Doodles

I wandered lonely as a cloud,

Around the bins making no sound.

Emptying, emptying bins full of waste.

The majority of students I question their taste.

Sugared drinks, boxed pizza, and noodles.

Seems to help them write their doodles.

Hardly an apple or banana in site.

How do they get their brains to write?

Lots of scrunched up papers and tonnes of ideas.

End up in landfills over the years.

Three Dates

Note: this is the first of three – ‘Dates’. Following feed back on this first account I am holding back the next date, to allow me to consider any further comments. So please feel free to comment or even to speculate on how you feel these accounts may unfold…

‘Do you believe in ghosts?’

‘What!’ I don’t think I said it out loud. The question took me off guard; not what you expect on a first date, is it? That’s if you’d call this a ‘date’ - maybe you wouldn’t. But it’s my first time out with Amelia - outside of the sanatorium…so I’m calling it a date. I looked into Amelia’s mascara-caked eyes… and wondered what the correct answer was- or, as Dr Jackson would say, the appropriate response…

I had no idea.  Should I be flippant or was it actually a serious question? I sensed trouble already.  I stalled with a question of my own:

‘Why?’ straight to the point. People say I’m too blunt; meaning, I suppose, that I tell the truth and they don’t like it. That’s their problem; I just say what I think, that’s all.

Amelia eyed me silently. I’m thinking this could be a short ‘date’-very short- unless I say something fast. I held Amelia’s gaze and plunged on:

‘I mean, why the sudden interest in ghosts?’ I knew I was digging a hole but added anyway: ‘You don’t seem the type.’

‘Don’t I’ Amelia smiled, and drew on her cigarette. ‘Really!’ she blew the word ‘Reeeeally’- on a plume of smoke – and arched a perfectly plucked brow; very theatrical. ‘What type do you think I am?’

There, see the trouble I get myself into! Me and my big mouth. But I hadn’t blown it yet; not totally.

‘I don’t think of you as a type – as such’ she didn’t blink; she looked expectant; gave me more rope. I thought: ‘Beam me up’, without much humour.

‘You’re more of a one off, I’d say’ the rope swung over the gibbet. ‘You know, different’ why did I say that? Different! For God’s sake! Now I’d really done it! I held my breath. I could feel the noose as I swallowed.

Amelia burst out laughing, snorting a stream of smoke. ‘You’re full of shit!’

I smiled a nervous smile; not sure if I’d blown it or not; was she amused or was she angry?

‘But you’re nice – you have a good aura’ there was the hint of a cheeky (?) smile.

Again I was surprised, and for a moment I thought everything was going to be okay- which shows how much I knew!

‘Thanks’ I said, sheepish. ‘You like my aura?’ Lame, I know.

‘That’s why I asked if you believed in ghosts’ she stubbed out her cigarette. I noticed the lipstick smear on the filter; like blood.

‘So do you?’

‘Uh?’ my attention had wandered.

 ‘…believe… in ghosts?’ The implacable eyebrow arched.

It was a puzzle; that question; she was obviously serious – did she know? And what did my ‘aura’ have to do with it?

I couldn’t evade her any longer. Do I believe? Of course I did; I had good reason to. But all I said was:

‘Yes…’

‘Knew it!’ she said in triumph. ‘I could tell by your aura’

My eyebrows shot up. I may have gaped a little.

‘You have a strong astral field’ she smiled ‘lovely blues and purples’

I definitely gaped at that. I felt like I’d been out-ed; like I’d been revealed by some kind of Ghost-dar voodoo magic.

‘You can see that - colours?’

‘Sometimes…’ Amelia looked at me seriously. Could she see it now? That was an unnerving thought. She frowned. ‘I’m not getting much at the moment – just a slight tinge of violet around your head’

‘Wow!’ I was speechless; a turmoil of mixed emotions churned in me: surprise and awe and fear. The fear that this was not normal; this kind of talk had led to the sanatorium in the first place.

‘Paul, don’t look so worried, it’s okay.’

‘I’m not – really - I was just wondering…’ I took a deep breath. ‘Sooo…can you see the auras of…of…?’

‘Ghosts…’Amelia completed for me. ‘No, it doesn’t seem to work that way…not for me anyway…not like with you…’

There was an awkward silence. How does she know so much, I thought? Has she spoken to Dr Jackson? Or worse, has she seen my case notes? That would explain a lot. But it wouldn’t explain everything…

‘If you’d rather not talk about it…?’

 ‘I’d rather walk on hot coals!’ I thought, and cursed inwardly, but out loud I said:

‘Naw, it’s okay…I suppose we should talk about it’

And so we did; it was like opening the flood gates; we were still talking about it on our third round of drinks – and later still over coffee and biscuits at my place. Amelia understood everything. A weight just seemed to lift from me; better than any session with Dr Jackson. I never really bought into his psycho-babble. He didn’t believe in ghosts.

Later, and I ‘m not sure how it happened; either Amelia kissed me or she let me kiss her; who knows… All I know is we were kissing and in the heat of the moment it was like the opening of the flood gates again. Only this time we had stopped talking…

It took me off guard. Not what you’d expect on a first date but I wasn’t complaining… it was definitely a date, no doubt…

Anyway , I’ll say no more; a gentleman never tells. I may not be a gentleman, but I’m still not telling.

So that was my first date with Amelia; strange at times but definitely a date to remember. I couldn’t wait for the next one.

 

 

The shelver

The Shelver

Pitter, patter of little dancing pumps,

Run Forrest run, like Forrest Gump.

In cycling attire, pushing his bike?
Reluctant to commence, the shelving hike.

Starting the shift down the Shelving Lane,

5 full trolleys, Oh woe the pain!

Amongst the trolleys, 3 unsorted!

If he'd known what awaited, shift aborted!

Pitter, patter of little dancing pumps,

Run Forrest run, like Forrest Gump.

1st floor, 2nd floor, all entwined,
Deep in thought, God on his mind.

On the spines, class-mark galore,

A tangled mess, Oh what a chore!

It's a balance on the madness border,

Shuffling and juggling, achieving order!

Pitter, patter of little dancing pumps,

Run Forrest run, like Forrest Gump.

He calls the lift, rattle and rumble,

Like a gibbering wreck, moan and grumble.

The shuffled walk, the gentle nod,
Good honest work, a servant to God?

Plodding the carpet, in full stealth mode,

This balding disciple needs to shed his load!

Pitter, patter of little dancing pumps,

Run Forrest run, like Forrest Gump.

Trolleys are growing, he's falling behind,

Needs his gruel, money on his mind.

Banging them away, volley after volley,

Goal achieved, an empty trolley!

Wash the hands and clean the grime,
Please, more shifts and overtime.

Little dancing pumps, pitter and patter,

The Loyal Shelver driven Mad as a Hatter!!