CHRISTMAS DAY 2015

All good things come once a year.  Like great art, an amazing idea or fabulous music, is that not so? The more rare and infrequent something is, the more appreciated.  That's how Christmas should be too.

My family and visitors arrived safe last night. Some came by car and others by train.  At this early hour of 7.10 a.m. everyone is still asleep.  Apart from me; obviously.  Having woken up around 3 hours ago, I could have done a significant amount of work by now but the body and mind weren't keen, so I decided to indulge them as they've got a busy day ahead.

I love 25th December - the tree, the decorations, the presents, the food and the company.  Whether it's turkey, chicken or goose (not that I've ever had that), the wonder of it all coming together after the non-military way it is prepared, (some call it chaotic), is quite something.  In this house we take it easy.  I can't think of anything I've forgotten and if something has been then it doesn't matter.  Anyone who thinks it does, then shame on them.  Here there's going to be noisy chatter and everyone mucking in.  I know that if I ask for help when needed, it'll be given.  It is exactly what it should be.  Hasn't always been so but life can be turned around.

As it is an occasion of giving gifts, my offering is the following 200 word flash fiction story from my 'She Dreamed Of Flash Fiction' collection.  I had set myself a challenge and loved meeting it.

Happy Christmas everyone!

Insignificant

On days when rain and traffic were friends, they were like demons fresh out of hell, going around whipping up anything they could infect, especially humans, and turn them into mindless cattle.

Pushed to the back each time a taxi arrived by elbow-using jostlers, and aware of her shortcomings, insignificant Jessica was considering returning home without going to the interview when another taxi arrived.

The passenger grimaced at the impatient, leashed crowds looking like they would haul and maul him if he dallied.  Leaning forward he paid the driver.  Getting out he obstructed the red-faced individuals with fangs at the ready.  He pointed to Jessica, a parting cleared, she came through.  ‘You’re drenched.’  He helped her in.  ‘What’s your number?’

Numb and unthinking, she quoted her destination, soon realising her mistake but he had already disappeared.  ‘Story of my life,’ she muttered.  There wasn’t any point to telling reception that should a stranger call, asking for a girl whose name he didn’t know, the message would be for her.

After her interview, she was stopped from leaving the building by the uniformed porter at the door.  Handing her a note, he winked.  ‘For the girl in the wet, red coat.’

The End

Control

In my mind I’ve written between 5 and 10 blogs.  This is the only one its allowed.

A week away from Christmas, I wrap up cost-considered gifts to put under the tree.  I’m one of the fortunate ones.  I’m an Indian woman who left her family, friends and culture.  My shocked, ashamed parents told people that knew them, I’d emigrated.  They could have hired someone to kill me.

I happen to be listening to a programme on BBC4 of which I’m a fan.  Desert Island Discs.  Kirsty Young is in conversation with Kylie Minogue.  Kirsty’s questions draw out laughs and revelations that delight and enthrall.  I’m not ashamed to admit to being naive about many things.  The interviewee’s musical taste always surprise, and occasionally leave me filled with regret.  My taste in everything, food, friends, books etc is eclectic, and I feel that there’s so much I’ve missed along my life’s road. 

Radio shows are edited/controlled.  As are our lives. 

I grew up in a very strict Indian environment.  Even when I was eighteen my television watching was restricted.  But when it came to radio, provided I cooked and cleaned (my mother was a home machinist), I was permitted to listen to the radio.  Whether it was Indian music or English, I had complete freedom.  Radio 1 was my absolute favourite as a teenager.  Remember Tony Blackburn?  Wonderful happy voice that came through the air waves, cheering up households filled with people who didn’t understand English.  The ones I knew weren’t living, just existed.  My childhood memories are extremes of light and dark.  Thankfully, no longer.

Louis Armstrong’s ‘What A Wonderful World’ is playing.  And indeed it is.  Living on this wonderful planet is a privilege.  We only have one life.  My thoughts are always on microcosm and macrocosm suffering around the world.  Where humans inflict pain through control/abuse, from parents over children or vice versa, abusive husbands/wives, to governments/dictatorships leaving those who care, feeling frustrated and helpless.  I want my writing to help.  I'm not the only writer who wants to make a difference. 

Many years on, I am still determined never to be a copy of my parents.  The Indian culture has some great values, one is respect.  Duty is a strange one.  There are many others I cover in my books.  Strangely though, the need to please my parents never leaves me.   'Echoes Across The Water', the Indian short stories published in India required a lot of adjusting because I didn’t want to offend anyone.  Plus I hoped to make my mum proud.

When I telephoned and told Mum about my success, her response was instantaneous. ‘Why can’t you get a proper paid job like your brother and sister?’

LOSING VIRGINITY

With all the other interesting blogs bouncing around the ether at the moment, I didn't want mine, a) to detract from them and b) to get lost among them. Therefore, Losing Virginity is delayed until 2016.

As I've already entered blogger world, I’ll offer up some small portion of my latest musings.  A ‘free’ mini gift that won't clutter the home once all the festivities are over.  And one that won’t involve you having to get it out and display every time I visit or pop up on-line, or make you think about which black bag to slip it in to!  Coherent thinking can often become difficult after Christmas exhaustion, but choices do abound from donating unwanted items to the numerous charity shops, permanently losing them into council bins, to hunting out the receipt in the hope of returning ‘it' for a refund, etc.  Some people keep a cupboard specially for ‘presents’, and find it a good money saver.  Of course there are many more inventive ways we 'dispose' of the above.  If you have a few minutes, I would love to hear about them.

So, around this time of year, how do most of us show the measure of genuine affection for one another?  Is it evidenced with hours spent on comparative price searches for what can't be afforded by either one or both sides?  Just a little cheeky suggestion from me, and in return it is possible you'll still feel the tips of the ears burning, but does that matter because at least it won't have cost you anything?  Okay it's this.  How about instead of the usual commercial route, you do the communicative one.  I love using the telephone and pressing buttons.  So I'm going to use these skills to talk about my book, Seven Stops.  It’s now available in paperback.

I’m already imagining how fantastic a Christmas it’ll be if family and friends buy my book.  Being cheerful and gushing won't be difficult because the January bank statement won't make my eyes pop out and my heart palpitate when I look at it.

The great Bard wrote, 'Such stuff as dreams are made on' and that's what I'm going to do.  Imagine and dream about the approaching New Year and how amazing it's going to be.

A Great Man In A Kilt

What's not to love? Seumas is funny, clever, a great wordsmith and I bet he has the best looking knees in the world.  Had he been wearing his kilt in November when I met him, I would have checked them out!  Seumas, thank you for allowing me to share your words.  Now over to you...

…the name’s Gallacher… Seumas Gallacher… License to KILT…

…there are some remarkable benefits to be had from merely being a Scotsman… the WURLD seems to have made its mind up about how we Scots look, behave and sound… closer to home in Caledonia, we may have a different view on some of that, but nonetheless, we are an unmistakable breed and distinctive brand… adopted Scot-by-film-osmosis, Aussie actor, Mel Gibson, has to take some of the more recent blame for the stereotype of Braveheart, stamped indelibly in the minds of million of cinemagoers across the planet… woad-painted-blue St Andrew’s Crosses on faces, marching to battle against… well… well, against emb’dy, really… I’ve worn my kilt for special occasions most of my adult life… whenever society events call for formal attire, and in some countries,  National Dress, the kilt is a standout couturial winner… recently I was honoured to attend  an American Women’s Association meeting here in the Middle East as a Guest Speaker, and I was particularly requested to, ‘please, please, please wear your kilt’!... it seems our cousins from across the pond have a ‘thang’ about men in kilts… turned out I spent as much time indulging requests for ‘selfies’ as I did in the rest of the presentation put together… the strange thing is, whenever I wear the kilt, I never feel anything but properly, formally dressed… for me there is no ‘casual kiltie wear’… p’raps that’s why it sets its own standard of fashion… the inevitable question gets raised anywhere from twice to a coupla dozen times per events where I do wear it … ‘what’s worn under the kilt?’… the response ranges from the cliched ‘NUTHIN’s worn… it’s all in perfect WURKING order’ to more raunchy replies not suitable for this blog (I have some sensitive English followers to consider, Mabel)… I’ll leave yeez with this clip which may or may not put yer minds at rest… see yeez later… LUV YEEZ!…
http://seumasgallacher.com/