Bluesphinx

Hello again,

  Bluesphinx here once more, and I hope you are all well.

  Four months ago I set myself the challenge of writing my first book, a novel, and I set aside a year for its completion. I have to admit that it’s not the easiest task I’ve ever attempted.

  Setting out what I wanted to say, and the order in which I wanted to say it was the hardest part, but once I had the basic framework of the narrative in mind, the words tended to flow from my head and out onto my keyboard with increasing ease.

  I have proof read the work four times now, and even though I now know the story off by heart, at last I can say that I am happy with the end result.

  Well, I am pleased to announce today that way ahead of schedule, I have at long last, completed the two hundred and ten page, one hundred and eight thousand word assignment-HOORAY!

   I now have the ambition to get the thing published-Let the search begin! Wouldn’t it be fantastic if it really took off and I were to hit the bestseller list?-A lovely flight of fancy, for sure, but really, I must always remember to keep my feet firmly on the ground!

  Anyway, look, a lot of people who embark upon the same journey for reasons best known to themselves give it up. If I never sell a single lousy book, I can at least state, with hand on heart, that I have actually completed the project, and seen it all the way through to the end.

  As far as getting published is concerned, as I insert entries into the blog, I will keep a running commentary of the progress.

 

  Now, to continue the story of Bluesphinx…and before I go any further, in the interest of presenting a deeper perspective of myself, I will furnish you with some background information.

 

  There have been many influences in my life, and as I suspect is the experience familiar to most people, the ones that run deepest occur during childhood.

  Obviously my parents and my school life went a long way to shaping the person that I am today, but I am thinking of other things, characters, and events outside of these familiar categories.

  My grandmother, my mother’s mother. A sweeter, more loving, patient and indulgent person you could never wish to meet. She loved me, nicknaming me her ‘Best Boy’, and I absolutely adored her.

  I always craved her approval in all my endeavours, and she granted it so easily, and so freely. Some of my happiest childhood memories are of me spending time with her.

  As a family, my parents, my siblings and I could always be found, belching and satisfied, post roast dinner on most Sunday afternoons in Gran’s little old-fashioned, spotlessly clean, mid terraced house, that was perched precariously on the side of a heavily populated hill deep within Swansea town.

  Or later, when I was a young teenager, I would ride my first bicycle (a reward from my father for my doing quite well in one of the annual school exams) the twelve miles from our house in Llanelli to Gran’s place to stay over for the weekend.

 

  She was a real ‘dooer’, my Gran. A fiercely independent widow who was well into her seventies before she finally gave up the daily routine of six a.m. reveille, and then walking the two uphill miles, come rain or shine, to work as a pub cleaner.

  It was a humble existence but she was proud of it. The walk kept her fit, and the work, together with her state pension kept her solvent.

 

  On my stay-overs, I was billeted in the back bedroom whose wide inventory included a richly abundant and interesting collection of simple antique furniture, all dressed in a lifetime’s possessions and bric-a-brac. I had an intimate and detailed knowledge of every single piece, because ever since I raised myself up from the crawl, Gran had implicitly trusted me to explore the entire contents of those fascinating grottos that were her bedrooms.

  A massive heavy blanketed, Victorian iron double bed, with huge brass bedknobs, was placed next to the window sill, and I will never forget the great pleasure and excitement of being awakened in the middle of the cold nights, by the shrill whistling, and the sheer drama of the steam locomotives that would erupt, dragon-like out of the tunnel that could be seen if you let your eyes follow the railway track that snaked along the bottom of the field which, in the daytime, doubled up as the grassy childhood adventure playground on the other side of the back garden’s rusty iron gate.

  As the massive living machines came thundering past the house, billowing huge clouds of smoke and steam, coal dust and fury, I could clearly see, as I sat upon the window sill, the red glow of the engine’s fiery heart, illuminating the driver, half in silhouette, his hands firmly on the controls, and looking resolutely forward as his second in command, the redoubtable fireman, shirt-sleeved in the freezing night, and shovelling furiously for all he was worth, the coal, like food, into the hungry monster’s stomach, as it made its way downward through the sleeping moonlit town, towards Swansea’s only railway station some five miles away.

 

  I recall now my Grandmother’s tiny kitchen, or the ‘sweatbox’ as my brother, sister and I named it, with its huge black leaded iron fireplace, whose glowing coals were always piled high, and beside them, the cast iron oven, in which such delicacies as Gran’s legendary rice pudding, its skin thick and rubbery, and cinnamon topped, or the sickly-sweet smell of cakes baking, or bread rising. The fire burned summer and winter alike, and Gran would regulate the room’s temperature by simply opening or closing a window or the door.

  The utilitarian sweatbox served many a purpose. It was the living room in which lived, on top of the large kitchen table, a succession of ancient, rented black and white T.V. sets-I cannot recall any that actually worked properly-(Either sound and no picture, or picture and little discernable sound). Nevertheless, this was never allowed to spoil our Saturday afternoon enjoyment of wrestling, a weekly televisual event much looked forward to by Gran, and one which I would enjoy only in her company. Whatever it was about wrestling, it tended to lose its magic for me whenever I watched it alone without Gran’s excited and eager attention.  

 

  It was a workshop where Gran made rugs from old Hessian sacks woven with coloured strips of cloth. Or where, corralled inside the crook of my arm to prevent damage or plagiarism, many pencil and crayon pictures were composed then coloured in by me, the budding, tongue protruding artist.

 

  A meeting place for us and the neighbours, who without knocking or warning would invite themselves in for a gossip and copious amounts of the sweet, strong, black, brackish tea that was permanently brewing in the teapot that lived on the table in front of the TV.

 

  The cosy little room was Gran’s main accommodation-the rest of the house, and in particular the front room, or ‘parlour’ as she referred to it, was always kept pristine ‘for visitors’, although the only regular visitor I ever saw in there was my Dad, who with the Sunday paper as his only company, would, with the ‘Hello’s, greetings, and small talk behind him, retire into its serene quietude while the rest of us gabbled and bickered inside the cramped but comfortable kitchen house.

  He was only ever to be disturbed when tea or snacks were ferried in, or when it was time to leave-until next Sunday.

 

  Just for the present I will bid au revoir to these pleasant nostalgic memories of my dear Grandmother, I may return to them at a later date, but now I want to move on to other things.

 

  Is this scenario familiar to you? You are waiting at an elevator for example, and are joined by a stranger with an uncontrollable urge to speak. He will break the ‘uncomfortable’ silence with one of two topics of conversation:

  (1) The weather-“Isn’t it hot/wet/ cold”, whatever. I can handle this because it makes no assumptions about me. Or,

  (2) Sport-“Did you see the game last night?” I hate this because it makes me confess to a rather un-manly dislike of anything sporting, “No mate, I don’t follow it…” When I do admit this, it’s like I am speaking Martian because they invariably continue as if I hadn’t said anything at all.

  “Beckham scored the perfect goal, man! Did you see it?” At this point I just feel like saying, “Look, I couldn’t give a f**k about the game! Now will you please get the f**k out of my face!” But I don’t actually say anything, instead I just bottle it up and silently seethe.

 

  The whole concept of anything to do with sport leaves me with a feeling of the deepest indifference. I just don’t get it. This I think stems from early school days when totally unprepared, and uninstructed in the complex rules of the game, I found myself volunteered onto the schoolyard crease, to take part in the gentlemanly game of cricket.

 I have to point out here that in this matter, I had no choice-the game was compulsory. (Imagine someone trying that on with me now, as an adult-the likely response would be swift and a lot more, shall we say, assertive!)

  Anyway, there I was, standing there, coerced and bewildered. On instruction from the teacher, one of my classmates (who all were, it seemed to me, born with a full and comprehensive knowledge of all sports, by the way), bowled one at me-my bat missed the missile spectacularly! With howls of scornful laughter from classmates and teacher alike ringing in my ears, there followed several more unsuccessful endeavours to ‘Make a cricketer out of you yet!’ but these attempts merely increased the derision by degrees, and diminished my sense of self worth.

  Then I finally hit one! Yippee! But my pride in that achievement was short lived as one of the fielders expertly caught it, and I was met yet again by more mockery.

  The game finished for me when without malice, someone launched, with the speed of a bullet, the hard, red leather canon ball directly at me. It hit me straight in the eye, my spindly little child-legs not knowing which way to take me in my panic and pain. But I will say this, my response was not whimpish, as I threatened in a most un-sporstsman like manner to ‘kick the shit’ out of the bowler!

  Of course, this failed to redeem me in the eyes of the teacher who was very unsympathetic of my hurt.

  Nevertheless, the sky never did fall in, and though painful, and severely blackened, my eye suffered less lasting injury than my pride, and I realised that unlike my peers, for whom sport seemed to come easy, I was just one of those kids who possessed a total lack of co-ordination, competitiveness, and any interest in games at all.

  Looking back now, I wonder why the teacher didn’t actually try to teach me how to play, instead of simply assuming that I was born with all the rules hard-wired into my brain.

  On the subject of kicking the shit out of people, my memory brings me now to ‘Boxing day’. No, I am not referring to the day after Christmas, but rather, when in my secondary school, aged about fourteen, the P.E. teacher announced a week beforehand that next week we were all required to take part in the noble art!

 

  They’d never get away with it now! No prior instruction-just “Get in there boy! Hit him!”

  No canvass ring-just the hard parquet floor of the gymnasium, marked out by a square of wooden gym benches.

  Not even a first-aid box anywhere to be seen.

  Anyway, as soon as the shock news set in, I hurriedly scanned the room for a suitable opponent. My eyes flashed past Shane Wilson, the classroom hardman-built like a brick shit house, it would have been utter suicide to go toe to toe with him! My lowly position in the pecking order meant that the same principle applied to roughly ninety five percent of the class.

  Then my eyes settled upon David ‘Haggis’ Hargood-one of the swots.

  “Perfect!” I thought, and felt a great sense of relief when he agreed to spar with me in a week’s time.

  Needless to say, I didn’t waste my valuable playing time on training during the coming days, and due to my anticipated victory in the ring, I forgot all about it.

 

  So the great day dawned. I watched in awe as Shane Wilson and the other classroom heavyweights slugged it out for three jaw-dropping, breath catching minutes. Then with waves of adrenalin, my turn loomed. If I could just keep my head covered, and if the opportunity arose for me to windmill my way through the next three minutes I should be all right.

 

  As my hands were being taped up I looked up and noticed Haggis. I became nigglingly aware of the alarming notion that he was not looking as nervous as I was feeling. The fact that he carried a totally unconcerned air was definitely not how, in my mind, I had seen things panning out….’DING, DING!!’ and we were off!

 

  I took a step towards Haggis-Smack! The first one got me before I could lift my gloves to protect my now bleeding nose-Whack! Another with lightning speed nearly took my head clean off! Crack! Fuck me! This is getting REALLY boring now! KER-RAANG!! I was now feeling like one of the Riddler’s henchmen in a Batman comic! KER-SPLATT!!

  I was seeing stars by the time the bell rang to end the carnage, and by then I knew, beyond any shadow of doubt what it felt like to be well and truly licked in the ring!

  On the plus side I had discovered a talent for being able to stoically, and without crying for my Mother,withstand a ‘Dammned good hiding!’ The moral of this story is that on that day, I found the confidence never to allow myself to be dominated by anyone again. I resolved that if I walk into a room, I wanted to be the monster! Not someone else…me. Granted, it didn’t always work out that way, but I figured that if I started out believing it to be true, then I would be at an advantage from the outset.

  With that frame of mind I had discovered that the pecking order is not really physical, as I had previously believed it to be, instead it’s mental. A simple state of mind.

  Haggis, bless him, later revealed that unbeknown to me, or indeed the rest of the class, had for the last year been attending boxing classes after school two evenings per week. You just cannot make it up!

 

  So there you are folks. Me and sport. Sport and me. Chalk and cheese!

  It’s the one thing that for me spoils a good game of trivial persuit!

  Let’s now draw a veil over the subject.

 

  There is so much more of my story to tell, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy telling it but now, because time marches on, I will call it a day. But I will be back soon, so until then dear readers, be lucky, stay happy, and so-long until next time.

 

  Bluesphinx.