“Belinda, are you all right?”
Belinda flinched, but she kept her on-the-job smile on as she turned to face one of the other girls. “Sure, Cathy. Why do you ask?”
“You look flushed, darling. Does it have anything to do with that passenger you are seeing? You know, the one who travels first class with us from Bangkok every week?”
“I’m not seeing anybody,” Belinda could feel the heat in her cheeks. “I’m engaged, remember?” She held up her hand so that Cathy could look at her ring. If you didn’t know, you might think the diamond was real. “Whatever made you think -”
“Don’t worry, Bel. I won’t tell a soul.”
“Won’t tell what?”
“That I saw the two of you together yesterday. In the centre of the Patpong red light district? Whispering like a pair of lovers -”
“Someone’s calling you,” interrupted Belinda. She felt dizzy. Damn Cathy all the way to hell! What was she doing in that part of town, anyway? There was nothing but sleaze in Patpong: no jewellery shops, no interesting temples.
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
17 December, Advent 17, Linda Lewis, The Blue List
I turned the piece of bright blue paper over in my hand. It was last years’ resolutions made in an after midnight haze. Most of them made sense, but help an old lady with her shopping? I had no idea where that one came from.
I had achieved none of them. I managed without a cigarette for exactly one hour. A year on and I was still eating the same diet of pizzas, burgers and take aways, still a slave to the one eyed God as I called the TV.
I found the list as I rummaged in a drawer looking for a piece of paper on which to scribble this year’s resolutions. All at once, there didn’t seem to be much point.
I was nearly thirty. Still on my own, living in an easy to care for flat, conveniently situated ten minutes from work and five minutes from a fish and chip shop. Worst of all, I still had no steady girl in my life.
I had achieved none of them. I managed without a cigarette for exactly one hour. A year on and I was still eating the same diet of pizzas, burgers and take aways, still a slave to the one eyed God as I called the TV.
I found the list as I rummaged in a drawer looking for a piece of paper on which to scribble this year’s resolutions. All at once, there didn’t seem to be much point.
I was nearly thirty. Still on my own, living in an easy to care for flat, conveniently situated ten minutes from work and five minutes from a fish and chip shop. Worst of all, I still had no steady girl in my life.
Monday, 15 December 2008
16 December, Advent 16, Oscar Peebles, Toast and Jam
Great Granny’s eyes were a marvel. I don’t mean to make fun. I adored her, and still do. But as kids, it was great fun. We’d creep to halfway down the stairs each morning, and watch through the banister rails as she groped her way to the kitchen sink where she’d left her eyeballs soaking overnight in a jam jar. She’d take them out, shake them off, then pop them in. Then she’d turn around, and that was the fun part.
Granny’s glass eyeballs could be anywhichway in! One up, one down: crossed: both pointing the same way. It was a hoot.
Strangely though, once she’d put her eyes back in her face, it was as if she could see. She couldn’t of course. But I guess it was psychosomatic stuff, a sort of optical delusion.
Great Grandpa was all right too. A tall, gangly, scrawny man with a thin reedy voice … mostly dozing in his deckchair in the shade, or in his armchair beside the fire.
When we kids came to sit with him for a breather between games, he’d come alive and begin to tell us tales. But he was so slow. It was months between each word. We got fed up, or slumped down waiting, so the story lost all connection or interest. Half way through it, we’d either have gone to sleep, or gone off to play again, and Grandpa would lapse back into comatose.
It was Granny who told us his stories, sitting around that big old wooden table in the middle of the kitchen each morning … her eyes in all sorts of positions. It was spooky sometimes. It was always toast and jam for breakfast.
Granny’s glass eyeballs could be anywhichway in! One up, one down: crossed: both pointing the same way. It was a hoot.
Strangely though, once she’d put her eyes back in her face, it was as if she could see. She couldn’t of course. But I guess it was psychosomatic stuff, a sort of optical delusion.
Great Grandpa was all right too. A tall, gangly, scrawny man with a thin reedy voice … mostly dozing in his deckchair in the shade, or in his armchair beside the fire.
When we kids came to sit with him for a breather between games, he’d come alive and begin to tell us tales. But he was so slow. It was months between each word. We got fed up, or slumped down waiting, so the story lost all connection or interest. Half way through it, we’d either have gone to sleep, or gone off to play again, and Grandpa would lapse back into comatose.
It was Granny who told us his stories, sitting around that big old wooden table in the middle of the kitchen each morning … her eyes in all sorts of positions. It was spooky sometimes. It was always toast and jam for breakfast.
Sunday, 14 December 2008
15 December, Advent 15, Linda Lewis, Please Don't Call Me Herbie
This isn’t one of those clever stories with a twist ending, so I’ll come clean straightaway.
My name’s Gertie and I’m a car; an old Volkswagen Beetle to be precise. And before you jump to any conclusions, any resemblance to a certain Herbie, otherwise known as the Love Bug, is purely coincidental.
Unlike him, I can’t fly, or swim underwater, or do lots of clever tricks, but we do have one thing in common; owners who need a push start with their love lives. Take mine. Susan had been on her own for three years, ever since Patrick passed away.
I was his pride and joy, which explains why Susan didn’t want to part with me even though I’m not in the first flush of youth. It didn’t even cross her mind to get a new car, at least it hadn’t until six weeks ago. Now, it’s all changed. She’s met a man, thinks she likes him because he’s so very different from Patrick. I’m worried in case it gets serious.
Don’t misunderstand me. I want Susan to be happy. She’s only forty-four, she deserves to have a man in her life, so long as it isn’t this one.
My name’s Gertie and I’m a car; an old Volkswagen Beetle to be precise. And before you jump to any conclusions, any resemblance to a certain Herbie, otherwise known as the Love Bug, is purely coincidental.
Unlike him, I can’t fly, or swim underwater, or do lots of clever tricks, but we do have one thing in common; owners who need a push start with their love lives. Take mine. Susan had been on her own for three years, ever since Patrick passed away.
I was his pride and joy, which explains why Susan didn’t want to part with me even though I’m not in the first flush of youth. It didn’t even cross her mind to get a new car, at least it hadn’t until six weeks ago. Now, it’s all changed. She’s met a man, thinks she likes him because he’s so very different from Patrick. I’m worried in case it gets serious.
Don’t misunderstand me. I want Susan to be happy. She’s only forty-four, she deserves to have a man in her life, so long as it isn’t this one.
14 December, Advent 14, Michael O'Connor, Slight Expectations
Some small flying creature brushed against his face and he waved his hand to deter it from landing on him. Suddenly, he felt lonely and helpless: a writer who could not see to write any more, standing in the graveyard where ‘Great Expectations’ had begun, with no expectations, great or otherwise, left to him anymore. ‘What would you do, Boz?’ he murmured aloud. ‘You never gave up. How can I imitate The Inimitable?’
There was a rustling of dry grass which he wasn’t sure could be attributed to the wind. ‘Is someone there?’ he asked. ‘Is that you, Jennifer?’ He knew it could not be her, for he would have heard the car return, but wanted to give the impression that he was not alone.
‘My apologies, sir,’ came an animated voice. ‘It was not my intention to disturb you. I come here sometimes to relive my past, but there is rarely anyone else present.’
Arthur turned to face the direction the voice came from. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, affecting an air of bonhomie. ‘It’s a free country.’
There was a rustling of dry grass which he wasn’t sure could be attributed to the wind. ‘Is someone there?’ he asked. ‘Is that you, Jennifer?’ He knew it could not be her, for he would have heard the car return, but wanted to give the impression that he was not alone.
‘My apologies, sir,’ came an animated voice. ‘It was not my intention to disturb you. I come here sometimes to relive my past, but there is rarely anyone else present.’
Arthur turned to face the direction the voice came from. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, affecting an air of bonhomie. ‘It’s a free country.’
Saturday, 13 December 2008
13 December, Advent 13, Joyce Hicks, The Keeper's Keeper
AS TOM walked along the pathway for the last time that day, he was certain Rita would be there. She’d become a regular fixture in Victoria Park of late, and always sat on one particular bench. A strange old dear, certainly, but always friendly.
Sixty-odd he guessed, and overweight, she usually had a roll-up in one hand and a small bottle of mineral water in the other. At least, the bottle would originally have contained water. These days, Tom suspected, it was almost certainly neat gin or vodka. The most outrageous makeup (almost theatrical, Tom felt), and violent red hair with grey showing at the roots, meant Rita could never be overlooked, or ignored. Where, or how, she lived was anyone’s guess. She never discussed it.
“Isn’t it time you were going home, Rita?” he called out as he drew level. “You’ll freeze to death if you sit there much longer.”
“Impossible, dear,” she answered. “And as for ‘home’, don’t make me laugh!”
Sixty-odd he guessed, and overweight, she usually had a roll-up in one hand and a small bottle of mineral water in the other. At least, the bottle would originally have contained water. These days, Tom suspected, it was almost certainly neat gin or vodka. The most outrageous makeup (almost theatrical, Tom felt), and violent red hair with grey showing at the roots, meant Rita could never be overlooked, or ignored. Where, or how, she lived was anyone’s guess. She never discussed it.
“Isn’t it time you were going home, Rita?” he called out as he drew level. “You’ll freeze to death if you sit there much longer.”
“Impossible, dear,” she answered. “And as for ‘home’, don’t make me laugh!”
Friday, 12 December 2008
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