tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post1697873995095509544..comments2023-10-10T13:29:10.657+01:00Comments on Your Messages: November 27thLynne and Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15264808382074910359noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-50401198372064837272007-11-28T00:05:00.000+00:002007-11-28T00:05:00.000+00:00The trunk’s made of metal. It’s rusty and five foo...The trunk’s made of metal. It’s rusty and five foot long and two foot wide. When I've got guests I cover it with a tablecloth and disguise it as a coffee table. When I don't have company I pull off the tablecloth and do this thing that stops me from having nightmares. I've been doing it since I was a kid. <BR/><BR/>I first had the nightmare after Mum died when I was nine and I moved in with Dad. I had the same nightmare every night for a month until I found the trunk at the bottom of his garden one rainy afternoon. I climbed in and shut the lid. It was quiet and warm in there and the rain made drumming noises on the lid. I curled up and had a talk with Mum; just me, telling her a few things, how I was feeling, how much I missed her, stuff like that. I didn't have the nightmare that night, or any other night (as long as I'd visited the trunk during the day). <BR/><BR/>My new girlfriend Steph normally comes round at one o'clock to spend her lunch break with me. I do an early shift at the factory so I'm always home by eleven thirty, just enough time to grab a bit of food and jump into the trunk for a while before I make it back into a coffee table. Yesterday Steph came round early. I'd left the front door ajar because I'd burnt my food so she just let herself in. First thing I knew about it was when she opened the lid to the trunk and discovered me inside. <BR/><BR/>I just lay there on my back, my knees hugged to my chest and stared up at her. <BR/><BR/>"Hello," I said. <BR/><BR/>What else could I say?<BR/><BR/>taylor_cally [at] yahoo.co.ukCL Taylorhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04650291635298634215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-83857545568551434802007-11-27T23:14:00.000+00:002007-11-27T23:14:00.000+00:00The giant grasshoppers could be spotted meditating...The giant grasshoppers could be spotted meditating on leaves and rocks and branches wherever you looked. Their turquoise, green and yellow articulated armour glinted in the sunshine as they rested as still and controlled as samurai warriors. Above compound eyes and masks that rendered their expressions inscrutable stood sharply striped antennae, orange and black, fierce and straight as Katana swords. Half helmets protected their necks from attack while red streaks of crackle-glazed wings rested neatly on their backs.<BR/><BR/>I just saw the beautiful colours and imagined the grasshoppers to be the bright creatures of some magic mountain kingdom. I wanted to have one.<BR/><BR/>I needed a cage. Flushed and sticky, I loitered in the hotel games room until the coast was clear and then, with slippery fingers and a guilty heart, I emptied a Boggle box of its contents and scurried away. Back in the gardens I used a stick to punch holes into the cardboard lid and furnished the interior with grass and leaves. I added a rock for good measure and sprinkled some sugar into the corner as a treat.<BR/><BR/>Capturing one was harder than I’d imagined. They resisted furiously, their striated jumping-legs powering them with startling speed and height. I persevered and was at last, with the aid of a pillowcase, rewarded with my magnificent, kaleidoscopic pet.<BR/><BR/>But peeking at the grasshopper through the half opened lid was dull. The insect looked grey and lifeless in the shadows of the box. The magic was gone. It crouched in the same position for days, as dispirited as a twig.<BR/><BR/>When we packed up to leave at the end of the week the bright creature from my magic mountain kingdom was dead. I threw the grasshopper and the box into the dustbin. It was not a noble warrior death.<BR/><BR/>claudia@pelagos.myzen.co.ukAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-7016117275868980132007-11-27T22:58:00.000+00:002007-11-27T22:58:00.000+00:00Mr and Mrs Box lived in Boxton Massachusetts with ...Mr and Mrs Box lived in Boxton Massachusetts with their Boxer dog. Mr Box loved boxing and every year on Boxing Day he’d go to the local boxing championships held at Boxton boxing ring. Mrs Box hated boxing so she spent Boxing Day at home, boxing-up the previous day’s rubbish. Most years she managed to fill three recycling boxes with empty cardboard boxes. Afterwards Mrs Box would check her inbox for festive messages from various members of the Box family who were unable (93-yr-old Betty Box) or too lazy (45-yr-old Barry Box) to make it to the postbox. Then Mrs Box would watch a DVD as there was never anything decent on the box Boxing Day. <BR/><BR/>When the film had finished Mrs Box would switch on their jukebox and listen to music whilst polishing off a box of chocolates before Mr Box got back. Mr Box was usually out of his box by the time he got home. Mrs Box hated it when Mr Box was drunk as he always got on his soapbox. No sooner had he finished ranting and raving than he’d be crashed out on the sofa snoring his box off. This infuriated Mrs Box and made her want to box her husband’s ears in. Normally she’d resort to making up a bed in their box room just to make a point. However this year Mrs Box decided to think outside the box. Instead of storming off to the box room in a huff, she snuck outside to the telephone box and phoned Mr Box’s brother Brian Box. Brain Box had always told her to give him a call if ever her life felt like an empty box. As she dialled the number she feared she was opening Pandora’s box. At least then there’d still be hope.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-83133743246924104802007-11-27T22:56:00.000+00:002007-11-27T22:56:00.000+00:00He reckoned it might be time to make a change once...He reckoned it might be time to make a change once he started getting emotionally involved with likes of Lydia from Lincolnshire. <BR/><BR/>National Treasure Noel Edmonds had just revealed whether her box contained 50 pence or 50,000 pounds.<BR/><BR/>“Hello?” he sniffed, annoyed by the phone’s interruption. <BR/><BR/>“Hi hon, it’s me,” his wife said. “You catching a cold?”<BR/><BR/>He said he was fine, blowing his nose.<BR/><BR/>“Are you … crying?”<BR/><BR/>Maybe, just a little. Happy tears though. No, nothing’s the matter, he was just a little overwhelmed. He’d really gotten to know Lydia over the past couple weeks, and she’s such a lovely woman (three grandkids, one deaf since birth). He was so tickled she hadn’t dealt with the banker at £17,500, and he was going to miss her now that she had to leave the show. No, he hadn’t gone off his anti-depressants and no, he hadn’t been drinking (well, not gin — maybe just a smidge of the Cabernet he’d put in the stew he was making for tea). Yes, he had spoken with the headhunters and there might be an interview or two next week.<BR/><BR/>“Let’s get this straight,” she said a few hours later, over a steaming bowl of Beef Bourguignon (which, if she were honest, was better than anything she could have made). “You sat in front of the idiot box in this box of a flat, plucking through a box of tissues because you actually care about twenty-two people and their cardboard boxes?”<BR/><BR/>Truthfully? He only cared about twenty-one of them. That Simon from Stoke Newington had the same sneer as their daughter’s ex-husband, so he’d taken against him. But the rest of them were delightful. <BR/><BR/>Okay, so it was actually his wife who reckoned it might be time to make a change.<BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/>bob [at] bobzyeruncle [dot] com<BR/><BR/><A HREF="http://bobzyeruncle.com" REL="nofollow">www.bobzyeruncle.com</A>bobhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14897020036945541472noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-14876679555792021052007-11-27T22:53:00.000+00:002007-11-27T22:53:00.000+00:00This comment has been removed by the author.bobhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14897020036945541472noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-46845462903671639882007-11-27T22:43:00.000+00:002007-11-27T22:43:00.000+00:00Lady Lonely occupies her usual brown armchair. Wor...Lady Lonely occupies her usual brown armchair. Worn and threadbare through age and overuse, it remains the solitary piece of furniture in the room. Several failing springs protrude randomly through its fabric; wicked tears indicate their sudden force of ejection. <BR/><BR/>As usual for this time of day, she sits drowned within her thoughts, save for the repetition of raising an arm to place the constantly smouldering, foul smelling, rolled cigarette into her mouth. She inhales deeply every time, allowing her arm to flop limply at her side. An overflowing ashtray sits on the broken armrest, unemptied for days. Countless crushed butts and dried tobacco cinders litter the chair, cascading in a mushroom plume to the filthy carpet below.<BR/><BR/>Cobwebs flutter in each upper corner of the room; the result of a wicked draught bludgeoning its way in, courtesy of ever weakening joints from the aged, rattling window frame. Small puffs of dust detach from gently swaying thick brown curtains, they hang limply like massed corpses of bats in a cave. Mottled water patches scud across the nicotine stained ceiling, congregating where the light shade cable connects them, pooling in a murky, frothy pattern of rusty paint flakes.<BR/><BR/>This was once a happy house.<BR/><BR/>Pungent odour, a deep set, rotting, damp stink, hangs menacingly in the air, smothering the murky room in waves of sinister foreboding. A slug lazily oozes across the floor, leaving its thick trail of clear slime imprinted upon the remnants of threadbare green carpet. It’s destination a likely rendezvous with its kin across the room, already having voyaged across this sea of rancid wool.<BR/><BR/>Lady Lonely considers her memories; of a house populated by unconditional love and harmony. All wrenched away with the linear passing of time. Life, she realised, was nothing more than an empty promise.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-53127499394297963962007-11-27T22:23:00.000+00:002007-11-27T22:23:00.000+00:00You long to be inside the box. You think it must b...You long to be inside the box. You think it must be a good place, warm and snug, with customised cupboards to hide in, to be alone. So, quickly when no one’s looking you rush to the box, but just on the point of jumping into it you lose your nerve. You run and stick your nose into a groove, it fits exactly. Eyebrows lift as you speed past the buffet table. Ice shivers in glasses. Murmurs disapprove. But then conversation resumes, about more amusing things.<BR/><BR/>Hours later, you cautiously skirt the dance floor and nip into the Anti-Room. The box is the room’s main in fact only feature, not counting the door. The party people make a show of ignoring the box, they hold parties to ignore it. You heard one of them snigger as you passed, “A triumph of experience over hope”. Meaning what?<BR/><BR/>The box! – you think. I’ll be safe inside the box, from their disdain. And everything else. I’ll be happy! Now your only wish is, to become the box’s content contents. To be a box-dweller, a boxer. Previously the box was of manageable size, easy to pop yourself into. Now it’s huge. You climb staples, negotiate a corner. Ouch! The top is closed. How to get inside? You pray for inspiration. And lo, a breath of wind catches you up, suspends you, whirls you merrily around and lets you fall into the box’s softly cushioned depths. <BR/><BR/>Ooom bohm. Heartbeats – yours? The box’s?<BR/><BR/>Ah, cupboards – nice ones. Tangerine Melamine. Spotlit.<BR/><BR/>The rest of Inside is dark. As the cupboard interiors are too, presumably.<BR/><BR/>Now what? You’re safe. Happy? Um.<BR/><BR/>Far off in the party room, you hear a glass break, a shrill laugh and a cry of “Gotcha, my darling!” You’ve started feeling a bit queasy.<BR/><BR/>frances.gapper@tiscali.co.ukFranceshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07131199250970527487noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-47268750406232438312007-11-27T22:11:00.000+00:002007-11-27T22:11:00.000+00:00“As long as I was in the corner of the car, the mo...“As long as I was in the corner of the car, the moment you came out of that silk cloth emporium<BR/> Until you reached home, until you unpacked that lovely silk sari and preserved it in the Godrej <BR/> Iron safe, I was given much importance. Now you push me into a corner for I will be occupying<BR/>Space, hence I am in a corner, a waste and to be discarded. Do you recognise I only carried your <BR/>Silk sari which is going to adorn you , for the gala wedding of your sister.” The hard bound box <BR/>Used to pack silk saris with attracting cover designs which have fascinated many, now with a <BR/>Grumpy, yet authoritative tone assailed me. To appease that box, I picked up with condescending<BR/>humility, stuffed all my telephone bills which were paid and gave a facelift. <BR/><BR/>Sometime back I had to parcel a gift of a ring to my relative abroad, so much so while thanking <BR/>he wrote back saying that it took a long time for him to negotiate the knots around the tiny box<BR/>although bound with thick flaps. It looked as if the box was mocking at me,”you took more care<BR/>in me for I was carrying your ornament.”<BR/><BR/>Those boxes came to my rescue many a time. All my journals, publications and books which<BR/>were overflowing my glass protected book shelf, were given asylum in my loft in boxes, with naphthalene spread lest moth should destroy the whole lot of books. Recently, while shifting to a new house, packing things in boxes, my best friend happened to come with a<BR/> praise for boxes, “I have a full box of letters wrongly deposited into my mail box, hoping<BR/>one day they may reach the right person, at times, names are repetitive”. <BR/>Radhamani<BR/>poet_radhamani@yahoo.com<BR/>pearlradhe.blogspot.comRadhamani Sarmahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01583569253733520878noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-39541061338504471842007-11-27T21:16:00.000+00:002007-11-27T21:16:00.000+00:00Dora Pan was a dinner lady at the local primary sc...Dora Pan was a dinner lady at the local primary school before she became a great and celebrated artist, by mistake. The kids adored Dora, because on Fridays she would yell out, ‘Stuff Jamie Oliver’ and dish out fish and chips followed by a choice of Manchester tart or chocolate sponge with pink custard. One day Dora was busy unpacking a large box of bananas, when Miss Turner, the art teacher, rushed into the kitchen in a terrible state. ‘Dora,’ she said, ‘help!’<BR/>‘What’s up luv?’ said Dora. And Miss Turner, eyes brimming with tears, yelped,<BR/>‘The great art critic, Beldon Blagg, who is a friend of the headmistress’s second cousin’s brother’s wife is due to arrive any minute to talk to the kids about modern art.’<BR/>‘Well?’ said Dora, untying her apron in anticipation.<BR/>‘Well, the headmistress has come over all queer after her pub lunch with the board of governors and needs to be driven home.’<BR/>‘The poor luv,’ said Dora, ‘she looked fine this morning, but I can’t drive.’<BR/>‘No, of course not, and since I’m the only teacher who didn’t attend the meeting, I’m the only one who can. So would you take charge of …?’<BR/>Dora laid her apron and the stanley knife, she’d used to open the box, on top of the bananas.<BR/><BR/>Miss Turner returned to her classroom just as the art critic Beldon Blagg had finished his chat on ‘Deconstruction in Art for five-year olds.’ The kids were all asleep. Dora was clapping thunderously. ‘Thank you’, she said, ‘bollocks!’ she thought. ‘Now I must get back to my own work.’<BR/>‘Your own work?’ replied Beldon Blagg.<BR/><BR/>Six months later a box containing several bunches of bananas, a stanley knife, and a floral apron was exhibited at the Tate, entitled, Yellow, Hostile Domesticity.<BR/><BR/> <BR/><BR/>pib.pob@ntlworld.comAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-12992429068278583882007-11-27T20:57:00.000+00:002007-11-27T20:57:00.000+00:00oops.. I told you mummy box wasn't feeling well. ...oops.. I told you mummy box wasn't feeling well. This is my entry again, with all of the mistakes removed this time. Well hopefully.<BR/><BR/>Daddy box said to mummy box: "It is funny how you never seem to get ill as often as the rest of us, and when you do, it never seems to effect you as badly. It must be immunities that you built up when you were a teacher.<BR/><BR/>Mummy box woke up feeling achy and feverish. "I don't feel well." She said to daddy box.<BR/><BR/>Mummy box thought back to when daddy box didn't feel well. She'd carefully set up the bedroom so that he could sit in bed and watch old war films. She'd taken the little boxes out whenever daddy box needed to sleep, and tried to ensure that all the little jobs that daddy box did, such as the washing up and putting out the bins, were done. Daddy box needed his rest to get better.<BR/><BR/>When baby box was ill, mummy box sat up in the night, rocking and renewing the medications. She was woken three or four times and had to give extra feeds. Grotty bedclothes were changed and the older boxes comforted when the wails of the youngest box disturbed them.<BR/><BR/>When mummy box's brother box was ill she took her nephew box to that place with the balls and the climbing frames and kept him away until bath time.<BR/><BR/><BR/>Daddy box looked at his watch, kissed the little boxes on the head and said: "Yes dear. Now you've got what everybox else has had. But can you survive until after my meeting at 2pm?" And left without a backward glance.<BR/><BR/>When everybox else had had the fever and the aches, mummy box had tried her best to make it easy for them. Mummy box had thought that now she was ill she might have reaped some of what she'd sown.<BR/><BR/>Silly box!<BR/><BR/>Harriman<BR/>rosewood100@btinternet.comAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-44000567755590235922007-11-27T20:30:00.000+00:002007-11-27T20:30:00.000+00:00It was one of those moments that nearly didn't hap...It was one of those moments that nearly didn't happen. The deconstruction of the box was a gradual elimination of fullness and heaviness, of lightness and vacuity. The box had sat on the shelf for what seemed a long enough time for it to gain personality. It seemed sentient. Its initial perfection was gradually marred by slight dents at the corners, a side where the lid slightly projected outward because too many bank statements slightly wider than the width of the box, crammed inside. Shifting left edge and right, the contents would fit with a quick shut of the lid. What eventually started to occur was the the box lost its perfect shape. One side bowed out a bit, along with a lid that looked like a distorted lip, almost ready to espouse an idea, but left silent, wondering.<BR/><BR/>The cat sat in it when someone left the lid ajar. He could nudge it open with his nose. It was perfect for curling into a cee-shape inside. Sometimes he could clean himself in it, leaving a few limbs exposed as he licked. The catnip mouse lay limp and saliva covered in a corner along with bits of fur. It even served as a cat carrier to the vet and was peed in. Then the cat turned in such a way that the box bowed and took on the form of a hat box rather than a square box. One side collapsed. <BR/><BR/>No one heard the box's wish to be larger or smaller fuller or lighter. The sides were flattened. It no longer bore the identity of box when the box cutter disassembled it. No one cared that dampened sides were tears when placed in the recycle bin. No one would recognize it when it returned as a designer shopping bag.An Yuhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/06703926924541702006noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-88620318640995390072007-11-27T20:03:00.000+00:002007-11-27T20:03:00.000+00:00Oops done it again.Daddy box said to mummy box.......Oops done it again.<BR/>Daddy box said to mummy box.....<BR/>Harriman<BR/>rosewood100@btinternet.comAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-5870183195462398302007-11-27T19:58:00.000+00:002007-11-27T19:58:00.000+00:00Daddy box said to mummy box: "It is funny how you...Daddy box said to mummy box: "It is funny how you never seem to get ill as often as the rest of us, and when you do, it never seems to effect you as badly. It must be immunities that you built up when you were a teacher.<BR/><BR/>Mummy box woke up feeling achy and feverish. "I really don't feel very well." She said to daddy box.<BR/><BR/>Mummy box thought back to when daddy box didn't feel very well. She'd carefully set up the bedroom so that he could sit in bed and watch old war films. She'd taken the children out whenever daddy box needed to sleep, and tried to ensure that all the little jobs that daddy box did, such as the washing up and putting out the bins, were done. Daddy box needed his rest to get better.<BR/><BR/>When baby box was ill mummy box sat up in the night, rocking and renewing the medications. She was woken three or four times and had to give extra feeds where necessary. Grotty bedclothes were changed and the older children comforted when the wails of the youngest disturbed them.<BR/><BR/>When mummy box's brother was ill she took her nephew to that place with the balls and the climbing frames and kept him away until bath time.<BR/><BR/>Daddy box looked at his watch, kissed the little boes on the head and said: "Yes dear. Now you've got what everyone else has had. But if you can survive until after my meeting at 2pm?" And left without a backward glance.<BR/><BR/>When everybody else had had the fever and the aches, mummy box had tried her best to make it easy for them. Mummy box had thought that now she was ill she might have reaped some of what she had sown.<BR/><BR/>Silly box!Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-1453576771542468662007-11-27T19:18:00.000+00:002007-11-27T19:18:00.000+00:00I have a storage box. It is quite large (about nin...I have a storage box. It is quite large (about ninety-two square metres), triangular in cross-section, and it sits on top of my house. Like every other box I own, it is full of stuff. Spare stuff. Kids’ stuff. Husband’s stuff. Camping stuff. Junk stuff. Sentimental stuff. Some of it is even my stuff.<BR/><BR/>Originally, I had a much bigger storage box, which belonged to my parents (theirs was underneath the house), but I wasn’t really interested in boxes then. I had my own little living box, and I didn’t have much stuff. It was only when I married, and got my own house of boxes, that I first realised the potential of storage. Immediately, I started filling it with our stuff. Since then we have increased the size of our various boxes, and have delighted in moving all our stuff from one to the other (often without unpacking it in-between).<BR/><BR/>Now we’re settled. It is a long time since I could get all my stuff into the back of my little box on wheels and move it from box to box. It’s a long time since I had my own living box too. We used to have lots of spare boxes, but we’ve filled them all with children now. My husband can escape to the box in the garden, but I cannot. I no longer have a box to call my own. <BR/><BR/>Now, I am standing in my ninety-two square metres of triangular-cross-sectioned storage box, and dreaming. I am very excited. I am going to take out all the other people’s stuff, and make it my box. I am even going to cut a hole in the side, so I can see out. My box. My space. Just for me.<BR/><BR/>(And my stuff.)<BR/><BR/><BR/>Leigh<BR/>leigh.forbes@blot.co.ukLeigh Forbeshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01651812577518625326noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-41320812241911578282007-11-27T19:06:00.000+00:002007-11-27T19:06:00.000+00:00‘Now here’s something really special,’ said the ma...‘Now here’s something really special,’ said the man, pointing to an exquisite gold and enamel box displayed alone in a brilliantly lit showcase. <BR/><BR/>‘That box, ‘said the jeweller, ‘contains the last of the Fabergé eggs which the Tsar intended to give his wife. It’s had an interesting history for two reasons. First, it was the only egg made with its own matching box, and second, although it was finished in 1916, it was never given to the Tsarina because the Tsar abdicated before Easter in 1917.’<BR/><BR/>The jeweller took the box out of the showcase. It was covered in oyster enamel and criss-crossed into squares by fine patterns of woven gold wire adorned with pearls. Inside each square was a cabochon ruby, emerald, or sapphire. He pressed the side and the lid rose revealing a bed of gold satin in which lay cocooned a matching egg.<BR/><BR/>‘Can you tell me its history?’ asked the man. ‘Not many of these around now, I imagine.’<BR/><BR/>‘Fabergé left St. Petersburg in October 1918 on the last diplomatic train,’ said the jeweller. ‘He had given his wife this box and egg and other valuable pieces before he left and she, with her eldest son Eugène, escaped to Finland. The family were not reunited, but eventually Eugène and one of his brothers settled in Paris. It was the sale of this box and egg to the Comte de Tourville-Landevin that enabled them to set up as jewellers.’<BR/><BR/>‘I would like to buy it,’ said the man, ‘as long as your price is not too preposterous,’ he added, smiling. ‘I’ve done pretty well over the years in California and feel I can reclaim some of my past.’<BR/><BR/>‘How so?’ asked the jeweller.<BR/><BR/>‘My great-great-grandfather was trained as a goldsmith in the Fabergé workshop.’ replied the man.<BR/><BR/>judytattersfield@tiscali.co.ukAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-72438788902814959492007-11-27T19:02:00.000+00:002007-11-27T19:02:00.000+00:00My HusbandYou hoard things. Letters, theatre ticke...<I>My Husband</I><BR/><BR/>You hoard things. Letters, theatre tickets, boarding passes. A lot of people do this. They have an old shoe box under the bed or on top of the wardrobe and they keep special things. <BR/><BR/>You are not this kind of hoarder. You keep old string that were tied round birthday gifts, elastic bands, egg cartons, jam pots because the ‘might come in useful one day’. You keep carrier bags, envelopes, bubble wrap so you can use them again. You have bottles, cans, cardboard stacked in boxes under the stairs. This isn’t so bad. Once in a while you pack them into the car and take them to the tip. This seems sensible.<BR/><BR/>But, I worry about you sometimes. I find piles of magazines and comic books in the attic, that you keep because you might want to read them again one day. There are boxes and bags filled with old toys and stuffed animals even though the children are long since grown up. You keep their school books, <I>your</I> school books, backed with wallpaper and scrawled with your name on the front. First blankets, first teeth, first hair curls, bell bottoms, platforms. <BR/><BR/>You keep wallpaper that no longer hangs on our walls, scraps of cloth from curtains that have long been ripped up to use as dishrags, and the dog’s old basket, chewed round the edges.<BR/><BR/>I wonder where it might lead, what you might start hoarding next. We could down-scale if we had a clearout, might move on, travel, enjoy ourselves more. Who knows?<BR/><BR/>But then, this morning, you showed me the leftover butts of cigarettes from when you used to smoke, nail clippings, a used handkerchief from when we were dating that you’ve never washed.<BR/><BR/>I thought I knew you. Perhaps I know too much. <BR/><BR/>Annie Clarkson<BR/>www.myspace.com/annieclarksonAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-67320029504801437542007-11-27T18:38:00.000+00:002007-11-27T18:38:00.000+00:00Once upon a time there was a little birthday boy. ...Once upon a time there was a little birthday boy. All his gifts were opened, but the one from his parents. He saved that for last, but now he picked it up. It felt very light. He shook it. Nothing rattled. The boy nudged it with his foot and it shot across the floor. He got worried. He began to wish that the box was fuller, heavier. He closed his eyes. He wished so hard his hair began to itch. Then the little box grew into a medium-size box, and then a big box. Soon, it was so heavy and so full the boy couldn’t move it at all. He began to wish the box could become a little box again. Or better, that he could become bigger. <BR/> The boy wished again. He wished so hard his sides ached. But nothing happened.<BR/> He had an idea. The boy walked into the kitchen. He drank a big glass of milk. He pumped his arms like a prizefighter, bent his knees like a gymnast. He felt himself grow stronger.<BR/> Now when he gave the box a nudge, it moved. When he crouched down and tried to lift it up, he could. Inside, he heard something slide. One big, heavy thing. Again he felt sad. What big, heavy thing had his parents given him? Was he really strong enough to carry it? It was his birthday, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be that big, that strong.<BR/> The boy closed his eyes. He wished again and soon the box felt empty and light. He could throw it with one hand. Nothing inside shook. Now it seemed too small, too light and again he grew sad. Maybe he didn’t want the box at all. Maybe he would open the box tomorrow. <BR/><BR/>Silly boy.<BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/>sue@guineyuk.comAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-26144334386586000112007-11-27T18:28:00.000+00:002007-11-27T18:28:00.000+00:00Were we all misled over this wishing business, jus...Were we all misled over this wishing business, just a waste of perfectly good wishes, achieving nothing? Stirring the Christmas pudding, wishing on a star. But it was the time I wished with all my strength, pulling so hard on my half of the wishbone, getting the knobbly bit, that I felt sure it was all a terrific con.<BR/><BR/>That is - until a few months ago. I answered the door to find a courier with a parcel. I signed for it; no name or address of sender, but my own correct. I sat down with eager anticipation to open my parcel. Surely too early for Christmas? I tried to guess what it could be, until my curiosity won and I had to find out. I removed the thick brown paper and the inner layer of protective cardboard.<BR/> <BR/>Inside was a box skilfully decorated in marquetry. A single word ‘XOBGNIHSIW’ engraved on one side. It was locked but had no keyhole, lid or fastening. It rattled when shaken. I examined the box each day until, after it had been in my possession for a week, frustration drove me to give it a violent shake, exclaiming aloud “I wish you’d just let me see inside!” <BR/><BR/>Slowly a crack appeared, gradually opening. I could see a tarnished metal key resting on a bed of red velvet. My fingers touched but could not release the key. Suddenly, as slowly as it had opened, the crack closed. The box rattled again when I shook it.; Something impelled me to look more closely at the inscription. How stupid of me not to have seen it. ‘Wishingbox’.<BR/><BR/>I keep it in case some selfless need should arise, where the granting of a wish might be life-saving. I believe this is the reason for the box’s existence.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-28206382672668784772007-11-27T18:25:00.001+00:002007-11-27T18:25:00.001+00:00A life in boxes.Boxes packed into the attic of you...A life in boxes.<BR/><BR/>Boxes packed into the attic of your parents’ home. They used to contain school work, dolls and books by A.A. Milne, but when you left home your mother opened the boxes and brought the toys and books downstairs again.<BR/><BR/>That attic also contains some of the boxes you brought home from university, crammed with dissertation notes, text books and love letters you once couldn’t bear to look at again. You hope your mother has not found the ribbon-tied envelopes and thrown them away, but you dare not ask.<BR/><BR/>Boxes full of clothes and books which you have taken to the charity shop. Garments you outgrew, volumes you couldn’t get into, yet sometimes find yourself buying again now you are older, if not wiser. You always support the hospice shops, as you cherish far too many people whose loved ones have passed away in the care of those special places.<BR/><BR/>Now your life appears to have come full circle. The attic of your marital home contains boxes of photos and memories of your own children. Tiny premature-sized baby sleep suits and designer dungarees, special gifts from a foreign godmother. The toys, however, were mostly broken years ago and the children have all left home.<BR/><BR/>Boxes of well-thumbed study manuals. You worked hard for your first career, now you are studying for a change of direction. It is never too late to follow your true journey, you tell yourself as you finger the trinkets in your jewellery box; treasures collected from all over the world, whose sentimental value far exceeds their monetary worth.<BR/><BR/>Then there is your special box. A secret inbox concealing the emails from your lover, the man who is patiently waiting for you to once more pack up your life into boxes and move on.Cathyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14103529618681254875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-72806421858213874092007-11-27T18:25:00.000+00:002007-11-27T18:25:00.000+00:00Pandora cursed the day her parents named her. Why...Pandora cursed the day her parents named her. Why couldn’t she just have been Jane, or Mary or something normal that didn’t invite comment at every turn? It was such a name to have to live up to. It wouldn’t have mattered so much except that as she grew into a young woman she found she rather liked the idea of being a Pandora, however much she fought against it. She even went as far as signing up for Greek classes, convinced that the prospectus falling open on that particular page was a sign. She felt herself to be a myth in the making.<BR/><BR/>OK, so she was no good at needlework, but she knew how to lead men on and loved to dress up in the type of clothes she knew would reel them in. She was a flirt and there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do to seduce them, including being deceitful if it got her what she wanted. And what she really wanted was Theo Badstock. She wanted him, so she stole him right out from under her best friend Chloe’s nose. It hadn’t seemed to matter much at first. She’d won her man and what was more she knew she looked good on Theo’s arm. <BR/><BR/>The trouble was it all backfired and now she was miserable. When Theo realised what she was really like, he coughed her up and spat her out without a thought and went running back to Chloe who was more than happy to take him back. Pandora on the other hand had lost her friend, and most of the men she knew steered clear of her, knowing her reputation and not wanting to go there.<BR/><BR/>She hoped her parents were satisfied with themselves, for hope was all she had left to her now.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-43812246422874958932007-11-27T18:20:00.000+00:002007-11-27T18:20:00.000+00:00John’s office was ten paces by ten. At least ...John’s office was ten paces by ten. <BR/><BR/> At least it had been last week. This morning he walked the perimeter as usual and could swear it had shrunk by one step on the west side. It wasn’t the first time someone had stolen his space. At the beginning of the year, he had had two square metres more, and now it was happening again. Maybe he should demand an explanation from the facilities manager.<BR/><BR/> He stood in the corner and looked out: floor to ceiling external glass formed a perfect L-shape to his left and right, riveted steel ties the only visible means of stopping him falling forward through the window – or was it technically a wall? Visitors to the office, admittedly fewer of them these days, would inevitably ask: “Doesn’t it make you feel ill?”<BR/><BR/> The height didn’t bother him. The real problem was the transparent internal partitioning. The fact that every file he opened, every coffee he drank, each scratch of his ear or tug at the crotch of his suit was public knowledge. Workspace should have boundaries; it should fulfil an ancient need for protection and safety like a cave or a burrow. The only time he felt really at peace was in the dark, the lights turned off in his perfect cube, framed by the fluorescence and the halogens.<BR/><BR/> Placing both hands on the glass he leant forwards. Suspended between sky and workers in the square below he felt more strongly than ever the presence of an unseen force, a superior power for whom monstrous office blocks were just empty boxes. Of course! It wasn’t the facilities manager he needed to leave a message for. He exhaled deeply on the glass and in a sure hand wrote in large letters in the condensation: “THIS WAY UP”.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-41759126185520095032007-11-27T18:12:00.000+00:002007-11-27T18:12:00.000+00:00This comment has been removed by the author.Cathyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14103529618681254875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-91720668212092583932007-11-27T18:02:00.000+00:002007-11-27T18:02:00.000+00:00Never, ever satisfied, wanting to be older, wantin...Never, ever satisfied, wanting to be older, wanting to be younger, wanting to be taller, wanting to be shorter. That is why the ideal age is 18 month’s old. The littlest thing satisfies and you don’t know that there is more to be wanting. When watching commercials for pretty things that’s all they are pretty things - not pretty things that I don’t have and would want – just pretty things.<BR/> Looking for that magic moment, that handsome prince, that special place, that happily ever after if I could just have what someone else has. The faster car, the sweeter man, the bigger house would all satisfy for a moment until I see a faster car, a more caring lover, a prettier yard.<BR/> But wait, there it is right there in that pretty brochure with the beautiful sails or the swimming pool in the back. Why, oh why, oh why can’t I stop looking at what there isn’t and see what there is? In a house full of new furniture I long for antiques. If I had antiques why would I want this old stuff when there are such pretty colors, softer fabrics, glass and trim?<BR/> I have found one place that I am satisfied, right in the middle of time amongst friends and family. The joy of a shared meal, a time around the fire, or a quick game (ok who am I kidding there are no quick games) of Scrabble with coffee and Chris Rice in the background. A day in the park with Elli playing on the swings and slides, one more round of peek-a-boo around the tree. If I could live my life right there … that might work. Maybe I should try that and see if I could remain content, at least until the weather changes.trying to write ...https://www.blogger.com/profile/00392798039994083310noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-10593949856977917632007-11-27T17:52:00.000+00:002007-11-27T17:52:00.000+00:00This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7500394969717175950.post-24654267880668293612007-11-27T17:31:00.000+00:002007-11-27T17:31:00.000+00:00Fill your mind with things of beauty. The David H...Fill your mind with things of beauty. The David Hockney canvas in this year’s Summer Exhibition where you felt you could walk through the trees; the view from the balcony running around the Oxo Tower where you met him for a meal in late summer; the ballet of Romeo and Juliet you didn’t want to end. Be immersed in such things so that when you lie awake at night, they will flood into your spirit and revitalise you.<BR/><BR/>The extent of your memory is phenomenal. How many times have things from the past surprised you by being on the very edge of your thoughts? You don’t have to think that hard, they just appear at the right moment when you seem lost for words or don’t know the answer to a question. There they are, poised on your lips ready to be poured out, a waterfall of wisdom that spills over and rescues you. Like the time your boss asked you if you had any knowledge of outer space that could help him compile a paper on global warming and you are able to reel off so much that you are astounded and the look on his face tells you that he is in awe, too. And that’s great to know because you need to impress him and you have.<BR/><BR/>Omit all negative incidents. The times when you were so unhappy that another day would be too much; your cousin drowning in the family pool as everyone downed Pimms; the occasion when the door of the plane fell out just as you were about to leave on the holiday of a life-time.<BR/><BR/>Your memory is a golden box of treasure. The formula for keeping it so is simple: hone in on the positive; reject the negative. Simple!<BR/><BR/>Think beautiful thoughts.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com