round the corner taking her towards Lincoln Road, the High Street to a life beyond him. From the conversation they have just had,  the life they have led, the people they have become he knows she won't be coming back. Not tonight. Not ever. Yet still he stands there, braving the November night in his "T" shirt, in the useless hope that perhaps she will stop the cab, turn around and give them one more chance. He waits and waits, till the goosepimples are perpendicular on his arms, and the cold is causing his teeth to chatter. Only when his whole body is shaking does he admit defeat, close the door and return to the living room.

The room is warm, but he still needs to pull a jumper on, march about and drink a cup of tea before he has totally defrosted. The lounge is filled with the detritus of their ending, the half eaten spaghetti bolognese, the bin full of tissues, the dirty coffee cups. There is at least this satisfaction to take from her departure, he won't have to clear up before bedtime. If it weren't for Jenny, he wouldn't have to clear up ever again. Jenny, his stomach lurches. What can he possibly say to Jenny that will make this right? Mummy has to go away with work for a while? Mummy has so many things she needs her own house? Mummy has a new friend she needs to spend some time with? All statements that will need to be made in a kind softening-the-blow voice in order to hide the truth that Mummy is a total bitch and she just doesn't love us enough to stay here.

There is a yell from upstairs. For a moment he has the fanciful notion that his emotions have entered his daughter's dreams, that her cry is a direct response to his thoughts. But when he enters the room and sees her in familiar pose, eyes glazed, body rigid, he recognises the night terrors.  "Get it away from me, get it away from me," she screams seeing some unimaginable horror. It is a relief to know that this is something he can handle. That all he needs to do is sit here, hold her hand, talk soothingly, till the fright and panic dissipate. As he watches her body begin to relax, her eyes close, her breathing to slow he helps her lie back down on the pillow. Soon she is sleeping peacefully, as if nothing has happened. In the morning she won't even remember she woke. He waits for a couple more minutes to be absolutely sure, before tiptoeing out of her room.

He picks up a random box set from the shelf. West Wing, that will do.  He settles in front of the TV and immerses himself in the problems of the Bartlett administration; a panacea to see him through the night - to delay the nightmare that is tomorrow.

Plug of the Month - A Merry Little Christmas by Julia Williams

Yes folks - she's done it again. My lovely twin has another novel out. Published tomorrow,  A Merry Little Christmas is a return to the inhabitants of Hope Christmas who enchanted us in Last Christmas. Marianne and Gabriel, now married, are contending with twins and the continuing clash with Steven's mother Eve. Catherine and Noel, having moved to Hope Christmas for a saner family life, find themselves grappling with teenagers and a mother with dementia. Whilst Pippa and Dan, have the toughest fight of their lives as they battle to keep their daughter's respite care service open. As usual, Julia weaves three stories effortlessly, as her characters cope with the demands of making marriage work in a tough and sometimes cold world. Christmas is coming, but with all the difficulties life is throwing them will it be merry for everyone?

The moves you make

"It's Sunday night, and your listening to Allen Greene's Sunday Smoochers. First up - it's  Gary...Who's your dedication for Gary?"
"Annie."
"Tell us about Annie."
"She's gorgeous. She has long brown hair, deep green eyes, I love her to bits."
"And where did you meet her?"
"At Leeds University, at the Freshers Ball. I saw her across the dancefloor and couldn't stop watching her..."
"So, it was love at first sight?"
"Exactly.I told her she belonged to me, and that was it."
"Aaah. That's the kind of smooching story we like on this show...so  what do you want to me to play Gary?"
"For my wonderful Annie, for ten glorious years - The Police and Every Breath You Take...Cos, Annie, every single day, I'll be watching you."
"Great choice,thanks Gary, Police coming right up..."

Annie takes in a deep breath and fights back an urge to run to the door. It's locked as always, and the curtains are drawn. He can't get in. She's made sure he never get in. But...How did he know? How did he fucking know what radio station she listened to? That she'd be listening tonight? Was he hacking into her air waves? Was that even possible? She turns off the radio and hurtles it across the room. Every move she makes...That's another simple pleasure he's ruined.

She runs into her bedroom, and dives under the cover, as if the embrace of the duvet can fight off the cold that is seeping through her bones. She knows from bitter experience that she'll hardly sleep tonight. If she does, her dreams will be filled with his face gazing at her..

Every move she makes, every step she takes - he'll be watching her.

National Poetry Day

It's National Poetry Day. So here's a very personal poem:

Revolutions
(for Chris)

You were half a world away, planning

peaceful revolutions. You lunched at

breakfast, slept at tea, woke as I fell

asleep. My wheels turned on daily

journeys, willing your return.

A two week sentence separated us

the day I got a puncture. I made

vows for this: still, revolution is hard.

There was no time to fix the bike –

without you, life gets complicated