WANKER

I came out the offy and he said, ‘You got twenty pence?’
I looked at his hand out towards me and then up at his face.
‘What for?’ I said, ‘A drink?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ I said and took out the change I had in my pocket, two tens either side of a pound coin and a copper.
Then, my hand in line with his closed fist out the end of which I could see the corner of a five pound note.
‘You’ve got a note,’ I said, incredulous, without excess, his brown eyes, beautiful, I wanted to touch them, be closer, maybe tell them things...
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m doing something...’
‘No,’ I said and walked off, a backward glance not until I’d crossed to the other side of the road...
...the newsagent, end of Jamaica Street, didn’t have the “Nobbly, Oaty Biscuits” I wanted but as I stepped out, after buying what I usually buy there, a man passing said, ‘I’m schizophrenic.’
‘Says who?’ I said.
Earlier as she and I drank coffee in Kuvuka where we’d met after she’d phoned, ‘You want to meet?’ and I’d said, ‘Yes,’ she’d said, ‘I was on my way here and I heard this man’s voice, “So I’ve walked to the top and the bottom now I’m back at the top like you said, how much energy do you think I’ve got?” and I turned round,’ she said, ‘and he was on his own, talking to himself, well to whatever inner voice was talking to him, it’s like mad row round here,’ and I said, ‘Well, what do you expect? It’s where the mad people always go,’ I said, ‘The centre of town.’
‘Says who?’ I said.
‘The psychiatrist.’
‘Do you know what schizophrenic means?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘Who?’
‘The psychiatrist?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘He just said I’m a wanker.’

MANDY

Mandy died from lupus.
Her friend phoned shortly after and said, ‘She spoke of you often.’
I gave her a lift in the Austin Half-ton I had back then. She sat in the front passenger seat, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, jet black hair, translucent skin like that of an angel (yes, I’ve met one).
Lupus is a difficult disease to diagnose and isn’t always terminal. She hadn’t known she was dying until they told her a week before there was nothing they could do. Her friend said it was a difficult few days but that Mandy’d said the goodbyes she wanted.
I wonder what she might’ve said about me. I’ll never know.

LUPUS

Systemic lupus erythematosus (SLE), also called simply lupus, is a chronic autoimmune condition in which the body creates antibodies, which instead of protecting the body, attack the body's connective tissues.

This causes a variety of symptoms that are different in each person with SLE. The symptoms may flare up intermittently and then become less severe but they rarely disappear completely. There is no way of preventing lupus and no cure.

The precise cause of SLE is not known, but it is not a contagious disease. It can occur at all ages, but is more common in women of child-bearing age, particularly the teens and early twenties. This is significant because one side-effect of lupus is an increased risk of miscarriage. The incidence of SLE in black and Asian women is higher than in white women. Only 10% of lupus patients are male.

OH

Death smells like rubbish with two sugars.
The summer after I moved in I noticed a smell I first thought was the pigeon shit on the balcony eventually - ‘Excuse me mate?’ said the man walking the dog. ‘You got the time?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, took out my phone, I said, ‘Quarter to ten, exactly.’ ‘Thanks mate,’ he said, wearing a baseball cap and a blue nylon jacket. The sound of leaves reminds me of Cornwall, she likes it there, wants to go there, ‘You like it too,’ she said, I do - cleaned by two men dressed in full rubber suits, using a shovel to scrape and a brush and metal dustbin, half full when they finished and left.
‘You’ll get red mite,’ said the last man out.
The sweet smell that got up my nose was there still.
‘You smell that smell?’ asked the caretaker on my landing one afternoon.
‘Yes,’ I said wondering what he’d say next.
‘The man in the flat next to yours died,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Yes, six weeks ago it was, only just noticed.’
‘Six weeks?’ thinking of his dead body not that far from me all this time.
‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
I thought and said, ‘No friends or family?’
‘Junky.’
‘Oh.’
‘Gets right in the walls,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘The smell.’
‘Oh.’

PARKLIFE

INDEPENDENCE

I waited outside long enough, I hoped, for the people of the voices I heard through the slightly ajar door, (it’s not closing properly, I closed it earlier on my way out, not wanting all and sundry getting in and wandering the corridors) to take the lift before I went in and waited at Ground for my turn to go up...
...but then Lehman came over from one of the brick flowerbeds out front where he’d been sitting. He carried a blue plastic bag in which I could see two four-packs of Stella and I held the door, followed him in where the three men, it turned out, were talking as the lift reached two then one then the bottom.
‘Alright?’
‘Lads,’ I said.
‘Hello,’ said Lehman in the semi-resigned way he speaks.
‘What floor?’ said Big Issue.
Lehman said, then I said, pointing, to make sure.
‘I was in ‘ere the other day, black man too,’ said Big, ‘and I said, “what floor you want?” and he said, “it’s alright, I can press my own button.” I was only trying to help,’ he said, ‘but some people, you know?’
‘I know,’ said Lehman and I said, ‘Some people like to be independent.’

I DON’T KNOW ABOUT ANGELS

‘I wont be there on Friday,’ I said, ‘so I’ll miss your last day. Do you mind?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m going to come back anyway. I borrowed a book from the Mouth so I’ll have to.’
We were talking by a lamppost, the pedestrian divide outside the chemist in Montpelier. I’d gone down Picton Street to come round on Bath Buildings up onto Cheltenham Road then back home via the newsagents on Jamaica Street and an Evening Post.
She called my name.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Hi.’
She asked about my day and I said it was worth it, learned a few things might be useful, you never know.
‘That’s true,’ she said.
Her phone rang.
‘I’d better answer that.’
I moved back, half a yard, give her some room as she spoke, thought it was her boyfriend she was saying, ‘I’m on my way, I missed the train so I’m walking, and I’m cold...it is with sandals on...’ I looked at the sandals, smiled at her...‘I wont be long...yes, okay...yes, see you soon...’
She used to be a crusty drinking scrumpy on Turbo Island. She says she doesn’t remember much about that time. Got herself out the life though, left the man she was with, the one still believes he’s followed around by angels.
‘There must be something in it,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘There’s always something,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know about angels.’

TURBO ISLAND CONSULTATION

Turbo Island Consultation by Bristol City Council Urban Design Team Tomorrow, Wednesday from 11 am on Turbo Island.
Apologies for incredibly short notice, but there will be a public consultation on Turbo Island from 11 am til 3pm, where you can discuss with the Urban Design team what you would like to see happen with this iconic site in the heart of Stokes Croft...


A HISTORY OF TURBO ISLAND

The grass area of Turbo Island (originally 71 Stokes Croft) was a bomb site. BCC refused to allow it to be redeveloped because of sightlines on the junction and a potential road widening scheme on Stokes Croft. There has been an advertising hoarding on it since 1944.
The former Avon County Council sold the freehold of the land on 06-DEC-1995 to MAIDEN POSTER PROPERTIES at a completion price of £32,500 (CSS Property reference 87317/DISP). BCC regularly sell off surplus highway land and the plans for road widening had been scrapped.
Their hoarding is legal as BCC failed to take enforcement action against them when it was refused planning permission in 1997. BCC do not receive any revenue from this hoarding.

THE JUNCTION (1:30)

THE BOYFRIEND SAID

‘You okay from here?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
Before we left, when I was deciding whether to walk back with her or try get the bus she said, ‘Don’t worry I’ll protect you.’
High Street, St. Marks Road, Stapleton Road, Kensington Road, Seymour Road, subway roundabout subway out and saw police with two young men standing by a car...
‘I hate the police,’ she said.
‘Haven’t we been there already tonight?’ I said.
‘I know, I know.’
We were talking about consuming and I didn’t want to be distracted...
St. Agnes Park...‘This is like being royalty,’ she said, ‘through these trees...’ St. Nicholas Street, Grovesner...
Eleven at night. We said goodbye and I waved on my way to the top left corner of Denbigh Street and she waved from halfway back.
Up onto City Road and I wished she was still walking with me as further along the road towards town I could see a group of people two of whom were stood close to each other and shouting.
I thought of going Ashley Road but there’d been a stabbing there recently, and it’s darker than City.
By the time I reached near enough to see it was a white woman and a black man doing the shouting, she pushed him, moved away arm raised finger jabbing, over to the pavement on my side, two men with her one of them looks at me.
‘You’re a fucking throwback, you are, I wouldn’t have your prick inside me if it was the only one, it’s a disease ridden prick, you fucking throwback.’
...I crossed the road, walked between them, where they shouted....they must’ve been a couple...
‘Fuck off bitch. You’d probably inject yourself again if you were pregnant, you fucking junkie.’
...from behind me...split up now, recently by the sound...
‘Oh fuck off, you fucking throwback...it’s disease ridden it is, you’re prick.’
‘Fuck off. Get over it...’
In the off license on Stokes Croft the young and beautiful couple in front of bought six bottles of dry cider, 7.5%, had a name they used to order.
‘Twenty-one pounds,’ said the man serving.
‘You got a pound?’ the boyfriend said.

FOUND WRITING

Characterisation

Disaster films always have certain types of character, can you come up with a list?

. beautiful woman
. survival group of people
. A problem unclear
. A victim who dies
. Love

MAJOR character
1. WE learn that he’s a natural leader
2. He’s worried about his daughter and people in danger.
3. Try to save as many people as possible (extra effort 4 daughter)
4. I want him to die because I don’t like main characters

1. Realisticness
2. Arguments
3. Not listen.
4. Die/cause problems.
5. They’re always there but we don’t really notice them.

TOO OBVIOUS

As The D and I walked towards the entrance he was coming from the opposite direction but was closer than us so we slowed down.
He took from his pocket, I assumed, his keys, considering where he was, and he looked up. He seemed to be gesturing with his head and I imagined it might be, ‘You coming in? Shall I hold the door/lift for you?’ and I felt a little intimidated. I don’t want to get too close to people in the block with all the goodness knows what complications might result...and I think I know this man from some other place so he might remember me.
Through the second set of doors, I heard the lift open and he was there still, waiting for the lift, though we’d taken our time.
He got in first, pressed for his floor then The D, she pressed for ours, then me, last.
The man coughed, several times, which was most of the way up until the lift stopped he said, ‘Thanks,’ getting out.
‘Thanks for what?’ I said.
‘Thanks for letting me cough all over you,’ said The D.
‘I think he was stifling a sneeze.’
‘We should’ve thanked him for not sneezing all over us.’
‘That might’ve been too obvious.’

ON THE PAVEMENT

Down to Rita’s for chips and curry sauce. Parked on Stokes Croft over the cycle lane an ambulance between a police van with rear arrest cage, and in front a police car lights flashing red on and off.
A few smokers outside Mackies, watching, I must’ve come in to the play, there was nothing happening, I could see.
Up the steps into Rita’s, I stood next to the man leaning on the far counter.
‘Er,’ I said. ‘Large chips, tub of curry sauce, that’ll do,’ to the fatter of the two men serving, his light blue company tee-shirt grubby, different size cooking oil stains.
‘Salt and vinegar on the chips?’ he said a bottle poised.
‘I’ve got my own bag,’ as he reached beneath the counter.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Okay.’
Outside, having paid two-thirty for dinner, and planning to take the high road, the bottom lift stuck at three when I left the block, I stepped into a doorway from where I could watch the scene begin to unfold...
...a man’s croaky scream, ‘I’ll fucking get you for this, I’ll fucking get you later,’ into view the man each arm two police holding, only wearing boxers, the muscles in his neck, thick vein, ‘fuck off, fuck...’ the police pushed him into the cage in the back of the van, shut the doors, the van shook from side to side I couldn’t hear the man screaming or shouting or anything...
The police van and the ambulance pulled away from the kerb and I crossed the road.
An officer talking to a man I thought must’ve been involved, maybe it was his place they took the man, as I passed I heard, ‘We’ll be in touch.’
Up Ninetree Hill, left on to Dove Street where I found two teaspoons lying on the pavement, picked them up, put them in my pocket.

MY LIFE

I was warned at the beginning what the end would be like but I don’t remember what they said so how was I to know?
Three of us ran back along the red-painted brick corridor, through the doorway led to beneath the back of the stage.
‘Quick, quick,’ I said holding the door, ready to close it in her face when she tried to follow us.
We laughed at the silver wig we’d persuaded the last in line to wear as we climbed the stairs to the ground level floor where small clusters of people chatted shaking hands, saying, ‘Hello.’
At the top of Colston Street, a van pulled up alongside a small white car. She was there and started loading the car, saying to the man who came towards her carrying a cardboard box, ‘Come on, come on,’ irritated.
‘Where you going?’ I said, hoping it wasn’t London and I’d be jealous.
‘West Wales,’ she said. ‘Somewhere remote,’ tears in her eyes. ‘He’s got family there.’
She’d loved me, and only after she’d gone did I know I loved her too.
She’d worn a tuxedo to my party but I was more interested in free-basing coke in a room at the top of the house than giving her the attention she needed. She left when she saw me kiss the woman was to be my first wife and the mother of my daughter.
A Jehovah’s Witness she moved into the Grove bringing a sack of brussels sprouts that she finished within the week. ‘I like sprouts,’ she said.
I liked her, and we got to sitting up into the early hours talking God, not-God and duty to family and friends.
I said I’d put my parents in a home when the time came and she said she’d have to nurse hers all the way until they died.
‘What about your life?’ I said.
‘That would be my life.’

LIVING AND DYING

One of my dreams is to spend my later life in a cheap hotel in the centre of Berlin or some other big European city.
Last night, in that hotel, wide carpeted corridors, a lift to the top floor, and a large ornate door opened with a key was up my sleeve.
Inside, a room to recieve guests and entertain, bedroom and en-suite bathroom through seperate doorways. A television, housed in a cheap dark veneered unit in the corner by the window, played snow and hissed noise.
‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ I said to the shadow I removed from the wall using an oak lever encrusted with jewels.
‘You look for whatever you see,’ said the shadow. ‘Take it from there.’
The paint was peeling from the walls of the room, sofa and armchair worn, carpet threadbare, rug over the worst part, off-white blinds from Ikea. I felt right at home, happy to have found somewhere I could imagine living and dying.