check your cheeks

I pride myself on presenting the best of me. That's not to say I spend hours in front of a mirror primping and plucking; I don't. But I take care over my appearance. However, someone might point to a time when I once let my standards slip.

Picture the scene; Susan and I are sitting at my table, replete after dining on a gorgeous curry, a dish we had prepared and cooked ourselves. We are relaxing, chatting about the ingredients, the hot spices, the wonderful colours, looking forward to a cosy evening on the sofa with a good movie. Our eyes meet and we exchange happy smiles of contentment.

But something's wrong. Susan is frowning. In an effort to recapture the mood I widen my smile, why I'm practically beaming. But this doesn't have the desired effect. Susan rocks back in her chair, laughing in little hitching gasps. "What's up," I query, a degree of confusion creeping over me, and indeed a little disappointment.

"Look in the mirror," cries Suzie. "Look in the darn mirror, Paul!"

Uncertainly I rise from the table and move to the bathroom. The mirror returns my look of bewilderment, but wait, there's something more. My mouth is surrounded by the sumptuous red juices of our wonderful curry! Indian spices are strong in colour, in flavour and it seems impervious to the discreet dabbings of a napkin. In horror, I run the hot tap and soak a facecloth. I lather a bar of soap and scrub and scour with gusto. At last the curry stains transfer from my face to the cloth.

I creep back to the dining table and crack a sheepish grin. "Is that better?" I enquire.

"Oh honey, the look on your face...   and the curry!" And once more Suzie dissolves in fits of hysterics.

***

Footnote: If you see us exchange a beaming smile, I mean a big, fat, clownish smile, you might guess we are secretly reliving that moment.

fire in the sky 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



"… a narrow beam of light which retracted suddenly into the craft. Air Traffic Controllers and Military declined to comment, however local law enforcement say they are keeping an open mind. Now, in other news…"

 

Alan propped himself on one elbow and reached out to silence the radio. He fell back and stared at the ceiling. Waves of nausea pulsed in him and he groaned. Damned flu, he thought, that’s all I need. He nudged his sweat-soaked pillow onto the floor and remembered it was a weekday. I’m getting up to phone in sick soon, he decided.

 

Mid-morning street sounds came as if squeezed through a tube. Distant traffic and far off shouts lowered to a whisper. Sunlight filtered through the blinds. Fragments of a dream floated in his mind. Cold hands pressing him flat on a steel table… shrill voices screeching in his head… a ring of grey faces watching him… eyes, black and lifeless... the persistent whine of drilling… an explosion in the nape of his neck.

 

Hours later the sun had advanced and a chill breeze stirred the air. "Alan, pick up if you’re there… Alan…?" The answer-phone bleeped and fell silent. Sheba appeared at the door, tail aloft. She sprang onto the bed and crept slowly over the crumpled sheets. After sniffing a small bloodstain she turned two circles and settled down to wait.

 

……………………………

 

"I need to explain. You-have-to-lis-ten," he was thumping the desk with his fist to emphasise each syllable. The headache had grown worse after dark and the lump in his neck burned like fire. The police officer didn’t answer but turned and called a colleague, “Jim, here a minute will you?”

 

Alan fingered his neck and a new image crashed into his head. The greys stretched a thin latex sheet over him and attached the corners beneath the table. A soft vibration and hum began as a suffocating vacuum was introduced. His screams were stifled under hot shrink-wrap.

 

Jim appeared at the desk and eyed him slowly from head to toe. "First things first sir, where are your clothes?"

 

……………………………

 

Two hundred and fifty miles above in the upper atmosphere hung a vast flying V. Inside six grey beings were seated in a circle studying a 3D holographic presentation which hovered at their centre. DNA analysis, brainwaves and chemical structure were laid out with mathematical clarity for inspection. Each chart and report bore the name "Alan Henderson."

the last gas station on earth

The Pontiac lurched over a pothole and Frank watched the fuel gauge lift then settle back on 'Empty'. "Fuck it," he breathed and thumped the steering wheel hard. They had passed a Texaco ten miles back and were now running on vapour.

"Look," cried Paula, "Gas ahead!" She launched her finger toward a run-down gas station and general store in the distance. Frank pulled onto the cracked cement beside an ancient rusty pump. Is this gas or paraffin, he wondered. His gaze took in the peeling paint, the ice machine and an ages-old Coca Cola sign hanging by one screw. "Stay here Paula." He shut the car door slowly and stepped past a deck chair, faded and stained with age. Through the window past the hand-written 'Open' sign he could make out an old timer, a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek.

A bell clanged dolefully as he pushed the door and somewhere out back a dog began barking, gruffly and ominously. The skeletal figure waved a thin hand and in a barely intelligible voice rattled, "If it's gas you want, go through and talk to Billy." A fly buzzed in Frank's ear and he slapped it away as he nodded, "Thanks."

Billy and three friends were sitting around a card table, grinning with menace. Behind them through a grime baked window, a rotting Plymouth Fury was visible in the back yard, sitting up on bricks. A huge German Shepherd sat in its shade, tongue out, panting. Frank thought of Paula sitting in the Pontiac holding the battery powered fan to her pretty face.

Suddenly Billy shrieked, "It's party time!" His pals stood up, chair legs scraping on the bare wood floor. Frank turned and saw his way blocked by the muzzle of a 12-bore shot gun in the hands of the old timer. As his eyes darted frantically for another exit he heard Paula shouting. The shout became a siren winding up to full scream. Then silence.

"You fucking bastards! What have you done?" The old-timer pushed the gun barrel closer and touched his temple. Frank screwed his eyes shut and a sharp metallic click rang out. He opened his eyes to see Paula sitting beside him in the passenger seat of the Pontiac, flicking her cigarette lighter and smiling. "Wake up hon', rest over. We need to drive on and get that gas now or we ain't never gonna make it to Huntsville!"

(Inspired by a 2005 stop at a remote gas station in Alabama)

Photography in 2015

... 'cloudy - sunny - sun on beach' - the endearing exposure controls of plastic 'point and shoots' in my youth. Those days are long gone. Now you scroll through icons to choose from numerous pre-set exposures. I learned the principles of photography in my early teens; the relationship between shutter speed and aperture, and how in combination with focal length and film speed, their effects on exposure could be both subtle and striking. We are now in an age where electronics can manage all or as much of our photos as we like but the latest generation of cameras still allow the freedom and control familiar to traditionalists.

 

Recently I took apart my six year old Panasonic, confident that I could solve a problem with dust on the sensor. However things were so delicate in there that it all went pear-shaped. No one said the infra-red filter was as fragile as fine porcelain. Damn. I can't be without the versatility of a long-zoom compact. I have a Canon digital SLR but it's too big for convenience. After research and due diligence I settled on the Sony HX50V as a replacement.

 

Well, have things changed much in just a few years? Hell, yes! Weight and size-wise the Sony is on the outer edges of 'compact', but there is an incredible amount to pack in. This is nothing short of a mini computer which can take photos. Aside from the usual array of shooting modes, full auto, aperture priority, shutter priority etc there are some seriously smart innovations, notably the zoom.

 

This is billed as 30x optical and 60x digital but even that is understating things. Depending on your shooting resolution the zoom can extend to a barely credible 240x - sitting on my couch I could get one word on the spine of a CD fifteen feet away to fill the LCD screen. Not much is beyond range now. Naturally all images are geo-tagged with GPS data retrieved from crazy satellites orbiting my apartment.

 

Mounting the Sony on my tripod I will be able to focus on a single petal of the hummingbird feeder - and what's more I can control exposure remotely using a smart phone. In my case I downloaded the App to my iPod Touch. If desired, I can keep an eye on my subject, control zoom, then release the shutter (shake-free on potentially long zoom and slow shutter) from any point within Wi-Fi range.

 

When it's time to upload an SD card full of imagery there is no need to fish out that microscopic card only to have it snatched away in the wind; no need to select and untangle the correct cord. Now a quick skim through the camera's menu, a push of a button and images transfer wirelessly to my laptop using my familiar Photoshop importer.

 

But the 'selfie' wink or smile -activated feature? The thought makes me wince like I'm sucking a lemon!

Night Shopping

My perfect time for grocery shopping is early morning, very early morning, preferably in darkness. Gliding into an empty parking lot, sauntering up and down empty aisles, perusing fully stocked shelves without distraction is heavenly.

But even at 6am I might not be the only shopper and if I spy someone I'll take a detour to avoid them. I mean, who wants to say "excuse me" to reach the salad dressing when you're the only two people in a vast store?

On the graveyard shift there is usually just one cashier open, her solitary light gleaming like a beacon in a long line of empty lanes. I march steadfastly past, aiming for the self-serve checkouts, (those admirable inventions which cancel the requirement to speak to a human). There I am master of the electronic interaction. I know the codes, the weighing options for the fruit and veg, the loyalty points system. They hold no fear, only pleasure for me.

Susan's ideal time for grocery shopping is Saturday afternoon, preferably before a public holiday. I've explained the folly of this plan numerous times and to her credit she does understand. However she arrives at my apartment hot and bothered, with tales of barging through crowds, elbowing old ladies out of the way and kicking old men's shins to get to the Brussels sprouts.

But she seems to thrive on the cut and thrust, the bobbing and weaving between slowpokes. No matter that Saturday afternoon means picking over the remnants of limp lettuce, soft tomatoes and brown bananas; discovering that the amazing flyer bargains are sold out, and having to park at the distant reaches of the parking lot where the crap from the old snow pile has congealed underfoot.

Susan likes to hurry round the store but it's so busy there aren't even any carts left. She is swinging a hand basket (which she likes to tell people to go to hell in), tsk-ing amid the crowds of buffoons who have no idea where they are going or what they are looking for.

Now there's an ample woman shuffling along in slippers which don't leave the ground, leaning on her cart for support. She's hogging the middle of the aisle, making passing tricky. (Why did you take that shortcut down the cookie aisle Susan? You know it makes you mumble obscenities.)

At long last her little basket holds the few forlorn items she could calmly and happily have bought in the wee small hours. Terrified of technology, she averts her gaze from the thinly populated self serve lanes and heads for the manned checkouts, heaving with shoppers and overflowing carts. I hear this time and again, "I always pick the wrong lane!" Well, observe the cashier. Avoid the plump male with sausage-like fingers; that way lies madness. He will be on the phone to his supervisor for help with half the items in your cart. At least go to a lane with a middle-aged female cashier who doesn't seem to be talking much to her customers. Watch those nimble fingers; gauge if she's a seamstress in her home life.

Even then Susan's problems might just be starting. The till roll runs out (see, you forgot to look for the tell-tale pink lines on the receipt roll during your lane assessment!) Someone tries to engage her in bland conversation, "Cool out today." She grunts a nothing reply and pretends to study her phone. Now the man ahead is suddenly smelly, the cart handle is teeming with germs, the cashier is reaching for the phone, a customer is patting his pockets searching for his wallet. It's hell on earth. I know. I've been there. Meantime the self-serve lanes are empty, serene and inviting.

Suzie puts herself through this nightmare and tells me how dreadful it was. She knows I hate the experience equally so when I nod sagely in agreement and gently remind her I do my shopping differently, she punches me in the arm with the strength of a prize-fighter. Ouch!

(Seriously, those cart-leaners, don't you want to poke 'em in the eye!)

Paul 2.0

Thirty years in a clerical job, counting money in the early years, granting mortgages in middle years, and latterly doing weird things with spreadsheets. That lifestyle ensures you end up with nice soft hands, perfect for some things but not the kind of skin needed for outdoor work.

I'm driving a golf cart laden with painting supplies and tools; a far cry from shining a desk with pin-striped sleeves but I am enjoying the difference. The tourist resort of Cavendish is a forty-two kilometer drive north through rolling countryside. I see fields which only a few weeks ago were under feet of snow, now red and neatly ploughed. Distant glimpses of the sea over every hill crest then sweeping down to bridges across sparkling harbours. A very different commute from my British experiences fifteen years ago.

I spend my days lifting, carrying, mending and painting; digging, lopping, trimming and cutting; cleaning, building and dumping. I go home hot tired and sore. My jeans and t shirts are smothered in paint, I stink of paint thinner and bug spray, I have a hole in my palm where I jabbed a screwdriver; a dent in my nail where I folded a step ladder on it; and sunburned legs - yes calves like lobsters.

This is Paul 2.0 and although I ache in places where I didn't even know I had places, I am enjoying summer outdoors: howling winds that whip the paint right off your brush and into your face; cold rain that numbs your fingers, giving way to scorching sun that dries your eyes and burns your neck; mosquitoes which settle around you in a black cloud, zing in your ear and pierce your soft skin.

Susan calls me a rough, tough, cream puff. She's about right.

Dreamer

For a short time many years ago, I was in the habit of noting down the contents of my dreams:

16 Oct 2004

I was lying in bed awake looking at the ceiling. Through a skylight I could see two people walking on the roof. One pressed his face close to the glass, grinned and opened the window. He thrust his head in and looked at me. He seemed to sense I was no threat and grinned again. I tried to call out but was struck dumb. I shook my wife but could not wake her. I tried to shout at her but I could do no more than mumble. I heard noise downstairs, so fearing burglary I got up and ventured down. A woman was lying on her side apparently asleep on the hall floor. I tried to ask her what she was doing and order her out of the house but no words would come. I went into the living room to check if anything was stolen and could hear the male intruder following behind me. I struggled to shout soundlessly for help. I woke abruptly to find my wife asking what on earth was wrong as I had been crying in my sleep.

 

16 Oct 2004 I was on stage with rock singer/songwriter Ian Hunter who was playing with a small band for a group of schoolchildren. He seemed unaware of my presence as if I was invisible. During a break I caught his attention. I apologised for boring him but told him I had been a fan since 1970 and how I loved his music and had seen him play with Mott the Hoople in the seventies and again several times in recent years with his own band.

 

17 Oct 2004 I was visiting a former work place. It appeared quite different to how I remembered yet I still seemed to know my way around. I recognized only a handful of faces. I felt very self-conscious and became aware that I was wearing no clothes. I felt that if I hurried along confidently no one would notice.