writing – Page 3 – EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 20

It has been another—entertaining week, with existential fear for the future mangled up with some really rather nice moments. I’d elaborate but to be frank it’s probably best to put the whole thing in my rear-view mirror and move on.

I’m writing this on the train to That London for tomorrow’s Diamond League athletics meet at the London Stadium. I’ve booked next week off (pal Ryan sweetly called it a half-term break, which seems about right) and have fun things planned, including two trips to the cinema, a big family birthday and C and I’s 31st weddiversary. Time doth fly—doesn’t seem like more than a couple of months since the last one. The lesson for this week: look ahead and don’t stress about the things you can’t control.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 19

It feels to me that any period of hot weather lasting more than a couple of days invites comparisons to the summer of 1976—six weeks of unbroken sunshine, leading to drought so bad that domestic water supplies were restricted and, in some places, people were forced to rely on public standpipes. I was nine, and remember little of the obvious problems. It just seemed like a nice time to hang out in trees and eat ice lollies.

The point about 1976 was how unusual it was, especially for us Brits who see any two-day stretch of sunshine as manna from heaven. That’s already changing. Records for dry and wet weather are broken every year. I hope we don’t see another 1976, but I can’t say I’d be surprised by a summer where we have to queue in the streets with buckets for the morning cup of tea.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 18

A week full of drama and astonishing changes in fortune, none of which I can sensibly talk about in a public-facing forum. That sounds like a big fat tease, I know, and I hesitate to even mention it. But at least I’m entering the weekend in a slightly more stable frame of mind than on Monday night. The garden, as ever, remains a place to regain perspective and get grounded. I pulled a handful of gherkins from the plants this week, and the squashes we planted last Saturday are already shouldering up out of the bed. Now those are events I’m happy to celebrate loudly.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 17

We’ve finally hit a point in the garden where most of the heavy work is done and we can relax into the space a little. We’ve spent an awful lot of time, energy and yes, money, to get here. I shudder to think how much we’ve coughed up just for compost. But it’s worth every penny and bead of sweat to sit out at the end of a hard day in the sunshine, watching bees and butterflies hover and swoop, jackdaws and blue tits hop around the feeders while red kites make bombing runs overhead. The garden kept us sane over lockdown. Now, in an ever more lunatic world, it’s a truly safe space.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

Fire in The Hills

I believe that human ingenuity is only matched by the equally human capacity for cruelty. Think about what we have achieved over the millennia—the great works, the stunning, almost incomprehensible technological leaps. Then think about how they were achieved, and the terrible choices we made to enable that progress.

Tin Crown In A Paper Bag

I’m still working on a piece about our time in Shropshire—you should see that next week. It’s proving a little more difficult to get a grip on, but I think I’ve finally figured out the structure and key points. Hopefully it’ll be worth the wait.

Instead, let me offer up a piece of original short fiction. Reading Writers celebrated the results of our Spring Competition this week. Judged by author Gill Thompson, the theme was A Terrible Loss. Clearly the notion resonated, as we had the biggest ever response to a competition prompt. My entry, in a stunning reversal of fortunes from last year when I won both writing competitions, did not place—which I’m relieved about. It’s a take on a famous tragic hero of literature. See if you can figure out who I’m lovingly parodying.

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 16

We’ve been on us holidays. Still unpacking, both mentally and physically. There will be more about the whole experience next week in a diversion from the norm. But today here’s your expected slumgullion of goods and services.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

Too High, Too Far, Too Soon

It starts with a fanfare. A single trumpet, blowing high and wild, glimmers of sunlight jabbing holes in a stormy sky. Behind it, guitars, not so much strummed as hammered, wire and wood pushed to their limits. The chording is almost Spanish, calling up the drama of a spaghetti Western, a Morricone showdown. Two gunmen, hands crooked over their holsters, waiting for the first toll of high noon. A honky-tonk piano slides into the mix, maybe from the saloon where an argument over cards or a girl started, to finish the matter at hand in a crack of gunfire, of blood in the dust.

It builds, it builds, you can smell the tension, the tremble in the trigger fingers, sweat easing out from the band of the stetson. One last howl from the trumpet, a single pure high note holding for that second longer than it should and then and then and then

BANG. The drums, finally, a cannonade, regiments of worn boot heels marching in lockstep across a windblasted mountain range. More guitars, electric now, overdriven, snarling like predators running down their prey. And a voice, sneering, insouciant, a challenge, a dare.

‘So here we are in a special place

What are you gonna do here?

Now we stand in a special place

What will you do here?

What show of soul

are we gonna get from you?

It could be Deliverance

Or History

Under these skies so blue

Something true…’

Now that’s how you start an album.

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 15

A real Jeckll-and-Hyde week. On Saturday I started feeling unwell—a killer combo of aches, shivers and hot flushes which rendered me horizontal and housebound until Wednesday. Once I was back on my feet, I had to negociate three days of social activity, including a trip to Oxford to see The Waterboys—of which much more next week. It would have been very easy to cry off on the extrovert duties—I had a great excuse, after all. I’m pretty sure I was no longer a carrier for whatever hit me at that point, but folks would have understood. For once, though, I felt I needed to be out and amongst friends. And you know what, I think it really helped in the recovery process. My hermit tendencies are strong. I need to not let them take over.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 14

I think I have to make a deal over Eurovision this year. I love the songs, the manic vibe, the surreal quality of the whole big-tent circus. But once the songs are done and the judging machine grinds into life—well, I lose interest rapidly. I know C feels the same way—she’s talking about giving the whole thing a miss this year. So, we’ll see. I suspect we’ll watch the performances and find out who won the following morning. Rooting for the UK of course (What The Hell Just Happened? has strong musical theatre vibes which may help it out) but I’ll tag my personal choice below.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.