The Colours of your Life

The colour of your life is, in part, taken from the colours and vibrancy of your friends. Your life is like a patchwork quilt in which you are but a single square with your friends surrounding you. If you are lucky you will be part of an enormous quilt of friends, enough to wrap around you when you feel cold. Some people are not so lucky and have only a few colours to warm them.

If you are lucky enough to be part of a magnificent quilt take a moment to think where your friends came from. For quilts to grow and be strong they need the strong threads that hold them together.

In life it is special people who are those threads. Generous with their friends and always looking for those whose patchwork support is slight or damaged. Those who are new to an area, those who have gone through bad times, those who lack the social skills to fit in easily. These special people, these golden threads in life, will find ways to introduce those people to others, to help them join in, to help the build or rebuild their patchwork of friends.

Do you do that? Do you reach out beyond your own circle to allow others a way to join?

I write this because there is one special lady I know who I have watched introduce people over the last four years. Selfless, caring and without the need for self attention. A truly beautiful golden thread indeed and one who we should try to emulate.

Nature Abhors A Vacuum

James Dryson sat at the workbench in his shed and gazed at the shelves of failed inventions he had created feeling momentarily disconsolate. Turning back to the object in his hands he felt a flutter of excitement but quelled it instantly recognising the same emotion he had experienced before trying each and every one of the 139 previous ‘breakthroughs.’

This, he muttered, will be different. The cyclonic engine was improved, the suction more focused and it was light, extremely light. He placed it on one side and took out a clear A2 sheet of paper which he carefully laid across the detritus of his work station. From the shelf above he took a small jar and, after slowly undoing the lid, shook the contents of dust, flluff and other dirt onto the white 180gm cartridge.

It could be said that James was a negative man. Whether this was from birth of whether life had taken the enthusiasm from him no one could state but one thing was certain, those who knew him would happily say that James was a very, very negative man.

After bracing himself for failure James picked up the small vacuum cleaner and turned it on. A faint hum took the edge off the silence. James himself could hardly breathe. He moved the opening towards the dirt and watched carefully. Closer, closer, closer and still no movement from the dust and dirt. Finally he was right next to the mess and still nothing. Not even a wobble from the fluff. He turned off the little engine and an all-consuming silence filled the air.

He sat back and stared at the little vacuum. Tears filled his eyes as once again he had to face his utter failure. His mood was black, as black as the dirt that mocked him from the otherwise virgin paper.

He turned the vacuum to his head as with a gun and pressed the ‘on’ switch. Why? he thought, Why? In an instant all negative thoughts were sucked from his head. He turned and looked at all the inventions on the shelves and suddenly saw them as positive steps on a journey, a journey that would lead to success. Each as important as the others as it is from failure that you learn most.

He looked at the vacuum in his hand and saw something in the waste collector. Taking off the clear plastic container he emptied the contents into his bin. Previous laziness had meant he hadn’t emptied his rubbish for some time but now, in this positive mood, he tied up the black sack and whistling carried it out to the bin.

Over the next few days those that met James commented on his more positive outlook on life. When asked he could not explain it, he just felt better.

Andy Croft was probably one of the happiest people you could meet. His attitude to life was simple – enjoy it because it’s all you’ve got. He was not for the rat race, he was not for creating pressure and tension. He could have had a high paid job, a big house and all the things people see as visible signs of success. But no, he had something much better, he had peace of mind and everyone who met him benefited from his attitude and warmth.

At an early age he had chosen the work of a bin man. Simple, no pressure and he enjoyed the outside air. Of course the job had changed. He had become a refuse collector and now was a recycling operative but it had not changed his attitude one jot.

Bending to pick up James overweight black bin bag he did not sigh as others or curse as some. No, he lifted it with a smile and even laughed as the bag split right next to his shoulder and something spilled out.

Never had such a mood descended upon Andy. Never had such a feeling of gloom pervaded his soul. His colleagues found him sobbing on the pavement surrounded by refuse. His tortured cries of how worthless his life was would haunt them for the rest of their days.

James, on the other hand, went from strength to strength never knowing what he had invented.

Day 132 to 149 - Why am I writing this drivel?

Day 132. I do feel a bit stronger today. A Doctor came and sat with me and asked me what I could remember. It’s such a jumble and I am conscious of the fact that I might sound mad as I recount some of the things that happened on the island and I must say some of it does sound unimaginable. I start with the ants, the sugar Illya Kuryakin and moved through to the tigers. I got quite agitated when I remembered that the homing slow worms should be back at any time. I don’t think he believes me but they will return. To make it easier for me to sleep they strap me to the bed.

Day 133. The Doctor seems to be trying to help me but it just serves to confuse. I think he is trying to convince me that the island was just a fantasy. I just wish I had proof. If I had brought some of the memory pebbles I could show him and that would be an end to the matter. I did show him the scar I got from trying to hold the Velcro onto the beach but I suppose I could have got that anywhere. He says that when I stop trying to make him believe in the island I will be able to let go of it and get butter. At least I think he said ‘butter’. I hope I so because I hate the spread they use on the toast

Day 134. It would appear that my chances of leaving this establishment are greatly enhanced by my not mentioning the island and indeed sneering when it is raised with me. I don’t like not being able to talk of my trials and tribulations but if it means they do not inject me quite as much then it is a pain I can bear. That said I nearly accidently mentioned my performance as ‘Winkywankytulip’ in the Mikado I staged. They say that pride can lead to a fall.

Day 135. The Doctor believes I am making great progress and today I was allowed to go into the big room where the others sit. I got quite bored quite quickly. I know that I hated the feeling of being alone on the island but it is quite true that you can feel even lonelier in a crowd of people you don’t want to be with. Things got a bit better when they got the games out. I decided to play draughts. I found a fantastic one by a window that hasn’t been fitted properly.

Day 136. I had the strangest feeling whist taking a shower today. I still do not know my name so everyone still refers to me as Bobby. The door was opened up on me and it all felt rather dream like. I was helped to the edge of my bed and I sat for a few moments before I started to dry myself. As I rubbed the towel over my feet sand began to fall from between my toes. Now I really think I might be going mad

Day 137. Today is a special day. Everyone is going round wishing everyone well, which is nice. When it came to lunchtime I ended up with an enormous amount of one vegetable and little else. It’s something to do with peas to all men.

Day 138. Yesterday they tried a new experiment on me. I think they want to test the physical boundary of my alimentary canal, stomach and ileum. After so little food on the escape from the island my gut has shrunk and so the pain today is excruitiating. The experiment continues today as I have to experience what I believe is a comedy double act - Bubble and Squeek. Is there no end to their torture

Day 139. I had the strangest night. I dreamt I was eating a giant marshmallow and when I woke up I was in an Old Jokes Home for comedians with dementia.

"My dog has no nose."

"Jamaica?"

"Terrible, she's got an accordion."

Oh no, there's someone at the door. ‘Knock, knock’. This could be a very long day

Day 140. The pills they make me take mean I slip in and out of consciousness. I have woken believing I am back on the boat, the beach, the island and in the amusement arcade. Is it any wonder I find it hard to answer their questions and maintain that I have forgotten all that imagined past and can let me out safely.

Day 141. The line between dream and reality is a fine one. So fine that at times you cannot understand when you cross it. It is possibly when we stand astride that line that we feel at our most free but it can only be fleeting. We will be tugged to one side or the other. If there is one thing guaranteed to pull us back to a memory it is a smell. A moment when a faint fragrance brings a long-lost moment in time crashing back to the forefront of our minds. This has just happened to me and I am confused. I am reminded of the terrible tale of Oswald Levold. http://spiritofseething.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/we-must-never-forget-oswald-levold-for.html

Day 142. I am totally confused, and not like I was when I thought that baby tapirs were just large humbugs with legs. A smell, a fleeting smell and I was back on the train just coming into the station. Jumping up to grab my bag from the storage shelf above I caught a scent of perfume. Distinct, special and intoxicating. I turned to see a beautiful woman staring wistfully out of the window. Next to her on the seat was a plate with some leftover coleslaw. It was the start of a love affair.

Day 143. I need to work out who I am. Am I the person these people tell me I am - sick, confused and in need of therapy or am I the astonishing and strong individual who coped alone for well over one hundred days with all manner of challenge. If it is the latter then I need to break out of here before they brainwash me into believing I am useless and beyond hope. If it is the former, then I need to discover who I used to be before the drugs leave me as a mere cypher. Whatever the answers to these questions are I need to find out soon. I also need to find out who is leaving a pickled onion in my left slipper every night.

Day 144. What evil did their Doctors perform on me last night in the name of science. I suppose I shall never know as their drugs have wiped all memory of the evening and night and merely left me with a thumping headache. Well I can only hope that have learnt what they wanted and that they will not inflict whatever that was on me again. No, wait a minute, hazy memories are emerging from the fog. Oh god ........

Day 145. They say that severe food poisoning can, among other things, induce a state of delirium in which the mind can create an entire alternate world of frightening reality. That is the only explanation I can give to finding my eyes opening in a small hotel room. The sheets of the bed are sodden and twisted. On the bedside table next to me is a half finished plate of food. God knows how long it has been there but my sore eyes can see maggots wriggling from the rotting food. I do hope that wasn't fish. Salmon is normally pink but this is salmon yellow. Oh no, I'm drifting off to sleep again

Day 146. For a brief moment I came to in the hotel room. I am now totally unsure as to what is real and what is fantasy. Dr Melding is being very helpful and supportive but every so often he does look rather like a standard lamp in the corner of the room. Isn’t vinegar a funny word? It rhymes with tinegar and winegar which is so nice. The smell from the rotting food is quite disgusting, which rhymes with copingstone if you say it quickly.

Day 147. Dr Melding is a table lamp so I have stopped taking the medicine he prescribed. It would appear that many of the other medical staff, including the quite charming Miss Hepplethwait, are pieces of furniture in the room. I hvae had to adjust my perception of what is real and unreal so I have thrown Fifi the dograt off the bed. I finally got the strength to make it to the bathroom and take a shower. I have a feeling I have been here before

Day 148. I have no idea how long I have been delirious in bed but my legs were almost too weak to get my back from the shower. I have a strange memory of sand between my toes last time I washed. When I have gathered strength I will leave this room and find out where I am

Day 149. I have woken up stronger and more confident than I can remember. I am dressed and prepared to leave the room. What world is outside I cannot guess but I have to face it. My hand rests momentarily on the doorknob and then ...... It turns and the door slowly opens.

Of Myths, Legends and Life

He had trained it hard and trained it as the Ancients had shown. He had started his work almost as soon as it had emerged from the egg and day by day the Gragert had grown to obey his commands. It had to be by 'carrot and stick' but he hated having to punish the little thing. As it grew to juvenile size, over twenty times bigger than he was, the punishments seemed meaningless and besides, the animal was already respecting the 'arch' totally.

Whichever of the great Ancients had thought of this form of constraint had been, quite simply, a genius. There was no way on this earth that you could build a cage or form of restraint to hold an adult Gragert. Their strength was phenomenal and the size required would be well beyond known construction skills, but the 'arch' held them safely and securely.

In principle it was simple, almost too simple to believe it could work. Each Gragert was raised right next to its own giant 'arch'. Each 'arch' was formed from the strongest trees creating an opening through which the Gragert could just pass. One side of the 'arch' represented the outside world. A world in which the Gragert could fly carrying its owner on its horned back. A world of freedom and opportunity.

The other side of the 'arch' represented the 'cage'. As a Gragert grew the invisible boundaries of the 'cage' were enforced by the stick. As this started almost from the egg the Gragert never had that moment to question the limit of its 'homeland'. They stayed, day after day, within the invisible 'cage' that limited their natural movement, behaviour and potential. They became servants to their masters without the thought process to question why one side of the 'arch' was the world and the other their invisible 'cage'. To anyone looking who didn't know they would just see some land with a series of wooden arches. What they Ancients had created way back then was find a way to control a Gragert and stifle its imagination.

Jane put the book down on her lap and stared out the window. She didn't like myths, legends or fantastical books but her friend had insisted she read it. She was only halfway down the front page and already she was bored. If a book didn't absorb her it was too easy to pay attention to the noises coming from her mother in the bedroom upstairs. Soon she would be shouting for something she needed, well wanted. She had been looking after her parents for as long as she could remember. 'It was her duty' she was constantly reminded when she was younger, indeed from when she was quite little. As a result her life had been on hold. Now her Father had died it was only her mother to care for but it seemed twice the work.

She stared out of the window watching the morning sun create shadows on the lawn. She really wanted to be out there, to feel the fresh air on her face. To run, to smile and maybe, just maybe - to laugh. Her Mother's voice punctured the dream. "Hurry up, it's time for the Archers. Come on dear, we always listen to The Archers together."

What's in a Word

He was caught. It was as if half of him wanted to do it and the other half was revolted by the thought. He had been putting off making the decision because he knew this was how he was going to feel about it. He was genuinely confused by competing emotions and it was not getting clearer.

He stared at the mobile phone in his hand. Was he going to call her or not? He knew there was a word for this sort of quandary but it was no good trying to put off the decision by becoming a human thesaurus of delay.

Nope, it did not matter that he couldn’t think of the word that meant that state of being unable to make a choice between two alternatives. No, He was going to do, he was going to call her, he was going end this finally and ......... dial Emma.

Read Between The Lines

What did they mean? He hated it when grown ups explained things and it made it no clearer. So they'd say the same thing but slower as though that would make it better. Surely they should be able to tell him what it meant?

"You can read between the lines."

Read what? What lines?

"It's just a saying."

Yes but what does it mean?

"That it's not what's written, it's what they are implying."

Imply. Now they were using words they knew he didn't understand. He gave up and walked away. Upstairs in the quiet of his bedroom he took out a piece of paper and drew a line. Next to it he drew another and sat back. He stared at the gap between the two pencil grey lines and concentrated hard. Nothing. He continued to stare until the lines seemed to flicker but he still could find nothing to read between them. He lifted the sheet and put the paper right to the end of his nose. Now the lines blurred until he wasn't sure what he could see anymore, but he felt it.

He was falling, falling like in a dream. Falling into the space between the lines. Falling and spinning inducing a feeling of nauseousness and a popping in his ears. When he landed it took a few moments to realise that the rough terrain was in fact the fibres of the paper. The massive grey motorways were made of his pencil marks. He looked around and his eyes settled on a notice board in the distance. He ran towards it and as he got nearer he could begin to make out words. This is it, he thought, this is the writing between the lines.

He stood, hands on hips, and read the sentence in front of his eyes. What on earth did it mean?
'Mind the Gap'?

Another Name for Depression

The Arctic Animal Stock Exchange had seen one of its busiest days. Trading had been high and constant and as the Market closed many of the brokers headed off the the bar to celebrate their astonishing gains. But for one trader it had been a particularly depressing day and over the years he had got used to feelng depressed.

Walking back home from the trading floor he caught his face reflected in the ice and his mood sank even further as he thought about what he had done.

What a day, what a terrible day. No wonder it had added more misery to his already dark mood. He should have known he had misheard the instructions once he saw what the other traders were doing. He was the only one shouting "sell Penguins, buy Polars."

God he was depressed and now he had a new knickname. "Buy Polar," Oh yes, that was what they were going to call him from now on.