Thinking 10: three words: Bee, father, debit card

It’s a new bank account. I got fed up with the way the last bank was behaving and told them when they increased their fees that I would take my business elsewhere. Their reply was the equivalent of an electronic shrug of the shoulders: an email informing me of a 40 per cent price hike on the 17^th. Well ha! I left the bank I’d been with since I first started work; the one my father was with before me.
I’ve just received the debit card for my new account but it’s a boring little bit of plastic with no decent distinguishing marks. When I was looking round for where to take my custom I found some very pretty bank logos: one had a bee on the corner of its cards; one even allowed you  to put your own photo on. In the end I went with the cheapest one. The one that would charge me less than the rest and not rip me off for services I don’t need.

“With our great deals you can download music files for a reduced price.” What’s less than zero? I don’t buy MP3 files, so how can that save me money? 
“You can get 10 per cent off London theatre tickets.”  It might as well be Dubai for all I care. So I’ll get fifteen quid off a ticket and have to pay 130 to get to the Smoke to see the play, not to mention another 130 for an overnight hotel room because I’ll have missed the last train home if I stay to see the end.

Thank you and goodbye Mr Bank Manager.  Hello boring, but cheap, plastic.

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Thinking 10 is a daily challenge to write for 10 minutes based on a challenge. In this case, use the words bee, father, and debit card.

A description

If you read yesterday's Thursday Extract you know that I rarely write descriptions of places. 
So I did one for Thinking Ten. 

The housing blocks were arranged in a square; rigid, upright and unforgiving, unbroken by any variation, unsoftened by any landscaping. Just four grey, concrete slabs, like gravestones: their windows etched a forlorn message in some foreign tongue, punctuated by graffiti. At their heart was a scrubby patch of worn-out grass, more khaki than green, surrounded by a sagging fence. Wooden uprights supported metal poles that bent in the centre from years of children's climbing games and teenage loitering. They made the place look like a boxing ring in a deserted gym, its canvas floor scuffed by endless sparring. Only a second floor curtain, the colour of cough medicine, brightened the monotony.

Challenge to include the words: boxing, curtain, cough medicine

Swings and Roundabouts

I could have sworn everything was bigger, but that's the way it is with childhood memories. I was smaller, so the world around me loomed larger than it does today. But, sitting on the bench, I wonder how I could have wasted so much time here. This was a centre point of my life, the hub of my universe, where I would hang around, night after night, hoping that the big kids would take some notice of me. I was younger than them, and smaller, and often overlooked. Most times I was driven away for being a nuisance, for needing to be looked after, and for being too babyish to join in with their fun. They rarely let me take part in anything, and I was left, disconsolate, swaying miserably on the swings as they wandered away and pretended to be grown up.
The place won't be here much longer because the bulldozers will be moving in soon. The site is being razed to make way for a new bypass, and this is where two roads will intersect. It didn't have to be so. The route could have missed this playground, and a small row of houses nearby, where two of my old antagonists lived until very recently. But the design ensured the doom. I don't suppose they realise the end of their homes and their treasured recreation ground came about directly because of their old hostility.

I left this village a long time ago, went to university and trained as an architect, and now I design roads. I designed this one, and I've made sure that what I lost on the swings all those years ago has been regained through a new roundabout.


Based on a Thinking Ten prompt

Thinking 10 again

There are Thinking 10 challenges every day but I don't get time to do them all. Today's was to write something with the word 'fork' in the second sentence.



The shiny, green slab bore no resemblance to any food I had encountered before, but I knew I would have to overcome my revulsion and eat it, for the sake of politeness. I picked up a fork and gave the offending square a hesitant push. Nothing moved. I would have had more response from a piece of concrete. Unhelpfully, my mind jumped to the idea of miniature gardens, and I could imagine tiny flowers and a small pond populating the rest of the dish.


Looking up I saw every set of eyes around the table focused me; the faces smiling, with a few helpful nods toward the plated paving stone in front of me. One of my hosts even let out a long ‘mmm’ as if to reassure me I had a treat in store.

I knew about foreign treats: sheep’s eyeballs, bulls’ testicles, dogs’ penises. But I could think of no animal that yielded small, green, geometric shapes. My mind suddenly leapt to the idea of cows, and the regurgitated grass they chew on all day. Please, don’t let it be cow cud. I couldn’t stomach something that had already been through a bovine digestive system. No-one else at the table had touched their share of the delicacy. Clearly I had priority, as the honoured guest.

Then one of the women took pity on me. She reached across, lifted a small jug from beside my plate, and poured its contents over the miniature lawn. Immediately, its corners began to crumble and a small piece fell away into the pooling sauce. I just had to brave it out and eat the fragment. Lifting the crumb to my mouth I hastily threw it as far back on my tongue as I could and swallowed.

Coconut! Sweet coconut, and some sort of honey syrup. To my surprise it tasted delicious. The rest of my companions let out an assortment of small cheers and giggles. One or two even clapped, then they all began to eat their own dessert, happy with my reaction.

Another Thinking Ten

In case you don't know about Thinking Ten it's an online workshop for writers. Every day there's a prompt and you have ten minutres to write something inspired by it. Monday's location day, and today it's The Theatre (Although it's an American site, so it says 'theater', but I refuse to miss out the U in colour, the E in axe or eat 'oregganno'.) Here's my offering for today.




It's his birthday soon and I really had no idea what to get him. Neither of us actually needs anything, and he's so soppy about presents that whatever I do he'll say he loves it. So I never know if he's truly happy with my gifts, or just being his wonderful, kind, considerate, polite self. When I saw the advert for the exhibition I desperately wanted to go, but it's hardly his sort of event. I offered him an opening by saying we could head London-wards for the weekend, see my museum piece and spend the rest of the time doing what he wants. I thought he'd say dinner and a bottle of good wine, but no. "Great," he enthused,"Let's see a West End show." How should I know he'd always wanted to see The Mousetrap? He never mentioned it before. I found myself nodding and smiling and agreeing and wondering just how I could afford all that. So now we're staying In Town at a plush but expensive hotel, seeing the exhibition, going to the theatre, as well as dinner and wine. He's even mentioned bagels and lox in Golders Green on Sunday. I wonder what I can sell to pay for everything.

Thursday extracts: today's Thinking Ten contribution

When the alarm went off this morning I really didn't want to leave my bed. I knew it would backfire, but I craved just another ten minutes in the warm, soft, duvet coccoon. Well of course I dozed off again and had to rush my normal routine. Made sure of the essentials: not quite a shit, shave and shower; more teeth, tablets and toast. And then out of the house. There was no time to sort out my day over a leisurely coffee like I usually do. I catapulted from the front door, still buttoning my jacket, because it was so bitingly cold outside. Forgotten scarf. And where were my gloves? Underdone bread gripped between my incisors after being ripped from the toaster before it was truly browned. No time to wait for it to pop. Looking back I suppose I could have saved a few minutes by skipping breakfast, but I really couldn't afford to be hungry today because of the presentation. I'm unlikely to make an impression if my belly's rumbling. Of course I'm even less likely to make one when I try to give the speech without notes. Papers I took home last night to rehearse, and left beside the coffee pot to remind me to bring them back today.

Tree Time

It's Christmas again. That means the house will be in turmoil and nothing will be in its proper place and I shan't be able to find anything and afterwards I shall have to spend simply ages putting everything back in order. It's always me that has to do it. The others think it doesn't matter, that everything will be here somewhere and it's not like we ever really need to look a long way for things that have been put somewhere different. It's not like it's a big home.

Well I know that, and I'd not want to live anywhere bigger. It's cosy. We've been together a long while, and the sparkle might be a bit worn off since the old days but we're comfortable together. Him and me and the kids.

I remember the first time we met: that Christmas long ago. I fell for him straight away, in his red suit and his polished black boots. He winked and said my wings were beautiful, and called me his Angel. He's such a charmer.

Now we celebrate every year, on the tree, surrounded by friends and relations. It's not a bad life, even if I shall have to tidy the whole shelf when we get back in the New Year.

Oh well, here we go, it's time to shine.
Merry Christmas to all.
Love from the Bauble Family.

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My latest Thinking Ten contribution

A matter of faith

“In a shed? Are you serious?”


Her voice was even shriller than usual, but he realised she was tired and knew he had to be patient with her. She was never at her best when she missed out on sleep and the journey had been long and arduous. Joe lowered his eyes and tried not to inflate her anger any further, but he suspected he was in for a tirade. She didn’t disappoint him.

“That’s the best you can do? Really? Didn’t you think to book anything? You knew we had to come here. You knew it would be packed with other people, and yet it never crossed your mind to make arrangements. Trust you to mess up completely. You want me to sleep in a shed. The management expect me to sleep in a shed. On what, exactly?”

Joe started to mumble apologies and explain how he would make it as comfortable as he could. It was more of a stable, actually and there would be hay, and horse blankets and he’d do his best, but she wasn’t listening. He tuned out when she mentioned her “condition”, because he knew all about that. He had to grit his teeth to stay quiet about that. After all, it wasn’t his baby she was carrying. It couldn’t be. They’d never done anything to cause a baby, and she swore she was a virgin but she obviously wasn’t.

He had agreed to marry her in spite of that, because he loved her and she promised that the real father wasn’t around any more. It was a shame they’d had to make this trip so close to her due date, but they didn’t have a choice. As he started arranging straw into the semblance of a bed, he put up a silent prayer that she wouldn’t go into labour tonight.

But it seemed God had other ideas.

******************* Today's Thinking Ten prompt was: in a barn or shed

Bravado

I'm back on Thinking Ten. It's got my creative juices going again, although so far I've not come up with anything that continues from the previous day's creation. But these four lads have appeared before.

**********

“Well this is a right wash-out if you ask me.”


That was Alan; always the first to complain about anything.

“Well no-one did, so shut it.”

Simmo. Putting an end to Alan’s whinge before it got out of hand; probably protecting Baz from feeling guilty. He was good like that. It had been Baz’s idea to sneak out from home, tell all the parents that we were staying at someone else’s house, but sleep out in the old shed on the allotment. He said it would be a laugh and we were all quick enough to agree, but none of us was quick enough to think it through. We had no food, no drink, no light, not even warm clothes, and it was freezing. Not to mention that we’d broken the shed window two weeks ago trying to get inside the place.

Nigel saved us in the end.

“Let’s go to mine. Mother won’t care if I say you guys are crashing on the floor for the night. You can all say honestly that you’ve got permission.”

Baz didn’t look too keen at first but he perked up at Nigel’s next announcement.

“There’ll be cocoa, and biscuits. And Dad brought that new street fight game home today and I’ve not had chance to try it yet.”

So we all trooped off to Nigel’s place, trying to look like we planned it that way.

Inspiration, Thinking Ten, and generally getting my act together

I have been remiss. I admit it. I have been doing absolutely no writing for weeks/months/ages. Then I heard that Thinking Ten had been missing for a while but was back. I had been missing for longer.  In penance I visited and played the prompt (yesterday's prompt I admit - but I did it anyway!)   Herewith:

Ingrid

It wasn’t like it was the best room in the place, and by god the place had some very nice rooms, but it was comfortable and well supplied. And once Ingrid had a pass key it was easy enough to come and go as she pleased. Nobody took much notice of her and her kind. They were supposed to act in a way that wouldn’t disturb the other residents. That was the point.


She liked to think she paid her way. She knew what had to be done and was happy enough to do it, even the dirty bits, in exchange for her little piece of freedom. So she would never have to go back to the awful man who took her money and made promises he didn’t keep. Oh he’d brought her to England alright, at least, most of the residents spoke English, so she assumed that was where she was, but there was no mention when she bought her passage that she would have to pay more on arrival, and if she couldn’t pay (Of course she couldn’t pay. It had taken every coin she had to buy the ticket!) she would be made to provide in other ways. With men. Dirty, smelly men with hard fists and limp dicks.

Luck followed her the night she got away, when she hid by latching onto a group of rag-tag folk by a dimly lit back door of a huge building. She was hustled inside and given a pink-checked uniform to wear and sent off with another woman who showed her how to clean and tidy the hotel rooms and make beds with fresh new sheets when guests left. That night she learned where all the stores were kept and she realised that behind the shelves was space: enough for a bed, made of abandoned cushions and covered in last year’s style of sheets.

Six months had passed, as far as she could tell. She worked every night and early morning but never asked for pay. She lived on leftovers, and people’s waste, and was richer than at any other time in her life.

Moot point

“Does a rumour have to be false?”

The newsroom was quiet: one of those days in high summer when journalists sit around waiting for a disaster, just to have something to do. It’s not so much that we want bad things to happen, it’s just that they make better copy. And easier stories too. A good train wreck writes itself. But today was off: not exactly silly season, but close to it.

People outside the business think that journalists spend all day in a noisy office with a phone glued to their ear, a cigarette hanging out of their mouths, a cold coffee in one hand and typing with the other, but those times are long gone. Well, maybe the phone and the coffee bits are true.  And press rooms are noisy, that’s for sure. When we’re all typing hard it’s like thousands of hammers going fifty to the dozen. And people shout at each other: orders, insults, and questions, lots of questions. Like this latest one.
Exact definitions of words matter to us, even though most readers think we’re hacks. A swift discussion broke out about the meaning of rumour but failed to reach a conclusion, so somebody got out a dictionary. Honest. I told you, we care.

“Says here it’s something that has no grounding in fact. Without proof. What’s the sentence you’re putting it in? Can you rephrase?”

“Don’t be daft. It’s not for a story. It’s just that I know something about one of the guys in the print room and I know it’s true. But I hate to gossip!”

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From today's Thinkig Ten prompt

In the clouds - thinking ten

"Just look up and tell me what you see". Her instruction was so sudden that I did as I was told, without thought, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary above my head. I shrugged my shoulders in reply.


"Erm, the sky? Clouds?"

"Of course you see clouds. But what do you see in the clouds?"

"Grey. Shapes. Sort of drifting."

She rapped me sharply on the arm with the fan she always carried. Open, it served to keep her cool as she wafted it before her; closed, it was an effective weapon. The place where it had landed was already smarting and beginning to colour. I would have a bright bruise, I knew it.

"Stop being obtuse, young man. What can you see in the clouds? What are they saying to you?"

I was not about to admit that I could ascertain nothing at all, and so I began to speak - any nonsense that came into my mind.

"Well there's a sort of carriage over there, with four white horses in front of it; an elaborate, enclosed carriage, fit for a queen. And I think that could be a rabbit, or maybe a hare, running across a field to escape a fox."

There was no response, but I knew I had not yet said what she wanted to hear and so I closed my eyes and continued.

"The queen is in danger and is having to run for her life, away from some threat that follows hard on her heels. She has sent a decoy in her place, to ride in the coach, in the hope that she can escape while her pursuers are engaged in the chase, but the wily usurper knows her plan and is close behind. Without help she is doomed."

Realising that I was talking moonshine I opened my eyes, expecting at any time to receive a further assault, but I was surprised to see a slight smile on the crone's creased lips.

"That was much better," she said quietly, "we might make a seer of you yet. Now we must hurry to the king to inform him of your prophecy."

Pea soup in a brewery

Alan was telling us some story about a bloke we sort of knew who'd been stupid enough to leave his wallet behind when he broke into the Co-op. "Couldn't organise a pea soup in a brewery!" He laughed aloud at his own joke.

"But why would they want pea soup in a brewery?" Nigel queried. "I mean, they don't make beer out of it, do they?"

The gang turned as one on the regular fall guy. Nigel was so easy to wind up, but it was a toss between him and Baz who'd be target for today. They were both dressed in less than trend gear. Baz, as usual sported some kind of way too big handmedown from one of his older brothers. But it was hardly his fault that his mum was always too skint to buy him and the other seven anything decent to wear.

Nigel was a different case though. His parents had money but no taste, and he'd been forced into a bright orange nylon thing. Literally forced, because the seams were losing a fight against the body inside. It was supposed to keep him dry in the rain, but he got wetter than the rest of us because it was too tight and made him sweat loads.

Alan was still sniggering to himself and you could see his brain calculating some smart comment. Simmo spoke up and punched him not too gently on the arm.

"Get over yourself. It really wasn't that funny."

The only response: a low-lidded glower and shrugged shoulders.

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From a Thinking 10 prompt. Alan, Baz, Nigel and Simmo have appeared around here before.

Thinking Ten

Visit ThinkingTen—A Writer's Playground

On Sandra's advice I've joined Thinking Ten - a writer's playground. I'll be getting daily prompts to write something creative, so you might be getting a few more posts than you have of late. I'm not promising that they'll be any good. Just that they'll exist!

My first attempt is here.