For Victoria and Grace it is about who has the coolest car, the grandest house, the most fashionable interior designer, the most expensive bespoke kitchen (with under floor heating), over-the-top dinner parties and fine wines, ostentatious jewellery, servile domestic help, the number of holidays a year, and, of course shoes and, especially, handbags.
The two women’s friendship mitigates their endless competition; it’s not malicious but intense; catty, some say.
I approach and stare
Thinking the thrush is dead
It has hit a windowpane
As I go to pick it up
To dispose of it
A cruel word dispose
Its tiny heart still throbs
Minute breaths
Quivering in its chest
Flies tentatively gather
Happy for a new bequest
The thrush so beautiful
Such fragility wasted
Its song forever ceased
I cannot touch
Its dappled plumpness
Full of promise
Now full of sadness
Unable to disturb its last breath
I’m writing this
Waiting for its death
Continue reading
Edward, a resting actor, has hoped for better things than his last role playing Buttons in the Christmas Show the end of Cromer Pier. He’s penniless and wonders if he’ll ever work again. ‘Gathering’ in front of his bathroom mirror, he intones, Age cannot wither her, Nor custom … Oh, shit! I can’t face Universal Credit. Every day, in his dingy rented flat, he searches opportunities in The Stage and on-line.
His phone pings. There’s a message from his mother, alerting him to an advertisement in ‘The Lady’ – Ornamental Garden Hermit required. The accompanying photographs of the landscaped estate and mansion are beautiful. He applies and, to his astonishment, is offered an interview.
The estate’s owner, Estaban Stanislaus, is an American, perfectly exemplifying the Zuckerberg robotic look, with monk-like tonsure and machine-like emotionless speech.
Okay, Eddie. Let’s just reprise your role. You’ll be dressed as a Druid – costume supplied. I‘ll supply your food and booze just as if you’re in a hotel and my people’ll collect your laundry. You get five thousand US a month. Webcams will display your hermitude on the Internet but there are no microphones.
It’s a non-speaking role?
Correct.
Why do you want an ornamental garden hermit?
When you’ve bought everything you ever thought of, what then? They really did have one here in the eighteenth century; it’s the cherry on the cake of pointless conspicuous consumption, awesome. I may walk down with friends but mostly we’ll watch on-line.
The Grotto has two parts. The original, public facing grotto, has been meticulously renovated. The new private rear is commodious. The movement sensitive webcams only operate at the front.
At the barred entrance gate Edward asks, Is this the only way in and out?
Always locked, except when you take deliveries. You’ll be safe.
Why do I need to be safe?
In the sticks anything can happen.
Do I get a key?
No. If you got fed up and ran off I’d look stupid.
What do I do? Edward asks.
Act Druid.
What happens if I’m ill?
There’s an emergency button in your bedroom.
Can I use my mobile?
There’s no signal in the grotto.
Is there TV?
For sure. You up for it?
Edward watches Covid-19 unfold on the TV. I’m lucky to be shielded, he thinks. Great food. Superb wines. No furlough for me. Money in the bank. I made it!
Estaban doesn’t visit and Edward wonders how his performance is being received.
After eleven weeks his food order isn’t delivered. There’s no response to the emergency button. At the gate he repeatedly screams, Help!
Five days later, kneeling at the gate, he begs, Help. Let me out! Please.
Slumped in an armchair in the lounge, watching the news, he sips water from a glass.
‘The cause of death of the eccentric millionaire Estaban Stanislaus has been established as Covid-19.’
At the gate he finally tries the handle. It opens. I thought it was locked, idiot, he whispers. Too weak to move, he collapses.
I hope you enjoyed this story. Remember, I publish a new story every Sunday.
Please feel free to pass them on to others you know who may be interested.
You can read previous stories from “Behind the Plague Door” here >>>More
© Phil Cosker 2020
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.
Free climbing without a rope
In my home
My steps now fragile and fearful
I’m free climbing without a rope
Descending the steep old stairs
My right hand on the bannister
On the left I have finger holds
On bookcase shelves
Fingertips grip
Steadying
Hold 1:
On the edge in front of
Pigeon Feathers
Under Milk Wood
The New Black Poetry
Kaddish
Left foot down one step
Right foot down to the same step
Fingertips grip
Steadying
Hold 2:
On the edge in front of
Paradise Lost
Dubliners
On Chesil Beach
The Reprieve
Left foot down one step
Right foot down to the same step
Fingertips grip
Steadying
Hold 3:
On the edge in front of
The Cement Garden
Smithering
Surfacing
Poems for people who don’t read poems
Repeat steps
Steadying
Hold 4:
Set in Darkness
The Human Stain
Black Dogs
Invitation to a Beheading
Repeat steps
Hold 5:
Murphy
The Golden Notebook
Tell me lies
Mountains of the mind
Repeat steps
Hold 6:
The Long Take
Pigs in Heaven
Any Human Heart
Drive your plough over the bones of the dead.
Repeat steps
Final hold:
Photographs of my daughters together in a photo frame fashioned as a sheep
Left foot down
Pivot body to right
Right foot down in front of left foot
Right hand grip bannister wall bracket
Left hand grip architrave
Steadying
Deep breath
Left foot down the long drop of the burglar’s step
Gasp
Right foot down.
Both feet down
Free climb complete
Relief
Take walking stick from where it rests against the wall
There is neither rhyme nor reason to this
Expect the fear of falling
Domestic climbing without a rope
It’s 2020 and Covid-19 is in full spate. The UK is under lockdown. Government policy is to prevent the spread of the disease, reduce the death rate and preserve the NHS. It’s a shambles.
Chris and Jack are in their early seventies.
Chris answers his phone. Hello. Who’s that?
I’m Jack. I was asked to give you a call. I’m an NHS volunteer.
I don’t do cold calls. Who asked you to call?
Your GP. She said you had a problem.
What’s her name? Chris asks.
Doctor Summer.
That’s her.
What’s the problem? Jack asks.
I’ve got the plague.
Okay …. And you’re self-isolating because of that?
That’s it.
Why are you calling it the plague?
That’s what it is.
Why plague?
It’s killing people all over the world – it’s a paramedic.
You mean pandemic.
That’s it, a pandemic – plague.
Coronavirus? Jack asks.
One Christmas, I was fourteen, I sold Corona pop from a lorry; the bottles were in wooden crates. I loved it, and now it’s a fucking plague.
It’s not a plague. They stopped in the middle ages.
What about tombola?
Jack stifles a laugh. Ebola?
That’s the fella; if that wasn’t a plague what was it?
A viral disease. Are you ill?
Of course I’m ill.
I was told you needed help – come on, what help do you need?
You sound, irritated, stressed. What’s up? Chris asks.
Silence.
What is it?
She died. I’m only doing this to talk, Jack sobs.
Don’t do that. You’ll have me at it in a minute … you’re alone?
Stifling his sobs, Jack replies, Yes. No, I have her moggies.
Do they talk to you?
They purr back.
What are their names?
Sonny and Cher.
Chris sings, ‘cause you got me, And baby I got you. Babe, I got you babe.
Stop! Please. Why are you singing?
Because you’re lonely, just like me.
I’m okay now, Jack says. Sorry. What help do you need?
I’m afraid.
Tell me why?
I don’t want to die on my own.
How do you know you’re dying?
I’ve been told. Chris sings, Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away, Oh, I believe in yesterday.
Can’t go back, though, can we?
Why were you crying? Chris asks.
I loved her.
I’m sorry, mate.
No, no, no … Why do you call it the plague?
I liked selling Corona, I don’t want a bloody virus killing my memory.
Yeah, I get that. You sing.
I’m crap.
Want to try a duet?
Yeah, why not? What shall we sing?
Sweet, sweet the memories …
Perfect. You start I’ll follow.
They sing. Take one fresh and tender kiss, Add one stolen night of bliss, One girl; One boy; some grief; some joy; Memories are made of this.
They are lost in laughter.
Sing again tomorrow? Same time, same place? Chris asks.
You betcha – you choose tomorrow.
I’m glad you called, Jack.
Me too. Jack laughs. Fuck the plague!
They sing. Sweet, sweet, the memories …
I hope you enjoyed this story. Remember, I publish a new story every Sunday.
Please feel free to pass them on to others you know who may be interested.
You can read previous stories from “Behind the Plague Door” here >>>More
© Phil Cosker 2020
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.
There are many things that are difficult when having treatment for cancer. Not least among these are ‘side effects’. It’s a common cry from cancer patients ‘don’t ask me about the side effects!’ The implication being that they are a nightmare. Until I had cancer I didn’t really know why they said this.
I don’t want to talk about my particular situation in detail but rather the inadequacy of the phrase ‘side effects’. The connotation of the phrase is that the effect of the treatment is peripheral to the cancer (in all its hideous varieties) when in fact it becomes central.
I my case, I was going along pretty well with my treatment plan with tiresome (literally) side effects but I was pain free. It was then suggested that I start taking an additional cancer drug as it would provide ‘marginal gains’. After five days I knew why people said ‘don’t ask about the side effects’ – my side effects are awful.
The side effects are now the centre of my battle with my tumour (who’s called Alowishus by the way). It’s ridiculous to say this but it feels like I’m a victim of my treatment side effects rather than the cancer itself. Is all this pain worth it?
The leaflets that come with drugs can’t predict what each patient may experience but the suggestion remains that the effects are on the side, like French fries or a green salad, and generally you’ll be fine if you avoid the shellfish.
Why not change the wording to ‘Treatment Consequences’?
Finally, it seems to me that the issue of ‘side effects’ is all part of the obfuscation that is still used, possibly with the best of intentions, to avoid the painful truths of being terminally ill. That’s for another day.
The best quality of life must remain central to cancer treatment because as ‘normal’ a life as possible hugely helps the ill person’s supporters – there is something very debilitating in seeing one’s loved ones suffer as one suffers.
Go well.
© Phil Cosker 08.06.2020
Victor Beautule is known as the ‘coming man’ on his way to the top. He isn’t from a humble background nor has he the studied insouciance of the English aristocracy. He’s a man from the middle, the lower middle, and bitter about the elites he perceives above him. His contempt for the lower orders is unbounded.
When Vanessa, one of his many girlfriends, whose heart he knowingly broke, accuses him of being emotionally illiterate, unable to put himself in the place of ‘the other’, and having the compassion of a stone gnome he takes this as a challenge. When he receives a personal email promoting a very expensive two-day residential course ‘Empathy for Success’ he sees a way of meeting that challenge and quickly enrols.
Once inside Wandelsham Hall, he discovers, with delight, that it’s even more exclusive than he had hoped: there are only four participants. The therapist, Melvyn, will lead the participants who are Rupert, Nigel, Victor and Natasha – no surnames are shared. Natasha looks vaguely familiar to Victor, but she’s not pretty enough for him to remember who she is, even though she reeks of entitlement.
There are two sessions a day, structured around role plays based on counselling scenarios: each participant will be, in turn, ‘the sufferer’, the counsellor and observer.
On Saturday, Victor first plays the role of ‘sufferer’. He’s pleased with his performance but worries he’s revealed too much of himself. Natasha plays the role of counsellor; her condescension, verging on boredom, irritates him, but he bites his tongue. Later, as an observer he thinks he’s done a fine job. Natasha, the other observer, tells him his observations are trite.
On Saturday evening he dines alone. There is no sign of the others; he’s perplexed, Perhaps they couldn’t afford full board? I can, so that’s fine.
During the last session on the Sunday he is counsellor and Natasha ‘sufferer’. Her portrayal of a betrayed utterly bereft wife is superb and, alarmingly, touches a nerve, reminding Victor of how women have reacted to his behaviour toward them. Natasha screams, Help me! Victor shouts, For fuck’s sake, woman, pull yourself together, you pathetic spoilt upper class cow! I don’t blame him for shagging someone else.
Natasha holds up her hand. Hush. Hush. It’s role-play, Victor. You’ve forgotten that and also forgotten who I am, haven’t you? I’m the wife of the minister, your boss, and, as it happens, Vanessa’s sister.
The penny drops. Who are you people?
Vanessa’s brother, Rupert says.
Her other brother, Nigel adds.
I’m their uncle, Melvyn says.
That’s why you weren’t at dinner?
Natasha smiles. Yes, this is our family home. We were in our own quarters, while you were feeding your face. Vanessa’s right, you’re an utterly self-centred prick and I think I can fairly say that your career is fucked. I’ll see to that. You can go now.
I hate you privileged bastards!
That’s to be expected. Gladly you’ll never be one of us. Goodbye.
I hope you enjoyed this story. Remember, I publish a new story every Sunday.
Please feel free to pass them on to others you know who may be interested.
You can read previous stories from “Behind the Plague Door” here >>>More
© Phil Cosker 2020
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.
Phil Cosker 