#and even now I get less attention because I dress queer but I’m still fat and I’m like visually weird like flicking my fingers and bouncing

[honeymaki]

The idea of someone wanting me, desiring me, just straight up taking time out of their day to even think about me because they like me - is so out of this world crazy that it’s not even an idea, it’s just this weird buzzing in the back of my mind I can’t get rid of but learn to live with.

#don’t look I am vulnerable #i saw fanart of a fat girl and a buff guy and obviously got excited cause fat girl?? omg me!!! #but then I got all inward and started like but why would he desire someone that looks like me? why would anyone? #the thought is so inherently crazy and impossible to me I swear #it’s because I got no attention ever never in my life while all my standard attractive peers did #and even now I get less attention because I dress queer but I’m still fat and I’m like visually weird like flicking my fingers and bouncing #the lack of attraction fat girls experience during their youth should be classed as like trauma or something cause that’s fucked me up #also undiagnosed autism but that’s a different thing #anyways I’m gonna put on moisturiser and rb nice stuff #🌱.chats

[somethingaboutamagpie]

Because @lemonlovely read this and encouraged me, here’s the ficlet I did the other day.

It was always about control.

When it came to Neil Hargrove, everything was about control. Control over his life. Control over his job. Control over his wife.

And especially, control over his son.

He would never let Billy embarrass the family by making his own decisions.

That's why they'd left California, before Billy could sully the family name with his...eclectic tastes.

Neil had figured that Indiana would be backwoods enough to quash the queer out of his son.

He also extended that control to how Billy took care of himself. Neil gave his son enough freedom over his look, his clothes, his car, to make it seem like the leash wasn't so tight, but despite the mullet and the tight clothes, the Camaro he'd blown a good chunk of his savings on, at the end of the day, the food on the table was Neil's choosing, and the work out equipment wasn't just a gift so much as a requirement.

Sure, Billy seemed to enjoy working out, using the pumping iron to distract himself and push some of his anger out of his sweat glands, but it hadn't always been that way.

Back when Neil's bitch of an ex wife was around, their son wasn't such a strong, shining example of fitness. Back when Billy's mother was home with him every day, their son was, in a word, doughy. She snuck him sweets constantly, let him park in front of the television all day long, never asked him to take care of himself.

And that lack of control ate at Neil daily. He couldn't stand to come home to the two of them; Billy's round face and childishly chubby body reminding him that his son was unfit, that other parents looked down on him for how he allowed his child to behave.

As soon as she'd been pushed out of their lives, as soon as Neil could distance himself from the woman he'd hated, as soon as he'd taken their son and made him his son, the sweets were gone. Sugar was a thing of the past in their home.

Sure, Billy had balked at the change in his diet, had thrown a tantrum and screamed about how much he hated his father, but a few well-placed slaps, a few missed meals, had changed his tune.

Soon, Billy was losing baby fat, shedding pounds until he was nearly average. But average was never going to be good enough for Neil.

The first weight bench Neil bought, Billy outright refused to touch. He'd changed his diet, but he drew the line at working out. His mother had ingrained the laziness into his son that Neil had hated in her. It took more than a few slaps this time, to get Billy to use them.

But, eventually, the working out became as much routine as eating healthy had. And soon, Billy was filling out. Soon, he began to look more and more like a man, and less like that horrible, unhealthy child that his ex wife had tried to raise. Neil had been proud, for a time, and even gave his son space, rewarded him with new clothes and less supervision.

It wasn't until after he'd remarried, after his new wife and his new stepdaughter had moved in, that Neil realized his lax attention on his son was taking a toll. The long hair hadn't bothered him as much as he thought it would. Letting Billy have that rebellion made it seem like he was giving up his control on his son.

But it was the company Billy had started to keep that brought the anger back. Neil was sure that Billy didn't think he noticed the way the boy he would bring home with him sat too close, or the way his fingers found the inside seam of his son's too-tight jeans.

It was less than a week after Neil had met the boy that he took the offer of a job halfway across the country.

Sure, Billy threw another tantrum, but, out of sight of his stepmother, Neil reminded him with open-handed slaps just who was in charge.

It was years later, when Neil hadn't heard from Billy since the day of his graduation, that he received a letter in the mail.

The California return address had been a shock. It had been at least five years since the move, and close to that since he'd last communicated with anyone in the state. With Susan at his shoulder, Neil opened the envelope, and a photo fell out of the folded letter inside.

Hey, dipshit,

My therapist said it was best that I send you this to have some kind of closure. That's a laugh. I've never hated anyone the way I hated you, and I'm so glad that I never have to see you again. I'm finally happy, and not just in the way you taught me to be when I was fighting with other people. I'm happy, and I get to live in a place I love, with someone that taught me that fists aren't the answer to every problem. You could use that kind of advice. I guess this is my goodbye. I didn't put my real address on here, because I don't want to hear back and I know you won't mind. Steve thought you should see how much I've changed since I got out of your house. Enjoy.

Go fuck yourself,

Billy

With shaking hands, more rage than anything else, Neil found himself picking up the photo from the tabletop.

There, in the center of the frame, was the son he remembered. Billy was smiling, smiling in the same way he did when his mom was still taking care of him. His hair was long, curly and full, and he didn't wear a shirt with his too-tight jeans. The fit body he'd beat into his son to keep was gone, the lines of muscle he'd trained for were covered in a layer of baby fat once more.

And, standing next to his Billy was a dark haired man, dressed in much the same way, with both arms around his son. A wide smile stretched the man's face where his chin hooked over Billy's shoulder.

It took everything in Neil not to tear the photo in half and throw it into the fireplace.

He'd always been all about control. And now he couldn't even control himself.

#billy hargrove #harringrove #steve harrington #fic #i haven't written in months and someone said something about 'chubby billy' and #i just had to write SOMETHING bc i felt the URGE #sorry for how rushed it is

[gwennhadu-bug]

Cookies at a Fist-Fight

Alyanette one-shot as requested by @rose-but-not-quartz. “ Could you do a piece where Alya is new in school and someone spreads rumor that she's gonna fight Marinette (who she's never met), and Mari panics and just shows up w macroons? "You brought cookies to a fist-fight?" “

( 3223 words )

Before today, before Paris, Alya had never been in a room this nice. She laid on her back on the big, plush bed, holding a pillow to her chest and listening to her new friend talk and talk and talk and...was this really what her new life in Paris was going to be? Sitting in a hotel room, watching a rich girl brush her hair while a third girl sat like a glorified elastic holder? Honestly, was this an upgrade from her life back home?

“-And you’re really going to want to avoid Max. He’s...a little queer, you know? Weird. Always talks like he’s the smartest kid in the room, always tries to cuddle up to that awful Kim boy. And I’ve already warned you about Kim. I mean, he’s a boy, whose name is Kim. Do I need to say anything more?” Chloé laughed, that high-pitched, wicked laugh that honestly, reminded Alya more of a villain’s laugh than anything else.

And for the seventh time that afternoon, Alya wondered if she was in the right place right now. “Isn’t Kim a really common boy’s name for Vietnamese people?”

“Maybe. Do I look like I care what’s common in Vietnam?” Chloé waved a hand away. “Alya, you are so lucky you found us. We’re going to be best friends, and you won’t have to worry about getting bogged down with any of the losers in our class. Isn’t that right, Sabrina?”

Sabrina nodded firmly. “Right! Chloé knows how to be cool!”

Alya wasn’t so sure. She sat up on the bed and looked out the window at the city of Paris. Her new home...apparently. She thought of her comic books sitting in her room, still packed up in a cardboard box. More and more, Chloé was acting like the villains in those books, villains Alya swore she’d never let triumph.

At least Paris had that going for it...real, live superheroes. That was certainly an upgrade from home. It had been just the day before that she’d almost gotten crushed by a football goal, saved by a boy dressed like a leather cat while trying to record her first real, live supervillain. Moments later, Chat Noir was joined by the most incredible, beautiful, wonderful girl Alya had ever seen. A Ladybug superhero. One who was really human...Alya had seen her hesitance and seen her nerves. The girl had real worries and real fear. And even more incredible, Alya had seen when the superheroine had a change of heart. Her fists had tightened, her expression had hardened, even her posture had improved. She whirled around, used magic, actual magic, and defeated the giant rock monster. And then defeated him again, on the top of the Eiffel Tower itself! It was amazing!

Alya had replayed her interaction with the heroes a thousand times in her mind and every time, she prayed that she had been the one to encourage Ladybug’s change of heart. Ladybug, who gave her name to Alya and her camera. Ladybug, who smiled and waved. Ladybug, who had listened when Alya had cheered her on. No, she’d never met the heroine before that day. And no, she hadn’t met her again...not yet! But all she needed to do was see her in her red and black and know that Ladybug would keep Alya, and all of Paris, safe.

Alya should be on Ladybug’s side, not Chloé’s. But Chloé was the only one to reach out to her that first day of school. She needed at least one ally to get through a new collège, and there wasn’t any real sign that Chloé was a villain. Maybe it was all just part of her elaborate disguise. Maybe. Fat chance, but maybe.

“-And then,” Chloé continued, now applying mascara, “There’s Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” She spat the name out with venom and encouraged a passionate ‘ew’ in approval from Sabrina. “Of all the broke, ugly, pathetic scum in our class, she is the worst. Let’s start with the obvious. Daughter of a baker? Please! That’s literally the peasant class.”

Alya bit her tongue. She was the daughter of Chloé’s father’s employee. Was that any better?

“She’s so stupid and clumsy. Marinette breaks everything she touches and always has since Primary school. She trips over air.” Chloé and Sabrina cackled as if that was the funniest thing in the world. Alya frowned, now getting more and more uncomfortable. But she had no other friends to go to. Not in all of Paris. “She’s so poor, she has to make her own clothes. And they’re ugly, too. Not like me...I only buy the finest Gabriel brand items. Don’t worry, Alya, we’ll get you fitted and find something less Provincial than what you’re wearing. But Marinette. Ugh! Even her name sounds terrible. Dupain-Cheng?! Please. Find an identity and stick with it. Make up your mind! Are you the daughter of a poor baker or a poor immigrant? This combo-name-thing is even worse than either alone.”

“Chloé, I think that’s going a little far,” Alya risked, her voice growing stern. After all, she was a second-generation immigrant. “Paris is for anyone.”

“Alya, ma petite, you’re still brand new to Paris. My daddy runs this city. We practically own it. I think I know who Paris is for.” She tittered another laugh. “That’s not even the worst parts about Marinette, though. She’s such a sad-sack, she doesn’t have any friends.”

Alya crossed her arms and looked away from Chloé. Alya decided that maybe she didn’t have any friends either. If this is what Chloé used to judge people, Alya could find someone better. Or spend a few miserable months alone.

But Chloé seemed to pick up on Alya’s new hostility, because she suddenly stammered out, “And she’s a really horrible person in other ways, too! That’s why we don’t like her, right, Sabrina? Marinette...she...she kicks puppies?”

Alya raised an eyebrow. “She kicks puppies?” she asked, voice flat.

“Before she eats them. Because she’s Chinese, you know?”

“Oh, god. Now that really is just racist, Chloé!”

“No, no, no,” Chloé started to laugh again, but her laugh was now forced, higher-pitched than before. “The eating them was just a joke. She’s the one who’s racist! Against...against black people! And white people, like me! But she really does kick puppies! And she steals from her parents’ bakery, and she cheats in class, she’s so poor that she’s bitter, and she makes fun of our teacher behind her back.” Alya rolled her eyes. She didn’t believe any of this. Maybe she didn’t really know the quiet girl in pigtails, but she was pretty sure this was an exaggeration. “And she hates that new Ladybug girl, too,” Chloé added, “The superhero one? Marinette said she was lame.”

For the first time in about twenty minutes, Alya started paying avid attention. Ladybug. Her hero! She turned her entire body towards Chloé, asking in a hushed voice, “She hates Ladybug?”

Chloé glanced at Sabrina, then back at Alya. Sabrina started frantically nodding and added, “Yeah! I- I heard her say so! She thinks Ladybug is so stupid.”

Chloé nodded as well. “Marinette thinks Paris would be better off without Ladybug. She said she wants to squish her, like a real bug.”

“She thinks Paris would be better off without Ladybug? Without the girl who saved Ivan? Without a real live superhero to protect all of France? She thinks we’d be better off without her?” Alya asked, fists clenching.

“Marinette hates superheroes, but specifically Ladybug. She thinks she’s fake, and a liar, and ugly.”

“UGLY?!” Alya laughed, her hand hitting her forehead. She stood up and started pacing in front of Chloé’s enormous bed. “Ugly?! Ladybug is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen! The prettiest person I’ve ever seen! She’s so strong and brave...but she’s human, too! She’s real! She’s vulnerable!” Alya shook a finger at Chloé, continuing to rant, “And she deserves support, especially when she’s just starting out. It’s hard to be new! It’s hard to not know what you’re doing! She doesn’t deserve to be bullied or made fun of like that! Ladybug needs allies, she needs the forces of good on her side.”

Chloé grinned as she nodded, but Alya was too blind with rage to see. “Maybe you should show her how you feel, Alya. Put her in her place.”

“Maybe I should! Someone needs to defend Ladybug. Someone needs to have her back!”

Sabrina leaned forward, offering, “Maybe you should fight her!”

“Maybe I should!” Alya shouted again, pacing faster. And what the hell was she saying?! Fight someone? On her first week in Paris?! But this was for Ladybug’s honor. “Maybe...maybe I should!”

---

Marinette had a very confusing next day at school. She had barely walked in when the new girl cornered her and started screaming that she was going to fight her. Marinette had just cowered, panicking, unable to say anything to defend herself. She didn’t even understand most of what the new girl had said...something about Ladybug, which made Marinette freeze up in terror...and then a date, place, and time. Chloé and Sabrina were standing behind her, grinning like maniacs.

According to this new girl, Marinette was going to be seeing stars tomorrow during lunch in front of the metro station just off of campus. But as for right now, Marinette was pacing in her bedroom in an absolute panic. Her brand-new kwami fluttered around after her. “What do I do? What do I do, what do I do, what do I do? Tikki, what do I do?!”

“Marinette, calm down!” Tikki begged, trying to keep up. “I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding!”

“I can’t fight, Tikki! I can barely fight when I’m a superhero. I really can’t do it as Marinette! And what did I even do to this girl?! I don’t want to fight her! She’s the only reason I even had the courage to be Ladybug! I don’t want to fight her!!”

“Maybe it’s a big understanding! Why don’t you just ask?”

“Because she wants to punch my face, Tikki!” Marinette groaned, pulling at her cheeks in desperation. “What do I do?!”

“I don’t think you should fight,” Tikki offered.

“Neither do I, but I don’t really have a choice, do I?!”

“What about a peace offering? Give her something to reconsider? You haven’t done anything wrong, Marinette! I’m sure she just doesn’t realize that!”

Marinette stopped walking and Tikki crashed into the back of her head with a tinkling ‘oof’. “A peace offering? So...give her something instead of fighting?” She spun around. “Do you think that would work? Do you think I could get away without fighting if I give her something?”

“Isn’t it worth a try? Anything would be better than fighting, right?”

Marinette paused and thought. She nodded. “It’s worth a try. Tikki, I’m going to die if I have to fight her. I’m literally going to die! She looks so strong!”

“You’re strong, too. You just took down Stoneheart.”

“But that was as Ladybug,” Marinette whined, collapsing to sit in her desk chair. “She doesn’t want to fight Ladybug. She wants to fight the weakling Marinette!”

“I didn’t mean that you’re strong as Ladybug!” Tikki offered, flying back over to Marinette. “I meant as you. As Marinette! You know what really defeated Stoneheart? Not Ladybug breaking his akumatized object. You. Marinette. Helping out a friend.” Tikki gently lifted Marinette’s chin, looking eye-to-eye. “That’s when you defeated Stoneheart and brought back Ivan. Your gentle, loving spirit is why you were chosen to be Ladybug. And I think that’s what can help you with this new girl, too. You saw how uplifting she can be! Don’t fight. Try and purify her heart, too.”

Marinette sniffled. She met Tikki’s big, faithful eyes. And she nodded.

---

When the bell rang for lunch, Chloé and Sabrina each grabbed one of Alya’s arms. “Let’s go, Alya!” Chloé cheered, dragging her forward. “Now’s the time! It’s your time! Let’s go beat up Marinette Dupain-Cheng!”

“I care more about defending Ladybug,” Alya growled as she pulled her arms out of their grip. But she threw her head back and marched  out of the classroom, walking as if she carried a cape behind her. She tried to ignore the whoops and jeers from their classmates. Maybe this was going to cement her as absolutely unlikeable. Maybe she wouldn’t have any friends at all in this school. But maybe she could make Ladybug feel like someone had her back...and that would be worth it.

She marched all the way to the subway station, Chloé and Sabrina closest behind. Several of Alya’s classmates whose names she didn’t know yet were following at a nervous distance. They all whispered to each other, they all shouted things Alya ignored, they were all there to watch and see who this New Girl really was.

When Alya reached the station entrance, she spun around. “Alright, Dupain-Cheng, where are you?” Alya growled. She bent her fingers back against each other, shaking out her arms in anticipation. Her heartbeat was picking up. She should probably take her glasses off once Marinette arrived...didn’t want to get them broken. “Chloé, you got a hair tie?”

“Don’t ask me,” Chloé scoffed. “Sabrina, give her one.”

Alya put out a hand, not looking at the two supporters as she scanned the crowd. They had now formed a big circle around Alya, but no sign of Marinette. Alya felt a hair tie in her hand and quickly swept her hair into a ponytail. She didn’t want to give Marinette anything to grab onto, obviously.

And there she was. Alya heard it from the crowd first. “Marinette!” They yelled. “Marinette, don’t do it! Go home!” “Marinette, we love you!” “Marinette, I’ll fight her for you!” “Marinette, it isn’t worth it!”

“Come on, Dupain-Cheng!” Alya shouted in the direction of all the commotion. Finally, the tiny girl pushed her way into the circle. Pity flashed through Alya’s heart...this girl looked so broken and nervous, it was almost not fair. This was the girl besmirching Ladybug’s honor? “Get over here and fight me like a woman! You have to pay for what you said!”

Marinette closed her eyes tight. One hand was behind her back, the other closed in a fist, and then she opened her eyes and looked right at Alya. She marched up to her, Alya already planning where to land the first punch. But Marinette stopped well out of range. “I don’t know what I did to make you so mad,” she yelled, possibly just to stop her voice from wavering, “But I’m sorry!” And she thrust her other hand from behind her back, presenting a little box.

The crowd gasped and murmured, trying to figure out what was going on. Alya was glad she had kept her glasses on as she narrowed her eyes to see even better what the box was. It was hard to tell, the way Marinette’s entire body was shaking like a leaf. “What...what is that?” she asked, hesitantly.

Chloé shouted from behind, “Allez, Alya! Punch her! Punch her now!”

Alya ignored Chloé and stepped forward. The closer she got to Marinette, the more the girl cowered until she was practically crouching on the ground, her entire body shaking so firecely that Alya had to grab the box to hold it steady. She looked closer and realized it was a box of high-quality macarons. She blinked. “You brought cookies to a fist-fight?”

In a high-pitched rush, Marinette repeated her statement from earlier. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry!”

Alya laughed once in surprise, opening the box. Was this real? “You brought cookies to a fist-fight?” It just didn’t seem like the actions of a racist, bitter, cheating, dog-kicker. Was all of that a lie, then?

Chloé jeered again, “Allez! Punch her! Kick her!”

Alya spun around and glared at Chloé. “Chloé, would you just shut up?!” Chloé gasped, gripping Sabrina’s hand while the crowd around them ooh’d. Alya turned back to Marinette, now covering her head with her hands and whimpering. “Marinette, you can stand up. I’m not going to punch you.”

Opening her hands just enough to peek through the fingers, Marinette whispered, “You’re not?”

Alya laughed and offered an open hand. “No, I don’t think I am. I don’t think you’re who I thought you were.”

Cautiously, Marinette accepted the hand and stood up. She still looked uncomfortable. “Who did you think I was?”

“A Ladybug hater?” Alya said, offering a weak smile. “...Are you?”

“What?! No! I don’t hate Ladybug! I...I think Ladybug’s….well, I don’t know how I feel about her, but I don’t hate her!”

Alya laughed again, putting a hand to her head and looking at Marinette, wide-eyed in surprise. The crowd was now mumbling in confusion, but she ignored them. “You don’t know how to feel about her? Girl, she’s amazing! She’s so brave, she’s so creative, she’s so courageous. Ladybug saved Paris! She did that for us, because she’s the hero of our city! She’s incredible!”

Marinette’s eyes seemed to sparkle when Alya gushed like that. And for some reason, the sparkle in those eyes made Alya’s heart flip in her chest. “You really think she’s all that?”

“Oh, absolutely. She went into that fight, not knowing if she could win, not knowing if she could save the day...and she did. That is bravery.” Alya paused. In this scenario where she threatened to fight a complete stranger, she wasn’t defending Ladybug. Ladybug wouldn’t want her to beat someone up for having a different opinion...would she? She frowned. “You were a lot braver than me today.”

“You think I was brave?”

“I really do! I mean, you brought cookies to a fist-fight. That’s a kind of bravery only the forces of good have. I wasn’t even brave enough to get the whole story. I just believed the first person who told me something about you.”

“Chloé?” Marinette asked, her lips wrapping around the name like it was a nasty word.

“Yeah. I’m thinking maybe she’s not the most reliable source after all.”

At that, the entire crowd mumbled in agreement. Chloé started to shout and yell, but Alya ignored her, instead, wrapping an arm around Marinette’s shoulders. “Hey, I think maybe you and I should start over.” She opened the box of macarons and offered one to Marinette. “I’m Alya.”

Marinette grinned- honestly, no longer scared, maybe even a little bit hopeful. Her smile may have been the most beautiful smile Alya had seen since Ladybug had given Alya her name. She took the macaron and said, “Hi, Alya. Nice to meet you. I’m Marinette.”

Alya and Marinette giggled, arm in arm pushing through the circle back towards the school. It looked like Paris might not be so bad...maybe Alya would have friends after all. Alya took her own cookie and took a bite, humming in pleasant surprise. “This is really good!”

#Alyanette #Alya Cesaire #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #miraculous ladybug #my fanfiction #THIS one is short enough to post entirely on tumblr. A little on the long side but not enough for a standalone on Ao3 tbh #Also I'm not sure if you actually wanted macaroons I kind of assumed you meant macarons because Alyanette #but I'm alyanette trash so I would have made them macarons anyway #cw: racism

[davidastbury]

December 2016

Man at Piccadilly Station, Manchester He has a tongue like a razor –  you have to be careful what you say to him!   Once upon a time he was brilliant; in those days he expressed his superiority in devastating sarcasm – putting his victim down, and doing it in such a way that the chorus of laughter ruled out any response.   He let it be known that he was going to the top in journalism or media –  he had the required charming malice and knew the ‘right people’.  He was a frequent dinner guest at the Dimbleby household and mixed with other luminaries. I have a picture of him from the brilliant days – droopy eyelids mocking the photographer – held tilted back,  smoke curling down his nostrils, Pall Mall haircut, elbow cupped in palm, shapeless Donegal tweed suit, hand-made shoes. And now he’s a haggard old man clutching a carrier bag loaded with cans of beer.  He’s swaying on his feet, looking up at the electronic notice board for his time of departure.

On the Train I’m fascinated by the glances exchanged between man and adult son.  Not having a son myself I am at a disadvantage in this area – or perhaps I am not. There is a way that a man looks at his grown up son – and a way that the son looks back at the father – they are involved, and have their respective viewpoints - whereas I am seeing with the calm eyes of an outsider – they are ‘mono’ to my ‘stereo’.  What they see doesn’t have room for a question – but all that I see are questions! And the main question I want to ask, cannot be asked – perhaps I know the dad too well, or not well enough -  or if I asked it, it might be misunderstood, or be viewed as ‘inappropriate’ (hateful word!) or might solicit a untrue answer which is worse than not knowing at all. So I don’t know and never will. A Rolling Stones Fan... Manchester 1964 She was crazy about Mick Jagger, and spent most of her money following the Rolling Stones tours.  The performances were usually in theatres in provincial cities across the UK – very noisy and very crowded, and although often far from the stage she would fight through the frenzy and get scribbled autographs from Jagger and the boys.  She loved Jagger for his narcissism – his magnificent conceit – his disjointed grace – his hermaphrodite beauty.  Her boyfriend was tolerant about her absences and her fixation, saying that most of us have a peculiarity others do not understand – which I suppose was quite nice of him. Occasionally I would see the two of them in a basement club.  Whenever a Rolling Stones number was played she’d be on her feet (bare feet!) dancing and strutting.  He boyfriend would sit and play it cool – smoking and drinking, slouched in a chair, taking it all in.  Soon everyone around would be watching her too – her miniskirt and striped turtle-neck – her head back and shampoo- ad hair swinging – and most thrilling of all, her eyes tightly shut with the sheer bliss of a true exhibitionist. When it was over she padded across to her boyfriend - riding the wave of our attention - then leaned across the cluttered table and kissed him on the mouth.

Noel Coward once asked John Osborne what percent queer he was. Osborne was startled at the question and replied:   ‘I’ve no idea, maybe fifteen percent.’ Coward tapped his chest and replied proudly:   ‘I am One Hundred Percent Queer!’

HE and SHE As we all know attraction can occur in the most unpromising of environments - and my office was certainly an unpromising environment.   The HE and SHE – both high-flyers in the firm – took a shine to each other, and the rest of us became conscious that love was in the air.   They were an unlikely couple – SHE was sharp and very ambitious, a strident voice, eyes that missed nothing and a tireless, aggressive energy that removed all softness and humour.  HE was unattractively bulky – deeply sarcastic and supercilious.  I wished them all the best. But somewhere along the line things went wrong.  There had been a scene (shouting) in the pub where we used to go after work, and they were no longer speaking to each other.  We all carried on as usual, but the atmosphere was as constricting as it had been before, when they were ‘as one’.   Occasionally we tried to engineer situations where they would have to speak to each other – but it didn’t work with either of them.  It was a bad situation and I was afraid that it might come to the notice of the directors upstairs. At this point I must mention Paul – he was the firm’s driver.  The lowest paid and the nicest man in the company.   He had the honest open face of someone  who would see no harm in anything – a good warm-hearted family man.   His job was to deliver parcels and important documents; he also chauffeured the bosses in the company Jag.  Paul told me that he and SHE had gone up to Birmingham, along with a van load of exhibition equipment.  They were caught in a terrible traffic snarl up, and during the wait, as they inched along the motorway, they chatted about this and that.  And then he asked her how life was treating her. She was silent for a few seconds and tried to speak but found she couldn’t.

Literary Reception There are some high achievers in here tonight.   Half familiar faces – it is amusing to see that anyone who has been on telly a few times develops that downward glance, as if they find being recognised unpleasant, but hoping that you stare at them anyway!  Men of science and letters – women too of course –  in fact a quite a few women writers putting on the agony.   I ask myself: ‘What on earth are you doing here...what do you want?’   And I reply:  ‘A cup of tea.’

Vision Every man I know has the same look.  All their faces have the same expression.  It is as if they were once standing in the street and a beautiful naked woman had walked by – and they turned round to see her again – and she was gone.  And they carry on looking - looking all the time – trying to see her again.

You only have to ask her – and she will tell you.  But she’s unpredictable and so you must catch her when she’s in a good mood or best of all when she’s had a drink or two.  Make it casual – as if asking about what she’s doing next week, or if she is going to buy that coat she liked in South Molton Street.  Keep it nice and reasonable.  You only have to ask her – and she will tell you.

We’ve done our song and dance – kept up the concern and amusement, and now the show continues without our participation – I can sit back and feign concern myself, something which I never expected to do.    What no one knows is that I couldn’t care less anymore.

After Donald Wolfit was knighted one of his troupe of actors immediately called him ‘Sir Donald’.   Wolfit beamed at him and said :- ‘Oh come now...you and I have known each other for years – just “Sir” will do’.

On the Train Young couple.  Married.  She’s taking things out of a bag and looking at them.  They have been shopping for craft items – coloured blocks, stencils, brushes on a card, things like that.  She looks at them carefully, examining them and turning them over; feeling the texture with her long, clever fingers.  I see her looking at some tubes – they are various adhesives, perhaps different adhesives for different items. Her husband glances out of the window and then looks back at her. They are very young. He fell in love with her because she can glue things together.

The Christmas Bumper Book of Memories 2016 January.  It was a cold, grey day when the two cold, grey men met.  I was one of them and the other was a long standing friend – I hadn’t seen him for years.  He had a pained expression and a weak smile, so I guessed he knew.   We shook hands –me struggling to take off my gloves; he offering me his icy paw – and worst of all, he kept hold of me.  There is nothing worse than that.  He asked me how I was and I rattled off my up-beat routine – ‘Everything’s fine, I’ve been given the name of a brilliant homeopath’... things like that.   His weak smile became weaker – I think he has always considered me frivolous, and it was irritating to see that I hadn’t changed.   Still holding my hand he looked at me searchingly and said ‘But how are you really?  Would you like to talk about it?’ In that moment I felt the chill of what Baudelaire called ‘the wind of the wing of the angel of death’.   Corfu It wasn’t the type of holiday she had expected.  The taverna was down a bumpy road out in the middle of nowhere – accommodation was basic – erratic hot water -  meals served on a terrace beneath a wooden trellis, which was rather nice except for the rats that ran along the beams.  The swimming pool was small, and there was nowhere for her to wear the evening dresses she had brought.  She was single and most of the guests were young couples – spending all day and most of the night shouting and laughing and pouring ouzo down their throats. There was only one bus to the village and on the second day she missed it.  The proprietor smiled and said that his brother Hypatos would take her.  She coldly thanked him and waited for Hypatos to appear.  The brother finally came out of the lavatory and beamed at her - he would be happy to take her to town.   He was a fat man, all the more noticeable because he was only wearing cropped cargo pants and when he got astride his small motorcycle she didn’t know what to do.  People were watching – including the proprietor who was grinning and showing his brown teeth. She had no choice but to get astride the machine – Hypatos shouted something and the bike roared away.   There was nothing for her to hold onto – no handles of any sort, so she had to lean forward and stretch her bare arms around Hypatos’ bare belly – struggling to get a firm grip the yielding wobbly flesh – and then the ordeal of being bounced up and down on the hard pillion seat. She came to loathe the proprietor – he didn’t do any work at all, instead he bullied his staff and played the great man of property.  He would smile at her and make expansive gestures, as if inviting her to enjoy his kingdom.  He was impervious to her scowls – he presumed that all women adored him. And this was the story that went around the taverna...to the hilarity of the young couples. Apparently, the proprietor had gone across to her table with two large glasses of milky ouzo and with his widest smile said to her:  ‘Tonight, me and you shag?’

When she was gone the family broke up – we all went our different ways – we just broke up – yet one beat of her heart would have brought us back together.

Eventually all our desires and compulsions change their forms and become a soulful yearning that hides itself in melancholy.

The other day I was chatting with a friend’s ten-year-old daughter.  I asked her if she was still learning the trumpet;  she replied;  ‘Oh yes - I can play lots of tunes’. I asked her what she liked most about the trumpet. She answered;  ‘Well, you can play a trumpet really loud and it stops everyone from talking’.

The Photographer on the Train He’s was no Cartier-Bresson – no snap on the sly – this chap was loaded with the gear – he even had a photographers’ jacket - a sort of sleeveless affair with multiple pockets, as worn by our Royal family when ‘orf’ for a nice day blasting the life out of Highland stags. Anyway....working on the principle that people are pleased when you take an interest in their activities, I started up a conversation.  We talked about cameras.  But he wasn’t responsive as you or I may have been - and then I began to understand.   He viewed my interest as perfectly normal;   in fact he expected it from other people.  His ego caused him to assume that other people’s thoughts will always be centred around him - and that whatever we wish to say isn’t worth the effort of listening.

From the Window A young family walking past – going dark - pavement shiny with rain – car lights flashing – but what a grouping!  There was no chance of getting the big Nikon cranked up in time; and then they were gone, out of sight. Just a man and a woman, arms linked, with a small girl on one side and a smaller boy, trotting to keep up, on the other.   The girl was trying to control her pet dog, which had the rubbery legs of a puppy and was pulling his lead across their path, and looking up as if he deserved praise.  The little boy was carrying a parcel, or a box, which was nearly as big as himself – probably an unopened Christmas gift.  The mother kept reaching to help him but he jerked his shoulders and turned away, hugging the box. And so they continued up the road.  I wonder if they know how happy they are?

Victoria Station She’s going to dump him tonight.   If you look you can see it in her face – it’s all there.  She will pick her moment to tell him – and that will be the end of their relationship – they are at different universities and they probably will never see each other again, and that’s all for the good. But I’ve a feeling there is more to it; behind her determination there is something else  - something important to her – she wants promises from him  - a promise that he will take care of himself – and a promise not to ‘let himself go.’

K She used to get up at six to take her little boy to the childminder – then a bus and a train and another bus to her college.  Her husband, a good-looking piss artist, wouldn’t get out of bed until around noon;  a quick bite to eat then off to the pub.  In the afternoons he would try to read the set books on DH Lawrence but usually he fell asleep or had long, rambling telephone chats with old friends. Around seven in the evening he would be hungry and looking forward to his wife getting home and sorting the meal out. On Saturday nights they would go out together to the pubs near the university.  They would join groups and her husband would amuse everyone with his wild opinions – his voice loud and theatrical, causing people to wonder who he was.  And the drinks kept appearing, as if from nowhere.   Later he would heavily on her, his free arm windmilling for a taxi. Looking back, she told me that this was the happiest time of her life.

Young couple – on the train He’s Asian; probably Afghan.  She’s European, perhaps English, but you don’t see many English girls with hair that shade of yellow – it is as yellow as butter and falls across the sides of her face with a single ripple of a wave near her chin.  Perhaps she’s northern European – superb skin and soft lapis lazuli eyes – a Scandinavian beauty!  Each time he looks at her he reacts with pleasure. Maybe one day he will take her home to meet his parents.  His mother will rush away to the kitchen and make her feelings known in Dari, or Pashto or Hazarangi.  Dad will walk slowly to the mosque – to the familiar green lights and red carpets and books filled with picturesque Quranic promises of bliss –  knowing that the paradise his son has found beats them all.

Mary Notnice and Henry James Henry James sometimes referred to his ‘obscure hurt’, without ever going into details as to the nature of the hurt, what it was, and when it was inflicted upon him.  Most of his biographers/scholars mention the ‘obscure hurt’ and speculate how this might have affected his writing.  The greatest of his biographers , Leon Edel devotes pages exploring the source and concludes it refers to something that happened in 1861 when James was eighteen.  His father took him to Boston ‘for consultation of a great surgeon,  the head of his profession there.’  The surgeon found nothing wrong and dismissed the young man with hardly a word – which James took as an insult.  From here onwards (such are the labyrinths and cadences of James’s mind) we do not know if the phrase ‘obscure hurt’ refers to the physical injury or the resentment he felt because of what the doctor had said. Mary Notnice, at the age of eighteen (the same age as Henry James!) held onto and nourished her ‘obscure hurt’.   I and others were charmed by her peevishness and smouldering resentments.  Of course I never knew what it was all about because details were hard to come by – dad long gone – mum a bit crazy – behaviour so bad at school that she was actually expelled in the last year – it was all part of a package.  But what struck me most was her way of looking back at you.  In that glance you could see her ‘obscure hurt’, and although she looked at you with anger, there was also sadness and reproach – as if you had harmed her in some way.

A Christmas Carol    #1 I asked a young friend for a story of something that had happened to him – not something that he had achieved but something that was out of his control and which he now views as very important.   He must have trusted me, because this is what I got. ‘I sneaked off work and went to the office bash on a lower floor.  I knew one or two people there, but it was open to clients and so on, so I was okay.  It was a great party, massive tree all lit up, loads of booze, loud jingle-bells type music, balloons banging and some serious kissing going on – not pecks under the mistletoe twig, but the real thing.  And I saw a girl standing by herself and I came over all weird – like shivery – and I knew I had to go to her.  I’m normally slow, but I wasn’t this time; I had to speak to her and the first thing I said was; ‘Are you with anyone?’ and she laughed.  So we started talking and this feeling of destiny got stronger and stronger.  You know when people say that as soon as they saw a certain person they just knew that they had to marry them?  It was like that – that is how I felt. And then my phone rang and it was my boss.  I didn’t want him to hear the noise of the party going on, so I said to the girl;  ‘I won’t be a minute, please wait here.’  Then I rushed out to the corridor, next to the lift, and listened as the boss droned on.  Then I rushed back and she was gone – and I never saw her again.  I didn’t know her name, what could I do?’

On the Train She used to save him the seat next to her – she probably got on at Leeds, he got on at my station.   They snuggled up together, glad of the press and squeeze of the tight seating and would chat cheerfully throughout the journey.  But then their little head-to-heads ended and she no longer looked up as we all piled in, there was no longer the shy smile, instead she kept her head down over her laptop, head down, fingers skipping over the keyboard.  The following day I looked out for him on the platform – and there he was, but not in his usual place, and he got onto the train lower down. Naturally I am curious!  All kinds of scenarios are fluttering in my mind – the strongest are comparisons with our antics on Facebook – a hurtful omission - a disrespectful comment – an indiscreet posting - a misunderstood remark!

A Christmas Carol    #2 Some of his very earliest memories were about his local church.  It was Victorian Gothic and was called Saint Stephen the Martyr, which as a little boy he called ‘Saint Stephen the Tomato’.  It was Anglican, but very near to Roman Catholicism in ritual. And then he found himself in the choir – in fact he was allowed to join far below the normal age, and they had to shorten a cassock for him and his white surplice, which his mother had to wash and iron every week, reached below his knees.  The choir practiced twice a week and by the time he was approaching eleven, he was the leader of the trebles and did solos.  Mr Birchall, the choirmaster, privately trained him, teaching him how to sing ‘open-throat’ and would press his hand on the boy’s diaphragm.   The highlight of the church year was the Christmas Eve Midnight Mass.  The church was lit by hundreds of candles, mostly around the choir stalls and chancel, leaving the worshipers in semi darkness.  The choir led the procession    with a Server at the front holding up a massive brass crucifix. They walked the length of the church from the vestry, between the aisles and into the nave, passing the plaques in memory of eminent founders and the shredded and stained flags from overseas battles. The opening carol was sung softly and the boy could hear the squeaking of his shoes on the stone floor.   But it was at the end of the service that his singing became sublime.  Mr Birchall was conducting with his eyes closed – the choir, all male, was at full force – the organ at full volume – the tenors and basses building a solid structure and the boy trebles soared above it, and out of that wave of joy a single choirboy began to rise even higher.  It was the boy’s great moment and he reached the note that seemed impossible, and then he reached an even higher note!  The church was flooded with the sustained brilliance of his pitch – it went on for so long and the other voices meekly faded and the organ too gave up. No one could tell when his voice ended and the echo began.

A Christmas Carol.......  #3 There was a girl in my class and I bet every male teacher in the school was in love with her.  Let me quickly add that I do not mean that this had any element of carnality or pervishness – they simply loved her.   When teaching me they may have doubted the wisdom of their choice of profession, but I think they would have taught her for free.  I’ll just say that she was lovely – even her name was lovely – Tina Pomfret! Anyway – it was time for the upper form’s Christmas dance and I asked (via a friend) if she would be my partner, which meant that I would go to her house to pick her up,  get more dances with her than anyone else, then see her home afterwards.  The answer came back: – Yes! Ricky Nelson, Connie Francis, Buddy Holly, Paul Anka , Neil Sedaka – love you forever! School Inexplicably, he had not been selected for the athletics team.  The inter-schools event was just a few weeks away and his name was not included in the list.  Yet he was one of the best at medium/distance running, but his name was not on the board.  At first he wanted to go and ask questions, but a sort of dread came into his mind, an insight into the future.  He felt that - ‘not being selected’ - despite being competent, might characterise his life. He didn’t know how to shake off the gloom of his thoughts – that feeling of dread - it actually hurt - hurt as much as the time someone banged a desk lid down on his fingers.

Happy Families Can there ever be reconciliation when a father has called his son’s girlfriend a ‘whore’?

Henry James grew up in a house that had an open door to the great and the good.  Leading figures in literature, science and the arts were regular guests.   A frequent visitor was William Makepeace Thackeray, who was venerated by  James Snr and the entire household.  Thackeray would hold court throughout the day, dominating all conversation, setting the content and tone about what the subjects should be, and giving prolonged summaries which no one ever interrupted. The story goes that Henry’s elder sister Alice – I think fourteen years old at the time – questioned the great man’s thinking when he was in mid flow.  The people round the dinner table gasped.  Thackeray turned to her with a look like a ‘ferocious lion’ – and said - ‘Are you suggesting that I am wrong?’ Alice met his gaze and smiling slightly replied – ‘Indeed I am not saying you are wrong.  I am merely asking you to consider the possibility that you may not be right.’

At the recent Kurdish Wedding I was sitting behind a family – mum and dad wearing Kurdish national costume with their two young boys, the youngest sitting on his mother’s knee.    Suddenly, before he could be grabbed, the boy slid off his mother’s knee and landed face down on the wooden floor.  Screams and blood and people slapping their pockets for something to put to his nose to hold back the bleeding.   Being an old fashioned gent I was able to produce – with the speed of a conjurer – a huge, crisply ironed, white linen handkerchief.  The boy slowly recovered from the shock, both parents crouching over him – when his big brother, about five years old, turned to me and gave me the nicest smile I’ve ever received.

The Queen’s Elm, Chelsea  George used to join us on Sunday lunchtimes, when the Queen’s Elm was crowded to the doors.   He was  older than the rest of us, perhaps seven or eight years which is a lot when you are nineteen; and we were all northerners, but he was a Londoner.  He didn’t say much - a man of few words, but he was flatteringly interested in all of us, as individuals – something we welcomed but couldn’t understand.  He was newly divorced but still occupied the marital home – a flat in Tite Street, Chelsea – while his ex was living with her new chap somewhere in France.  She was quite big deal in the fine-arts world and it looked as if she had made the money - George worked in a betting-shop somewhere in the West End. He never showed any spontaneity when he was with us – never made any jokes or wild comments – he was genial and modest, and when his turn came he would push through the crowd to get his round of drinks.  He was genial and modest.  I sometimes saw in his eyes an embarrassment, or a guilt, or perhaps the torment of a wincing sensitivity, but never discovered what was going on behind his mask.  He used to dress in expensive suits and one Sunday I admired his dark blue overcoat.  He smiled and turned it back to show the label  - Crombie & Co.  He asked me if I would like one and I replied that there was no way that I could afford a Crombie – it would have cost about a month’s salary.  George said that he had contacts – he ‘knew’ people and he felt my shoulders and said that a ‘forty regular’ should fit. Incredibly, the following Sunday in the Queen’s Elm, George appeared with my coat over his arm – he carried like a butler!  Nor would he take a penny for it.  The coat lasted years and years – in fact, properly taken care of it would still be around today – and if someone had properly taken care of George he might too.

On the Train I will put my safety first like all the other sensible liberal cowards.  He isn’t someone to mess with because he’s had enough of the whole lot of us – the schools that let him down, the kids with their prizes who told him he was thick -  the laughter at the suggestion of higher education when he hadn’t even got a primary one -  little in the way of love at home and little in the way of friendships -  the employers who exploit him, viewing him as not much more than an animal,  and he takes his revenge by stealing from them – no prospects - no girlfriends -  everything a failure. So we all look away and pretend he doesn’t exist and my heart aches and I don’t know what to do.

Sons and Lovers.....  (a shorter version) There used to be a large academic bookshop in Manchester, where I worked between the time of the Chatterley ban and the Beatle’s first LP.  In the cellar was the ‘Goods In – Goods out’ department, with a small cramped office, in which sat a small cramped man called Eric.   One sunny morning in the gloom of the cellar, I asked Eric if he was okay.  He looked tired and more than usually unhappy.  He replied;  ‘The wife’s crying all the time.’  I asked why.  ‘Our son’s going to Australia; he’s emigrating; got a job and all that and he’s leaving next week.’ ‘I’m sorry to hear that Eric – and your wife is upset about it?’  I said. ‘Yes – she walks around sniffling all the time.’ I struggled to empathise.  ‘It must be difficult for her – and you.’ He glared at me.  ‘Look – less than twenty years ago I was reporting to Liverpool to get on a troopship for the Far East - to fight the Japanese.  She knew where I was going because I told her – although we weren’t supposed to tell anyone.  She knew that ships were being torpedoed out of the water like a row of ducks. He knew that the sea was full of sharks.  She knew that we were going into jungle fighting.   But, bloody hell, she’s worried about him who’s going to get on a jetplane and off to a job at some college or other!  She never got this worried about me – she didn’t cry at all!’ No one cried for Eric.  

On the Train I recognised him instantly as someone familiar but ‘not to be spoken to’ – he slots into the category of people you know, but not directly.  I have seen him on TV being interviewed on science issues – but he is no smiling popularist, more a grumpy boffin resenting intrusion into his laboratory. His subject is spectrometry, as applied to astronomy – checking the chemical structures of stars in the Milky Way.  He is part of an international team who send out an electronic pulsing into space which consists of an endless repetition of  π r2.  The scientists presumed that if there is intelligent life out there, they would pick up this transmitted formula and understand it. So there he sits – the man who sends out π r2  into the universe – looking slightly cross, no doubt sensing the danger of hearing me suggest that Whitney Houston’ s  ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’  might be a better choice.

Pret a Manger A young couple come in – shutting the door behind them but looking confused.  They say something to each other and then go back out.  A few seconds later they are back in.  I watch as they order whatever it is and the man chooses a table, leaving the young woman to load up the tray.  He sits down and then gets up again and tells her that he has changed his mind.  She calls the assistant back to change the order, she then she joins him at the table, but she wants to sit near the window, so they pick up their bags and things and move. They have an attractive staccato eagerness, indicating the newness of their relationship – a quickness at smiling – at finding pleasure in what the other is saying or doing.  Somehow they have influenced the equilibrium of the place – it isn’t the same as it was before they came in!  Very hard to put into words, but there has been sort of displacement, but as I dismissed this as fanciful, a piece of my own imagining, there was a loud bang as a waiter dropped a plate.

Lydia Pasternak Slater – poet, translator and brother of Boris Pasternak.  Somewhere in the mid sixties I visited her at her home in Oxford – a visit made possible by a French mutual friend, also called Boris and also Jewish, who had survived the entire Nazi occupation of Paris hidden in a cellar. I was in awe at meeting Lydia and had resolved to tread carefully when speaking of her brother, who had died only four or five years previously.  She was lovely and brisk and cheerful and we sat in her work room, which consisted of a tiny kitchen at one end and long tables loaded (neatly) with piles of books.  It was like a warehouse and it was easy to see that she took pleasure in the wrapping, tying up with string, weighing, sticking on gummed labels and all the rest of it.  Perhaps after hours of intellectual effort she found a relaxation in this side of the book business.  I told her that I was a bookseller and she wanted to know all about it, where my shop was, what I sold.  It was astonishing that this bright-eyed elderly woman, who had grown up in a home in which Tolstoy and Scriabin and Rachmaninov were regular callers, should be interested in what was going on in my life!  As a little girl she had sat on Tolstoy’s knee! She told me that she loved Oxford – her house was off Banbury Road, I think.  She loved swimming in the river.  She was busy translating a new edition of her brother’s poetry – people say she is the best – and she gave me a signed copy.   At one point I rambled on about poets being the best writers of prose and mentioned Hardy, Lampedusa, Plath, Joyce (who always considered himself primarily a poet), Rilke....’and greatest of all, Boris Pasternak!’

Outside M&S A chance meeting – we could have got away with walking on – but no – we simultaneously broke into huge smiles and lots of vigorous hand-shaking.  Not seen each other for years!  Usual banalities about not looking a day older.   I asked about his family and he proudly told me that his youngest, Judy, was an actress.  As we chatted away I was conscious that both of us were struggling with the question – does our fragile and neglected friendship merit resuscitation and should one of us offer some sort of invitation?  Neither of us did, and eventually he went in one direction and I went in the other. Some while later I Googled his daughter – and there she was!  The last time I saw her she was a shy eleven-year-old.  The webpage was her agent’s so I clicked on her profile – all grown up and smiling – and a list of her career up to this year.  Drama school, theatre appearances, list of plays, list of characters;  television work, list of plays, list of characters; adverts and sponsorships and her personal notes – Specialities; ‘very experienced and competent in fight scenes and does her own stunts.  Can operate helicopter and light aircraft.  Can do rooftop scenes and anything involving heights.  Can work with dangerous animals.  Can do car crash scenes.’ Good old Judy.

Abraxas spends a lot of time trying to be popular in the Assembly – he’s hoping for elevation; he wants to strut in the Agora and see people stepping back.  What a fool!  Doesn’t he know that Khronos, who makes these appointments, has been watching him and knows that he has no feelings - has no love in him - no sympathy for the poor nor for animals. Khronos will overlook many character flaws,  but never coldness.

The Bookshop in the Strand.... ( L’amour toujours ) Roger, the shop manager used to sub-let the basement to a struggling publisher.  All day long The Publisher was unseen but heard – he would be either shouting at people over the phone, or having a weep, or singing selections from the musicals.  Access to his basement was down a weird, wrought-iron spiral staircase; so ornate and fussy that it puzzled me who might have commissioned it; what had been the buildings previous use – a bridal dress shop perhaps? Anyway The Publisher would be down there and we could tell his moods, and the state of his private life, by the songs he sang.  I remember particularly his version of a Marie Lloyd gem  (his voice loud and alarmingly clear to us upstairs in the bookshop)  as he belted out  ‘The Boy I Love is up in the Gallery’.  He only sang emotional songs and if the genders didn’t fit his preference he switched them – which used to really amuse me – I was only nineteen and that was the sort of thing I found funny. One afternoon it was clear that he was in love – there had been a steady stream of jolly songs.  And suddenly he sprang like a demon from his underground den and grabbed Roger – poor, prim Roger – gripping him fiercely and called out  - ‘C’mon you tight-arsed bastard – let’s have a dance!’ The two of them spun around the shop in a fairly decent waltz – The Publisher singing at the top of his voice : – ‘I could have danced all night I could have danced all night! And still have begged for more!.....’

J-----     (the model) She spent hours sitting for him - hundreds of drawing before he even started on the clay.  At first the idea of having her head ‘done’ by Danny had amused and flattered her, but it soon became tedious.  Danny used to tell me how it was coming along – she had a fabulous head and he was inspired – not that he could put his enthusiasm into words – but he’d say things like -  ‘serene beauty on the outside – but underneath!’  To which I was supposed to nod my head vigorously as if I understood. When the head was nearly finished he let me see it.  He had it covered by a wet cloth and it was mounted on a steel armature on a high wooden trestle.  She was so beautiful, timeless, classical – eyes closed;  her head was perfection, superb in profile and full on – the jaw coming forward as she is about to speak.  I said that it was the best portrait I had ever seen.   He said that when it was completed he would take it to a London art school for casting. I never found out what happened after that, the head was no longer on the plinth and he was occupied with a new subject. He wouldn’t say anything.  Even years later, even as an old man, he would not answer questions.  Those that knew him compared theories. Danny destroyed it – something he frequently did with his work. Danny was in love with the girl and she rejected him – very possible, all his involvements were problematic;  in this case the girl had hardly left school, and he was a thirty-two year old who spent a lot of time as a voluntary patient in mental hospitals.   Danny had it cast in plaster and simply gave it to the girl, as a tribute to her beauty. I believe the last one.

Manchester Nights They used to meet in a city centre bar – both going straight from their offices – this was during the week but never on a Friday evening – she had to explain to him.  He would order a whisky sour and a vodka and they would sit in a banquette away from the door but facing the street.  Just a young couple happy together; perhaps in love - nothing very unusual in all this – nothing at all. Manchester was an austere city in the 1960s; not at all like the place it is today.  You didn’t go to Manchester to have fun; it was a place of business; of dark warehouses and triumphal banks.  No one lived in the centre, no trees, no greenery at all, no break from the heavy orthodoxy of commercialism.   But it was nice in the bar where nothing distracted them from each other – except her eyes kept flickering across to the street – to the building facing them in the street.  She was mesmerised by the sign in the yellow street light:- J. & E.W.  Kegan  (Imports) Ltd.

A London Street  #2     1967 Some might have said that Anna’s husband wasn’t up to much.  His name was Joe and he was an unemployed drummer -  American -  always on the point of the ‘big break’ that never came.  He was out nearly every night in the Earls Court pubs, mixing with the rock and blues crowds and would stumble home,  eager to tell his wife about the offer that would soon be his.  He also used to bring people back with him – people who had missed their last train, or were too drunk to go home, or had no home to go to.  Anna didn’t make a fuss, she conjured up a quick supper, locked the doors, fed the cat, carried bundles of bedding for the guests and set the clock;  she had to be up early for her job at St. Thomas’ Hospital. Anna loved Joe’s accent – he was from Chicago but she could catch the Irish origins, which being a Celt herself, sounded very attractive to her.  Hearing his voice took her back to another voice – another American voice – a voice from when she was a girl growing up in her Welsh village.   A very distinguished writer and his American wife settled in a small terrace house, right on the main street.  No one knew why they had chosen to live in a Welsh village, known only for slate mining.   The man was really odd but word had it that he had been twice nominated for the Nobel Prize for literature, so that stunned the locals into silence.   His output continued, but his major books had already been written and published. And then he became ill and was taken to hospital in Chester, and was quickly discharged and returned home to die.   His widow remained in the village – she hardly ever went out and had no visitors. But a friendship developed between Anna and the widow – Anna was sixteen or so and the widow was in her seventies.  They sat in the tiny living room and talked endlessly about Anna’s life at school and what she wanted to do in the future.  She was happy to chat and tell the frail, bright-eyed lady everything about herself;  she told her things that she would never mention to anyone else. She started to love the woman’s voice –  it was the voice of Emily Dickenson. One afternoon Anna followed her up the narrow stairs to see the room where her husband had worked.   It was small and unfurnished – just a bookcase and a desk and a chair at the window.  There wasn’t a carpet and the wooden boards creaked under her school shoes.   The desk was plain wood with a sloping top – like clerks used in Victorian times.  Sunlight poured through the dusty window, but only on that side of the room.  She looked down and saw the river and how the weeds looked like a woman’s long hair being rinsed.  The woman was explaining something and her words lost their meaning, it was just the music of her voice – highly educated, soft cadences, summer afternoons,  a slight insinuation, love letters so old that the paper melted and crumbled in your fingers.  She felt faint and the woman quickly reached out for her –  and then the woman said, in her best Boston voice – ‘I think you and I should have a nice glass of whiskey!’