Kitchen towel - a modern menace for those of us with OCD and would be writers....

Taking the day off because you were scheduled to find out whether you were going to made redundant from your job the following day seemed like a good idea; I didn't want to sit and listen to the good people I work with mulling over the slightest clues for their careers to be saved or sacrificed, as we all have done for the past six months.

I should point out that because of the nature of the my closure I cannot put who my employer is or what I truly think about them and their methods - we've all read about people who lose their jobs because they have dared to speak their minds.

I booked the day with the thought that a day away would allow me to chill out, write and then return to the office the following day to find out my fate. Then at the last minute on Friday my employer, the Board, stated they would not be able to inform us of our fate until the Thursday, probably, if they could manage it.

So here I am, having taken a day off and intending to spend the morning writing. I took my partner to work, a treat to be away from the bus and allowing a lie in for us both.

I re-read my current assignment; made some minor adjustments while listening to the radio. I spent some time thinking about what it will be like if, on Thursday, I am redundant and become free to spend a year or two finishing my degree, writing and looking into re - training. It's scary at times but more worrying to think if I have enough discipline at 43 years of age to put the hours in.....if in fact the one thing I have secretly wanted to to with my life, write, will turn out to be possible, enjoyable and sustaining.

And then I made a coffee. A simple act of putting water into a kettle, placing it on the heat and adding the granules to the bottom of a cup.....a few minutes of idleness....then there is the kitchen towel. Standing, lurking there on the black top, like a little white soldier, to attention, ready, dimpled with eagerness......

The kettle boiled, the kitchen windows steamed up, the dustbin men arrived at the back of the house and emptied the the brown bin; the control freak in me knowing the difference in the sound of the smaller bin being thumped against the truck and emptied rather than the large, heavy general-waste bin. The worktop gleamed - I had moved aside our chopping boards, packed away the washing up, which we'd left to dry and polished the cutlery. I stood still; I had wiped down all the tops in our kitchen, switched on the radio - just to listen to, while the kettle boiled - while I tidied up - wouldn't take two minutes......

I turned off the gas; opened the windows and looked at the crumpled, kitchen towel in my hand, the bacterial spray standing on the now cleared draining board. I had been through two news bulletins; an hour on radio four isn't it?

I poured the water, stirred and left the kitchen to return to my office; trying not to think about the used towel dropped on the top alongside the spray. So I came here to confess to my displacement activity; something which due to my borderline OCD means I am prone to. I fear now the idea of redundancy, the chance to write only to end up with a few pages, a Blog of everyday musings and a clean, tidy and immaculate home......but little else.

Discipline is what I need. Could it be, after 23 years of full time office employment, that it has put me on the path of studying in my spare time to get my degree in Creative Writing and give me the structure to stick to a timetable to fullfil my dreams?

What is strange is that the closer the threat of freedom gets the more the ideas come. I have post-its of characters, one or two words of an idea, a phrase overheard or thought of, all scribbled down in between breaks from my computer or jotted down during a meeting....it's almost as if my creative brain is preparing me.

The only battle could be with the dreaded kitchen towel.

I am thinking about keeping the little soldier imprisoned in a cupboard - out of sight.....of course my partner is going to think I am mad!

Choosing....

How do you choose what to put here? Should it be an everyday chronicle? What I had for breakfast? The socks I am wearing? The strange dream that woke me this morning at four am? The reason why I wake at four nearly everyday? The unreal, perfect Magpie I saw driving home tonight? How do you choose?

Yesterday I wrote about the day before, so there is a symmetry if I write about tomorrow, today.

My father, 73 years old and disabled, will be driven to the Hospital and "put under" as he calls it. He will joke with the nurses, my Mother will roll her eyes at his naughtiness and then she will leave him to be treated; all the while worrying without showing.

His Consultant will then attack the facets of his spinal column with over twenty injections of a cocktail of painkillers and steroids. He will feel nothing. The constant pain he has had for over ten years and his increasing frailty will be suspended. He will float blissfully in a sleep-haze, able to put aside his pain-soaked-wakefulness, and annoy all the other patients with his legendary buzz-snore....he can move double-glazing in and out!!

We are so used to his problems that we do not discuss the actual condition any more; it is chronic, progressive and, at this level, rare. He has to wait four months at a time for his treatment and the final month is always the worst; not just for him but also for that rock - my Mother. Tonight he will be taking his morphine and will ask her about the time he has to be there and which hospital it is. She will tell him, not for the first time today and then, a few hours later, he will recall all the wrong details. Pain relief is a wonderful thing.

After they have stuck him, he will sleep and the staff will get concerned; again my Mother will explain that he does not sleep well, not even with his morphine, and when they give him the chance he will grab the pillow with both hands, slam his face into it and stay under for as long as his body can get away with it. She will wake him - none too gently once the medical staff have given up trying - and bring him home. He will be sore, sleepy and still unable to stand up straight.

Then it will happen. A miracle of sorts. He will gradually over the next seven to ten days begin to straighten up, from the four feet eleven he is hunched over at now, to the five feet seven-ish he usually is. The blush will come back to his face, less and less each time as he becomes more and more grey to my eyes; worn out by pain and morphine.

After a few days of steadiness on his feet he will get brave; gathering up his spirit and pushing himself to cross the living room without his frame to aid his steps, to the grumblings of his protective wife. He will smile and stick out his tongue - she poked him in the face with a wet paintbrush the last time (they were decorating at the time). Nose and chin covered in plum-blush-white he turned to me and put on his best puppy-dog eyes; then he faced her. She laughed, plunging me back to my childhood and our home full of their giggles, Dad chasing us, tickles and silliness.

Next week, I will walk into a room with my work colleagues of twenty-three years to find out what the future holds or how much longer our careers will be allowed to continue. The stress is tangible with the announcement being the only topic of the day, everyday. But that night after I have finished work and we have dissected the decision and left the premises I will be going to tell those two strong, fore-bearing, paintbrush-wielding nutters the news.
Others will be thinking of their mortgages, their children, their future; my feet are planted firmly - I want Dad to be standing up straight and my Mum smiling.

First Post....(not an inspired title)

So I have a new tutor on my new course, Writing 3: Your Portfolio, with the Open College of Arts. I have decided to try this out to aid in the discipline to write something everyday either connected to the course or not. I thought about putting here what this would be about and what it wouldn't be about...but then chaos, to me, seems so much more creative. It will be a diary, soapbox, displacement activity - when I cannot face writing (in the sense of the course) - and an emotional space for a damn good rant.

But here and now it will be about last night.....

Dorchester, St Mary's Church 7pm.

The first concert of the 2009/2010 Dorset Chamber Orchestra is always a good one. I do not know much about music, cannot read it and have no inclination to learn. My partner plays violin with them and has since childhood. It is always a good space and is never dull. The gathered always remind me of the cast of Midsomer Murders. I have that moment as they gather where I expect one to clutch their throat, having been sucking on a poisoned mint, and sink to the floor knocking over a respectable number of chairs and to gasps in various tone. It hasn't happened yet...yet.

Walking to the church under sombre clouds and darkening sky I saw a group of well dressed and well made up of eight or so young ladies (not one over fifteen); in amongst them was a whey faced young man who was draped almost over the wall, so relaxed did he appear. He looked through and around his heavy fringe which hung down below his nose from under his baseball cap. The girls were laughing and calling out to the members of the audience making their way to the concert. The older generation walked past without comment and because of this they felt secure to get louder and louder. There was no foul language or offensive remarks, it was more comments about "What ho my Lord!", "Hello Lady!" etc etc a la street urchin, albeit well dressed, healthy urchins all sporting expensive handbags, pressed clothes and expertly applied make-up. Strange our modern street furniture.....

As I crossed the junction past this group they called out to me. I am a little over five feet seven inches tall, zero cropped hair, goatee beard (greying) and glasses; I was dressed in my mountain coat and jeans. I am thick set and give the appearance of a bouncer off duty. For this slightly rough appearence I am usually ignored or actively avoided - unless I smile. I imagined quiet as I passed so I walked closer to them than was necessary hoping my presence would cause a toning down or momentary silence.

"Evening Gov'nor!" one of the girls called out from the middle of the pack. I turned slowly to look at the group without slowing my gait. The speaker was a brown eyed brunette with the kind of form that would cause all bouncers to check her age at any club/bar and her father sleepless nights. I looked her straight in the eye, and no-one else, and said "Greetings" nodding. I do not know what I expected.....but what happened was laughter, giggles and then a torrent of "What a great bloke... you're sound mate... the first one to speak to us...he's got balls!" There were some others but nothing offensive.

I looked back to find the group smiling and, shyly, dying down. I had popped their bubble; the older generation were frightened to talk to them and sensing this they were getting louder and louder because they thought they were untouchable. Provoking a response like a naughty child (or children) putting their hands on something they have been expressly forbidden to do so.

There is never one highlight in an evening with this orchestra, there are many. The Purcell, Overture (Symphony): The Fairy Queen was brilliant. Next came Concerto in G Minor for oboe and strings by Handel; the soloist was Helen Simpson who played wonderfully to the obvious delight of the conductor, Dr Robert Jacoby, the audience and the orchestra - the smiling was unanimous.

If there was a single highlight then the Song of the Angel for soprano, violin and strings by Sir John Tavener was it; Sofia Tavener was the violinist with Saskia Wilkins as soprano. It was the kind of performance which you wanted never to end; the violin and the voice of Saskia wove together so beautifully that they seemed to lift everyone. Saskia's voice is so high and so controlled and reached such heights that it could only be described as angelic; she soared, keeping her gaze on Sofia, blending her voice faultlessly with the violin. Just when you thought she couldn't reach further or cause the hairs on your neck to twinge again they lifted again and your heart almost stopped, wanting the notes never to end.

When the end came there was a palpable holding of breath, tensing of hands before applause risked the roof position; that pause at the end of the last note and before the applause showed that we wanted more. It was as they were taking their bows to wave after wave of appreciation that a tall, thin figure in the audience was beckoned to stand up from his wheel chair. It was Sir John Tavener himself, unsteady on his feet but glowing. He stepped forward and shaking Saskia's hand moved onto Sofia - HIS Grandaughter - kissing her hand by bending to her. Several women behind me gasped and made the connection at that moment, shuffling through the programme. The moment was touching and magical.

After the interval came Symphony No 1 in C minor, Opus 11 by Mendelssohn which was played beautifully and at a pace which made the audience feel exhausted. The strings appeared especially put to the whip - perhaps because I could see them clearly from where I sat - and I thought I heard them collectively sigh at the moment between the final note and the applause. Relieved smiles were commented on by several around me - one lady said "that was lively, they looked knackered!"

My partner and I made our escape into the night. I was disappointed to find that the little group of teens had vanished. It was a great performance and all the audience made it to the end without one of them being in any danger of poisoning.