Short story

Over the summer I participated in a creative writing course. I was supposed to complete it in time for my return to work but you know how life gets busy. Predictably, it ended up spilling over slightly into the new term.

The final assessment piece is a 1000 word short story which we shared with our peers in order to recieve feedback. Critiquing the work of others is a truly insightful process if you are careful to remain objective and resist the urge to beat yourself up for your perceived failings.

We create different pieces for different audiences and use varying styles and types of language dependent upon the purpose of our piece, the atmosphere we wish to create and the episode we are attempting to recount. Some readers will enjoy your story, others won’t.

Anyway, here’s my story…

Snapped (offensive language)


Harry was always going to regret his decision to go to the pub that Friday night. He’d endured an utterly shit week at work with Paul his boss riding his ass every five minutes to ‘contact this customer; email that purchaser; get Jim from IT up here to fix the wireless connection…’ The list was endless. This irascible man’s sloppy-shouldered style of management was creating a mountainous burden of responsibility under which Harry was being buried alive.
One bleak November afternoon had proven particularly fraught. Harry had attempted to broach the subject with Paul but was clearly informed that if he couldn’t cope with the demands of his job then he should make way for someone that could. He bit his tongue daily, would not allow himself to be rattled and constantly told himself that he was only sticking it out there until he had sufficient experience to look elsewhere. That day, he had come within an inch of telling Paul to shove his job but once more had talked himself down; reminded himself to look at the bigger picture. This did little to contain his anger or lighten his dismal mood. At four-thirty, with the skies fully darkened and the office lighting boring into him as much as his discontent, he decided to head home, leaving his arm-long list of chores for the following Monday. Wearily, he put on his jacket, grabbed his rucksack and phone and was halfway to the lift when he heard his name echoing up the corridor.
‘Just keep walking’ he told himself, however in such a short corridor he had no hope of pretending that he hadn’t heard. He could have sworn he saw a trace of a wry smile on the tyrant’s face as he was sent to fish some files from his desk before finally making his escape. The delay was actually negligible, however today it was just long enough to ensure that, as Harry approached, the number 29 bus was easing away from the stop into the busy Friday night traffic, forcing him to wait another 20 minutes for the following bus to arrive and finally whisk him home. He gave the post a swift boot in frustration and glanced up as the first spots of rain began to fall.

The subsequent bus was rammed to capacity although the driver still stopped to allow Harry aboard. Flashing his pass, he walked the three steps in to grasp the only available area of handrail, ending up wedged into the fleshy folds of the enormous passenger beside him. With his head at armpit level and a pungent hue of body odour flowing forth, he decided to cut this journey short and alight at the Royal Oak, just 3 stops on. He could do with a jar anyway. With his free hand, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone and quickly texted the boys to see if they fancied joining him.

The boozer was a steady 100 yard uphill climb from the bus stop. Opening the heavy wooden door to enter, Harry acknowledged to himself that he was already feeling a fraction less drained by the day’s events; maybe a crisp, welcoming pint of Kronenbourg accompanied by some light-hearted banter would turn out to be the perfect remedy to this awful day.
Connor was the first of his friends through the door; tall, lean and exceptionally loud. The crash of the solid pub door flinging open announced his arrival. He then boomed his order across the room.
“Lager tops, a packet of crisps and three Jaeger bombs, please love,” he turned to wink at Harry.
“Start as you mean to go on. Ain’t that right H?”
Harry grinned at his larger-than-life friend and partner in crime since junior school.
“Spot on, bro. I fucking need it after today, I can tell you!”
Ten minutes later and Rhys was joining them at their table, pint already in hand.
“What’s happening? What did I miss?”
“Not a lot, Harry’s just telling us what an utter prick his boss is!”
“So, what’s new?”
“As if you need to ask! Grab one of these and get it down your neck!” They all reached for their Jaegerbombs chucked them back.
“Three more please, love.” Connor called to the bar and the ritual was repeated.
“Coming back to your work situation, I don’t know why you put up with it mate! That man’s an utter tool,” Connor continued “but you’re even more of a tool for putting up with it.”
“Like I have a choice!” Harry sighed.
“Course you’ve got a fucking choice mate. Grow a pair! I’m going to be completely honest with you now; having to listen to your bitching and moaning about that miserable prick and the way he treats you is starting to get old.”
“Thanks a lot!”
“Don’t get all pissy with me, I’m just saying, the man’s a twat. He’s been a twat forever and he isn’t going to change. You get wound up about it but you could change it all and make your life a whole lot easier by just…”
The fist knocked Connor from his seat and flat onto his back, Harry just couldn’t contain it and, looking back, still could not remember the consequent stream of thought that triggered him to jump from his seat and rain a heavy shower of punches into the face of his oldest friend. He still balks at the memory of Rhys pulling him away; of the blood and the mess.
Connor was helped to a seat in the corner as the manager and Rhys pushed Harry out of the door. Harry shot a desperate glance back at the bleeding Connor hoping for a sign that things may be OK, that forgiveness might be possible. Connor did not look round.
Taking a step outside, the speedily approaching intermittent blue lights accompanied by the jarring wail of a siren signalled that this episode was far from over.

138

I wrote this a while ago but it is one of my favourites. It brings people back to me who I miss very much.

138

Tucked away in an unassuming corner,
The last entrance on the right
Past the cupboard where the bogey man lives
The westerly door stands invitingly
I ring the bell and wait for its wooden arms to open
And pull me inside

‘Alright shorty!’ and a big hug are the standard greeting
I stoop for the hug, so pleased to accept it.
So delighted to be here again.

A haven of 70s geometrically patterned wallpaper
The swirly brown and orange vortex beneath our feet
The collection of miniature ornaments on the wall opposite the aunt’s place
(to whom visits were always announced)
A zoo of tiny creatures grazing on wooden shelves
All waiting to welcome me as I step inside

My mind casts back
To Christmases with bodies sleeping in every possible inch of space
Cousins on sofas in the living room
Us, in the single beds in the spare room, squeezed up with mum and dad

I remember
A beige, flowery 3 piece suite, at weekends accommodating far more bottoms than it was designed for.
Blanketed knees and a roaring fire in June

Divine Sunday dinners,
Kids seated at the table; the adults eat from trays on their laps.
Roast potatoes cooked in lard,
Runner beans sliced in the old green machine with the turn handle
that looked as if it belonged in a toolshed rather than any kitchen
Tinned peaches for pudding and evaporated milk or Sterilised thick cream
My favourite!
Or maybe that was the rice pudding – I never could decide.

After sunset, when the kids were sent to bed
The dining table would transform
Now a card table, the stakes were high
Stacks of gleaming coppers waiting to be claimed
by the owner of the best hand.

138 – A place where the scattered pieces of our jigsaw puzzle
Would refind themselves and fit back exactly as they should
In relaxed familiarity
And often hilarity
Or just plain conviviality.

I ponder who might live there now?
Is it just a residence, a roof over a head?
Or is it bursting at the seams with love
As when I last visited.

Reflections on the return to school.

I went back to school today, as did my colleagues – the pupils are scheduled to start back later this week. It’s my 9th September at my current school though only my 4th as a member of teaching staff. The five previous ones were enjoyed back in the 80s when I was an intelligent but largely unmotivated student (unless the lesson was German, Spanish or English).

Today’s has to be the strangest first day back (from a teaching perspective) that I have ever experienced. We have a body of extremely experienced staff however, the format for teaching in the current crisis is so alien to anything that we are used to that, to some extent, we may as well be novices.

Processes and protocols that we would normally know without pausing for thought, are having to be researched and risk assessments pored over in order to find answers to questions that, in any other year, we would not have to ask.

Can we hand books out? Can we walk around the classroom? Who writes detentions into the students planners? Can we lend the students a pen? It seems ridiculous but we are so concerned to preserve the safety of the students and ourselves that we have to ponder and find answers to these silly questions that we would never dream of asking in non-Covid times.

The timetable is so complicated with staggered start times, different break and lunch times for different year groups and the staff moving between rooms that it has taken twice as long as usual just to write the lessons for this term into my planner. Tomorrow, I will walk the different routes of the room changes so that, once the students return, there are no unnecessary delays getting from A to B – another activity that would not be needed in a different year.

One thing that really impressed me today is my colleague’s determination and enthusiasm to make sure that we get this right. This observation applies across the board from SLT, through the teaching staff to the members of support staff. We want to exude a confidence that allows our students to return at the end of the week and quickly have any fears allayed by our aura of calm assuredness. From what I know of people who work in education, this will hold true in schools throughout the country.

It’s 7 weeks until half term, it’ll be interesting to see what they throw at us!

Death of a town centre

One, two, three, four.

It’s not worth going to town anymore.

Five, six, seven, eight.

Online shopping has sealed its fate.

Nine, ten, eleven twelve.

Empty windows reveal unstocked shelves.

We observed the closures one by one.

Every week saw another store gone.

The signs were there but nothing done.

It’s just easier to buy from Amazon.

Twelve, eleven, ten, nine.

I don’t work in retail so I’ll be fine.

Eight, seven, six, five.

Don’t need that kind of work for my family to thrive.

Four, three, two, one.

Decline on a scale that cannot be undone.

Not defined by a number

Eleven years climbing the ladder

to arrive at this day.

Thousands of ideas

and facts picked up from each seperate rung

all stored

and accumulated in the grey space between my ears.

Today I become certified

The climb validated

Yet I remain unchanged from the person I was yesterday.

Identical, but for a piece of paper that purports to report my selfworth.

A tale of injustice and incompetence.

Two days have passed since eighteen year old across the country logged into their VLEs or went into their Sixth Form centres to pick up the envelope containing the awarded outcome of the last two years of their study and hard work. Many were delighted, I am exceptionally happy for those students. My son was amongst those who got exactly what was predicted and is now off to his first choice uni. As a parent I could sit back and rest on my laurels, right? Wrong.

Williamson’s last minute announcement of the triple lock was our first proper indication that something was awry (I will come back to the triple lock later) and, by midday on Thursday, tales of multiple injustices caused by the blanket application of an ill-conceived algorithm with no regard for the individual had come to the surface.

The government and Ofqual argued that, due to teachers’ overpredictions, it was necessary to apply the algorithm to bring results into line with previous years. Williamson stated that a minority of schools had tried to take advantage of the situation and predicted all As and A*s when in previous years they had had a normal range of results. I contend that those in charge of the system failed in their duty by not challenging such submissions and seeking evidence at the time they were provided back in May. This small amount of work on their part may well have negated the need to apply their flawed statistical methodology later in the process.

What else have the examboards been doing anyway? All schools will have paid for their entries but the outlay for the boards will have been much diminished due to the lack of requirement for markers this exam season. Perhaps the cash surplus might have been used to employ people to do balances and checks on the new results produced by the algorithm so that glaring inconsistencies between a student’s prior attainment, mock results, teacher prediction and their ‘result’ could have been investigated prior to results day. How long exactly have they sat on these (for some) terribly unfair grades and done zilch to put them right?

Did the teachers overpredict? An ex- colleague of mine who has been in the profession for many years argues that teachers more accurately know what their students are capable of; what they can’t account for is who will have a blip on the day, whose nerves will get the better of them and so they are able to provide a more accurate holistic picture of the students abilities than any exam can.

The triple lock is unfit for purpose – mocks are usually taken at a time when classes have not completed the syllabus. Expecting students to take an exam 8 months after they have received any formal teaching and (for GCSE students) at a time when they are getting to grips with the demands of the next level of study is ridiculous if we are wanting good outcomes.

I have tweeted Mr Williamson asking for a breakdown by sector of the 2% of results that were upgraded. Why anyone would believe that teachers would underpredict results for their classes is unfathomable. I shall be backing this up with an email to my local MP in the quest for this information. It is clear that bright kids in lower attaining schools bore the brunt of the downgrading, that is not to say that it didn’t happen in other contexts and it is unfair to all students who saw their dreams dashed because of it. Which sector benefitted this year? In terms of As and A* increases it was the independents. Could the same be said of upgrading too? We shall see.

Now we face the agonising wait for the GCSE results. If nothing is done to improve the system ahead of this coming Thursday, I am fearful on two levels:

Firstly, for my own child and her hopes to get onto the A levels of her choice.

Secondly, for the students I teach. My classes are made up of the extended (more able students) in a school in a disadvantaged area.

I hope for them that common sense will have prevailed by Thursday and that all students get the results they deserve as assessed by the teachers who know them well. That will not mean that they get an easy ride of it, hours were put into the system of determining the correct grades; difficult but honest decisions were made. Centre assessed grades would not mean that all kids end up cartwheeling down the street at their bumper results. Some students would not fare so well but at least there would be integrity in the grade. It would be decided by someone who knows and has worked with the student rather than a computer programme.

The Sungod

Nourisher, heater, hope giver

Creeping in each day to wake us

Sometimes hidden but always there.

You provide and sustain us,

Bathe and maintain us

Then hide and evade us

Our souls you repair

Causing our feet to itch

You up our desire to socialise,

disrobe ourselves and play

You inspire and energise

With a power so great

Impossible to harness

You tire and you beat

Wear out and oppress

Rerobed in your leaden suit

You make the days seem long

Moving causes duress

A right become so wrong

A master

We your servants

Beholden to your whim

Will you beat down and subdue us

Or will you gently warm our skin?

The impending storm(s).

The balmy weather of the last week and a half has been greeted with the usual mixed reaction of the inhabitants of this temperate isle.  We have basked in the sun; journeyed to the beaches and the parks in sweltering cars – often with failing air conditioning; relaxed in gardens (our own or those of local drinking establishments); we have dined al fresco and we may even have managed to change the usually pale pallor of our skin to a light bronze – normally preceded by an intense purpley-red hue and multiple applications of aloe vera or some other after-sun lotion to assuage the raw pain of our sunburnt skin. 

We will also have passed nights tossing and turning; roasting in our beds. At bedtime each evening,  I have enjoyed the mental debate over whether to close the windows and suffer the resulting higher temperatures and stuffiness of the room or open them and risk being feasted upon by flying beasties to whom my blood is akin to a fine rioja.  I always force us to endure the sweltering room as opposed to the bites or my constant paranoia that there are midgies in the room flying around my prone body like vultures circling carrion.

We will have complained at least once that it is ‘too hot’ with the addendum that we ‘shouldn’t complain though as it’ll soon be winter’. We will have sighed and puffed but we will also have enjoyed the sun rays licking our skin and the chance to wear shorts, get our legs out, wear our bright summer clothes.

I love good weather –  when I am not suffocating in the confines of a classroom with windows that open just a fraction and not nearly enough to allow any great circulation of air.  I love the positive energy the sun bestows upon us; the way in which our streets look so much more inviting by the simple occurrence of being topped by a clear blue sky.  It’s a shame that, for me,  this joy is too soon replaced by a dark edge; that as the raw heat turns to humidity, the weight of the air will start to bear down on me and my happiness will start to be tinged with worry because I know what must come next. The storms.

I cannot remember when I first felt the anxiety that stirs inside me when a thunderstorm hits, I feel as if I have always had it.  Dark skies make me nervous and unsettle me. I feel resentment that I cannot entirely revel in the summer sunshine as the expectation of trauma is lurking somewhere deep in the mix.

 Astraphobia is its given name (amongst others) and the strange thing is that on some occasions I feel the fear more keenly than on others.  Sometimes I feel slightly agitated but relatively calm, on others I will shake and hyperventilate.  I have spent some time reflecting upon the whys and wherefores of the range of reactions that I experience and the determining factors appear to be these:

1 – The severity of the storm.  If there are a few distant rumbles of thunder, then of course I am not going to be as fearful as when there is forked lightening and overhead booms full of crackling electricity.

2 – Where I am.  If I am at home and I can close the curtains and distract myself by watching the TV, I feel altogether more tranquil.

3 – What I am doing or have to do.  I will feel a salient panic if I there is an activity that I have to do, it doesn’t take my mind off of the weather, it just adds to the perceived pressure.

4- Do I have to go outside.  No way do I want to do this.  I do not want to leave the house to go to work or cross the school playground to get to the other building or go outside to do my duty slot.

5- Is it day or is it night?  Storms are invariably worse at night, not perhaps in real intensity but the truth is that the stark contrast of the lightening against the dark night sky makes it appear innately more menacing, add to this the increased feeling of vulnerability at being in bed, laid out waiting to be hit and it produces an altogether more terrifying situation.

People will always try and reason with me as to how safe you are during storms and that nothing will happen, they will state how miniscule the chances are that you will be hit.  I have no truck with these platitudes.  When my son was in year 7 at school (the school less than kilometre from my house) one of the cohort was standing by a lamppost in the carpark when a bolt bounced off it and struck him, he survived but was hospitalised for a considerable amount of time. 

Due to the infrequency of storms in this country, this phobia does not enjoy a massive impact on my life, it actually just boils down to a few uncomfortable hours in any given year and nothing more,  I therefore see no point in treatment.  My phobia is also a part of what makes me me.  Everyone has interests, hobbies, things they like, things that they hate and most people have something that they fear – this fear is mine.

We are currently forecast to endure three days with storms over the passage of this week, not whole days, I hope.  Luckily, I am in the middle of my holidays and I don’t really need to go anywhere at any given time.  I have things to do to distract me but nothing that I need to do (less pressure).  When they hit, I know that I will receive texts and phone calls checking that I am OK, that will depend on the five factors listed above.  We shall see!  At least it makes for exciting times.

    Sunday Service

    Night’s curtain lifts cautiously

    afraid of the scene that awaits

    The trill of the pigeon’s Sabbath chorale

    Will prove insufficient means to placate

    A disappointed deity

    Who is soundly being ignored

    By those congregating here yesterday

    as the pubs and the clubs closed their doors.

    The females in tiny clothing,

    the men with the strut or the swagger

    at the start of the night but come 2am

    They can barely manage to stagger

    To the closest pizza shop or kebab van

    for a doner to settle the booze

    served by foreigners milking our system

    by toiling in kitchens and taking abuse.

    In front of the bank was a scuffle

    Between a blonde guy and his best mate

    Over a bird and it’s not the first time a girl

    turned their brotherly love into hate.

    By sunlight the droplets of crimson

    have mixed in with the piss and stale chips

    Municipal cleaners arrive to erase all the signs

    Of the Saturday night apocalypse.

    Day 1

    It’s more than a fraction strange that I have finally taken the steps necessary to take this idea of mine and turn it into something concrete. I thought that it might seem a little bit pretentious to create my own brand and some may think that the title of this site is plain stupid however, in my humble opinion, it describes perfectly what this site is.

    I don’t consider the term dullard as being completely negative – life is full of dull moments, not every moment can be a thrilling, roller coaster ride. Most of what I do is connected to my work role or my life as a wife and mother. It is the dull bits of each day that are the mainstay of what we are. I live for fun, I live for the party and the extreme joys and pleasures of life but I also live for the day to day, the things that fill the majority of my hours. I therefore happily class myself as a dullard and so should you!

    It’s getting late and I shall be going to bed very shortly so I shall wrap this up with a short poem. A haiku – piss easy and not too demanding at this time of night:

    I bloody did it

    My ambition all along

    Now, what should I write?