Singing Dog

He longs for the wide open spaces of the moor and sheep to chase. Alas he lives by the bypass with its fumes and growl of engines on tarmac. But at dawn and dusk the wild dog in him seeps out in a sweet, sharp, poignant howl.

Soft Spot

I often seen him down The Dog & Duck where he’s wont to cheat at darts and neck back unattended pints of beer. I  walk back home with him time to time as we live in the same part of town though I’ve never invited him in for a coffee. I’ve a soft spot for him but I don’t want fleas in my flat.

Now I Know Better

She’s works down the 24 hour out-of-town massive monstrosity of a supermarket though really she’s a musician but with all the pubs closing down gigs are getting hard to find so she does shifts down the supermarket for some extra cash part time. She spends several hours a day in a blue checked shirt pushing up and down the aisles a trolley with a computer stuck to it picking shopping for customers who've ordered their shopping online.

Teresa, as her name badge reads, was talking to a customer when I saw her last week, about how their speed was ranked compared to other workers on the same job, the fastest picker being top of the list. If their speed was too slow a section on their computer screen would change from green to red.

“The dreaded red, warning you to get a move on or else!” Teresa said.

“And if your position isn’t near the top it makes you feel a failure, that you're letting the ‘team’ down. And they tell you off.”

 “Poor you having to work under all that pressure! What ranking are you then?” asked  the random customer.

“Third from bottom.”

“Oh.”

“Can’t be arsed with the pressure to compete and be best. It’s all a psychological game to make us work harder for no extra pay. Stuff that. I used to think it mattered, but now I know better.”

As she said that I caught a glimpse of a manager glaring at her from the aisle end.

“Oh there’s the boss, poor him squashed between top management and us lot. He has to try so hard, hype himself up, it’s like a pantomime.”

With that the lady, slightly embarrassed at Teresa’s forthrightness moved on and dropped a massive packet of teabags into her trolley. 

Thus ends the tale of Teresa, employee and exceptional musician whose gig down The Traveller’s Rest I’m going to this weekend and looking forward to it I am too.

Ne'er-Do-Wells

It’s not just the housework: scrubbing scum from the bath and scraping food from the sink so the mice don’t get fat, but the whole task of living that makes her irate. The repetitive letters spewed out by government computers threatening her with a court case, a fine, imprisonment, transportation to Tasmania (mmm...maybe not a bad thing) for missing a payment.

Indeed until not that long ago she'd read they transported folk to Van Diemen’s Land for poaching a rabbit, cutting down a tree without permission or spending a month in the company of travellers. Beware those of no fixed abode!

Mind you, thought she, the past was a bloodthirsty place with twenty thousand day-trippers flocking to public hangings to view in the flesh (no internet back then) those unfortunate enough to be tagged deviant and hung from the scaffold. 

Picture the crowd scoffing their picnics dressed in their best for this much discussed social event hyped up by cheap pamphlets detailing the ‘final words’ and grimaces of those lawfully murdered.

And if the powers that be today had their way she’s sure they’d reintroduce such measures of population control to keep at bay all those benefit fraudsters and ne’er-do-wells. And media entrepreneurs would publish blogs detailing the last gurgles of the publically murdered, share pictures and tags. Oh how the ‘likes’ would multiply and all that revenue from ads!

Thus is the turn of her mind whilst doing the washing up. Makes her go Ggggrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!

The Mermaid Of Zennor Sequel

Once upon a stormy night a lass called Nat having spent rather too long down the pub went for a walk along the cliffs at Zennor for a bit of fresh air. Searching for a sheltered spot for a sit down she heard a song smooth as melted chocolate. It dripped deliciously into her ears and she was spellbound.

‘Oh my God’ she thought, ‘not only am I drunk and very dishevelled but I’m also hearing voices!’ Glancing over the rocks she clocked a green-dreadlocked woman with a fish’s tail. Never having experienced psychic phenomena other than the visual slur brought on by too much booze she was rather shocked. However, in spite of her shaking knees she crept forward for a closer look.

The mermaid, who was none other than Morveren, turned and took off her shades as she caught sight of Nat then slipped quickly into the foaming waves. There was a sudden gasp and the sweet song stopped mid flow. Nat swore she saw a man's hand emerge from the breakers, but was it in greeting or a request for help?

She blew her nose and was about to head back inland when a bloke, completely starkers, dragged himself onto the rocks. She didn’t know where to look. Seaweed tangled his hair and there was a greenness to his skin as if algae lived upon it. He was none other than Matthew Trewhella weathered by a decade of waves.

‘Kiss me!’ he shouted, ‘Kiss me!’ leaping over the rocks, but Nat legged it like there was a devil at her feet. Alas, mist made the path near invisible and though she scrambled she couldn't shake him off. Then BAM! right in front of her glowered Morveren and an enormous creature with long white locks and beard, a crown of crustaceans and a huge pitchfork in his fist. A fish tail long and green and covered in pearls and shells curled to his side.

‘How dare you steal the husband of my daughter!’ yelled he. ‘I am King Llyr of the Mighty Ocean and no one crosses me and keeps their life!’

Nat felt like she was going to throw up the several pints she’d earlier guzzled. Three, two, one puke...nice. Well, not nice at all. Then the naked man quick as a flash grabbed her and planted a smacker on her sicky lips. She nearly fainted with shock and embarrassment combined.

‘We’ve got to get to the village!’ he yelled and half dragged, half carried her along the cliff edge with the two mer creatures slipping along close behind cursing the jagged rocks, their anger instigating the adverse weather conditions of thunder, lightning and the mother of all gales.

‘I was bewitched by the mermaid a few years back and forced to live beneath the sea. Only the kiss of a mortal woman could break the spell and you set me free me. I don’t half crave some chips and a pint of ale.’

A bolt of lightning struck nearby scorching Nat’s hair giving it a metallic whiff, though it wasn’t as potent a smell as the fishy reek exuded by Llyr and his daughter of the waves. With one last scramble Matt and Nat made it onto tarmac amongst the amber glow of street lights.

‘Back at last!’ yelled Matt of the golden voice ‘and it’s straight to the Tinner's Arms for me.’ With that he dropped Nat and dashed to the pub door.

Nat herself was less fortunate. King Llyr, having caught up, carried her off to the fishy depths where she now shivers with the tide and cries like a seagull for the kiss of Matthew Trewhella who doesn’t hear as he’s too trolleyed and loved up anyway with a local bird.

The Mermaid Of Zennor

Once upon a time not so long ago there lived a man called Matthew Trewhella. He was the finest singer in the Land’s End area of Cornwall and knew all the old ballads as well as some raucous ones too. He sang at folk nights, in a couple of bands and in the church at Zennor on a Sunday, a village nestled amongst granite rocks and yellow gorse.

One day a beautiful woman came to the service, slipping in the back of the church. She had heard his haunting songs drifting over the waves of Pendower Cove that was her abode for she was a mermaid of the sea and her name was Morveren. 

She begged her father King Llyr that she may go on land to see the man who sang such exquisite songs and after many a plea he agreed but on the condition that she let no human see her and that she return before high tide else she would be trapped on land and perish. So she swam to the shore and hid her tail beneath a sarong embroidered with pearls and coral. Painfully she crossed the tarmac of the road and entered the church where she gazed at the golden-haired man before her.

Each Sunday she returned, always disappearing before the service ended that none may see her. But one week she sighed so deeply he looked to the back of the church and saw her and fell instantly in love. 

She slipped out of the church as fast as she could but Matthew ran after her and as she fell he lifted her up, catching a glimpse of her fish’s tail. But his love was so great he cared not and in an instant made the decision to spend the rest of his life with her in the deep turquoise sea.

People ran from the church and tried to catch the couple but magic was on their side and Matthew raced over the rocks to where the tide crashed white. They dived in and all that was left was his t-shirt floating on a wave’s crest.

To this day if you wander out at night onto the headland at Zennor you may be lucky to hear the sweet singing of Matthew Trewhella and see Morveren sat on the rocks combing her luxuriant green hair.

Nightshift Nick

He escaped the northern town he grew up in by playing bass for a band who toured Europe before falling out with each other which is a lot further than most bands get.

At present he works the nightshift down the out of town massive monstrosity hub of capitalism supermarket where he suffocates nightly and very nearly goes mad with boredom. 

As a sideline and lifeline he places bets on anything and everything and is amassing a tidy little sum. He dreams of the sun.

The Romance of Margaret and Dan

'Beware women with red hair' that’s what his dad told him and he is actually one of those kids who does listen so when he saw Margaret with her fiery locks down the shopping precinct he darted fast as you could say Jack Sprat down the aisle of well to do kitchen shop. 

Alas, not fast enough cos as he sneaked a look around the aisle end hung with strainers, wooden spoons and stainless steel sieves, there she was stood!

Being a lass who doesn’t take no for an answer she marched him straight down the pub and treated him to seven pints of ale after which he threw up. 

A year on they’re a couple.

Sweet Dreams Luv

This morning he’s a little somber, a little dazed. And the grey sky doesn’t help, or his hangover. 

So we’ll leave him his peace cos he’s in no mood to natter.

And I reckon after a nice cuppa he’ll be straight back to bed, duvet pulled up over his head to block out that one chink of light that ever escapes the curtain’s side. 

And we won’t ask him what he got up to last night cos I’m sure he was an impeccable guest and didn’t drink tequila like a maniac or run around wearing nothing but a straw hat. 

Not this chap…tho he is having some worrying flashbacks.

Ssshhh now, he’s made it to bed, his head’s beginning to nod. 

Sweet dreams luv.