Not A Reliable Indicator

Sometimes my dreams haunt me after I wake.

Take this morning.

It's early, and I wake to the sound of something moving around in my bedroom. I roll over, semi-alert, and find the bedroom door is open. Light filters in through the blinds at the far end of the landing, though my room is mercifully dark. I'm not a morning person.

But it's odd; I always sleep with the door closed, and I don't recall getting up during the night. Not that that's a reliable indicator of anything.

Besides, it doesn't explain the snuffling and the general sounds of rummaging, unseen at floor level. Perhaps one of the badgers has let themselves in? I keep odds and ends - cables and connectors mostly - in a box under my bed; maybe they need something for a project?

Hello?

The sound ceases suddenly, and silence envelops the room. It extends unreasonably, far beyond the endurance of the shyest of badgers.

But then, like a furry eruption, a dog leaps onto the bed. He's small, lively, mischievous-looking, and pretty darned cute.

Oh, of course, it's my dog!

I fuss him, and he wags effusively. What's his name? Reggie. Reggie? Yes, Reggie.

No, wait, I don't have a dog.

I rub my eyes as he drops from the bed and runs out of the room. Whose dog was that? What time is it? I need answers.

Miranda? Miranda! Are you there, babe?

Miranda doesn't reply. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up, somewhat bemused, in the warm wreckage of my bedclothes. And I think about a nice cup of tea.

Miranda? I creak upwards and walk towards the light. Onwards, forwards, meet the day. Good morning kiss, put the kettle on, tea, breakfast. Oh, and find out about the dog.

A dog? Was there a dog? Did I dream the dog? I sniff my hand sleepily; there's no doggy smell to it. Did I just fuss a dog? What was his name? I don't recall. Why should I? He's not mine, after all.

Grabbing my dressing gown, I pass through the dim, wooden-floored landing and onto the carpet of my front room. I wonder idly where the stairs are. Was that the landing I walked through, or my hallway?

I flop into a leather armchair, still muddle-headed.

Miranda?

The redhead is nowhere to be seen. I half expected to find her dozing in a chair in front of a quiet TV, wearing one of my shirts; she doesn't always sleep well, and often gets up before me. I wonder what our plans for the day are?

I remember the tea, and rise to fill and start the kettle. I notice that the room seems a little bare. Spartan, almost. No, that's wrong. More Sparse than Spartan. Magnolia-painted walls with a couple of forgettable hanging prints, minimal furniture. Clean and tidy without being fussy, but few cushions, no flowers or air fresheners, and precious little colour apart from the pizza boxes.

All very single male. I have no idea how she puts up with it.

How who puts up with it? I look to the sofa. Melissa, was it? No wait, I live alone. Have done for years. And I never lived with a redhead. What am I thinking?

And what was that about a dog?

Fifteen minutes later, after a cup of tea in my favourite armchair, I'm wide awake, and feeling rather foolish. Man, that dream sure clung to me. But the curtains are now open, the sun is shining, and I'm ready for the day.

There's a knock at the door, and I rise steadily to answer it. Passing through the hallway, I spy the familiar hulking shape through the glass of the door. I open it to welcome my friend.

BEAR! Good to see you matey! Come in! I've just made tea!

Five minutes later, I'm back in my armchair with a fresh cup, and Bear is sitting on the sofa. Well, occupying it; he's a big lad. He's put some quiet music on; some Rimsky Korsakov, I think? The black bear sits quietly, sipping tea from a tiny cup held precariously in his huge paws. He smiles amiably.

This is excellent tea, Monsieur.

Wait. What were we just talking about?

Bear casts his gaze about as he fusses the happy dog on his lap.

So, where's Miranda?

I decide to head back to bed. I'll wake up properly later.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Pooch pinched from How To Select A Dog

Sadly Out Of Season

There has been some speculation as to the recent blogging absence of myself and my best friend, the part-time evil genius iDifficult.

The truth can now be revealed.


We’re getting some odd readings from this pair. Look!

Hmmm, yes. The IQs are remarkably high.

We’re not over America, then?

No, sadly they’re out of season.

And what’s that ghastly smell?

That’s the shaven headed-one. The vegetarian.

Whoa, open an airlock. Hey, they seem to be awake.

Yes, there’s massive caffeine levels in the pair of them.

And where did that suited one get a pizza from?

I'm not sure, but he growled when we tried to take it.

It’s no good - we’ll have to throw them back.

Yeah, they’re too weird.


Indigo

Dedicated to my UFO conspirator pal Red.
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Aliens abducted from Alien, UFO & Paranormal Times

Making A Reasonable Argument

It's been a day of intrigue here in Cambridge.

King - our resident lion, connoisseur of zebras, and stealer of neckties - is an ambassador at the British Embassy. And occasionally he brings his work home with him.

This morning, I awoke to find him in my living room with the head of state for Antarctica, The Penguin Kaiser "Free Willy" Wilhelm.

(Worth a click to check out his uniform)

After some introductions, I expressed my surprise, as I felt sure Antarctica was a nationless continent. The little old rockhopper gave me the red-eye and declared in a heavy Germanic accent, that:

Ve are a new nation, ja? Many have staked a claim to ze continent, but who iz bedder to claim zovereignty than ze indigenous inhabitants?

This seemed an entirely reasonable argument. And as a penguin, he seemed entirely representative. He continued:

Ve vill soon take our place on ze vorld stage. Ve are an expanding nation, and at some point, ve vill need lebensraum!

I frowned, trying to remember this word. King stepped in and translated it for me as "living room".

A few minutes later, after a flurry of Teutonic curses, I had the house to myself again; King had exited with his colleague, to escort him back to his Embassy.

I'm a reasonable guy.

But nobody messes with my living room.


Indigo

Dedicated to my zookeeping matey Dazza Jordan
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Or Cold With Custard

I’m not a morning person.

It's early morning, and I’m in a well-known fast food restaurant.

Let’s call it McDonalds.

The young fella behind the desk is gazing at me patiently as I wonder what to order from the breakfast menu; I suspect his heart is back home in bed. But he wears a cheery smile, and has clearly been well trained. The row of stars on his badge gleam their agreement, though I have no idea what each represents; one of them might be for scrubbing the toilets.

I hope he’s washed his hands.

Do you have pies yet?

I know damned well that company’s unique, deep-fried pies are not on the breakfast menu, but it’s worth asking. They sometimes prepare a few ready for the shift to daytime menu.

Yes Sir! They’re just ready. I notice that he doesn’t glance to check; I like this guy, he’s quietly professional. Even his cap is on straight.

What do you have?

What pies, Sir? His smiles proudly and unconsciously touches the brim of the cap. Our standard apple and cinnamon.

I like Pie. Meat, fruit, whatever. Pie is important. Some light crust, or flaky pastry, maybe even a crumble. Plenty of filling, hot and seasoned, or cold with custard. While my mind is elsewhere, I notice that my mouth is asking another question.

Do you have blueberry?

It’s straight from the realm of wishful thinking, but having had one of their blueberry pies in the past, I’ve often hoped for their return. The lad smiles indulgently.

No Sir, just our standard apple and cinnamon.

I frown. Shame. Your blueberry ones were excellent.

They really were amazing. The banana pies I was indifferent for, but the blueberry ones were the nicest they ever did, even better than the mincemeat and custard ones they do every Christmas.

Blueberry, Sir? I’m not sure I remember those.

He really is well trained. His statement wonders whether I’m confused, mistaken or just pain lying. But his eyes are clear and friendly. Again, professional.

Yep. A few years ago, I guess, but they were lovely.

I wonder idly when it was?

Perhaps they were before my time, Sir? When was it?

It’s not intended as a slight, and I take it as meant; I’m told I have an honest face, so this is probably genuine interest. There’s nobody behind me, so we have time for a flashback.

I’m in Birmingham, in my university days. I’m lighter, fitter, and spottier. My hair is long, and I’m dressed in a white vest, a gobsmacker of an Hawaiian shirt, and scruffy turquoise jogger bottoms. I’m sitting alone in the restaurant in the city centre, contemplating the blueberry pie in front of me.

It’s cool to the touch, and I hazard a bite. And burn my mouth on the scalding fruit. Cursing, I jerk back and squirt more of the indigo purée onto my arm. Fruit burns are painful, as they don’t stop ‘til the fruit’s gone. But after a moment’s work with a tissue, a gulp of drink and an ice cube, I forget my discomfort and decide that the pie tastes really good.

And burn myself again on the next bite.

Back in the now, I realise that this was over twenty years ago. Have I really been pining for a deep-fried blueberry pie for all that time?

My focus falls on the waiting youth; he’s not yet twenty. This bothers me enormously. I easily resist the urge to go Obi-Wan on him as say,

I’ve not had a blueberry pie since… Oh, since before you were born.

The air of wisdom I can handle. But maybe I’m not ready to be old enough to be his dad. Or a crazy old hermit. Actually, there’s no maybe about it. I give him a humble shrug.

I forget. But like you say, before your time, I finish weakly, feeling very old all of a sudden. He notes my discomfort and cheers me along with an upbeat,

So, an apple pie, Sir? Cup of coffee, maybe?

I nod thankfully, blessing his good manners, and we make the transaction, ending with a typical exchange of well-intentioned pleasantries.

I choose a table by the window, and sit to watch the world go by.

The coffee is good, though the not-blueberry pie feels cool to the touch as I absently slide it from its box.

I take the first bite, and suddenly wish I’d ordered an iced drink.

I’m not a morning person.

But, despite an extra twenty years of wisdom, I think I'd find one of these damned things to be dangerous at any time of day.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Blueberry picture blatantly stolen from Artisan Lighthouse

Sharing A Brief Smile

Today is a beautiful Sunday.

Contrary to my usual behaviour, I think I'll go out and enjoy the sunshine. But I'd like to share a smile with you, albeit briefly, so I'll leave you with this bit of iconic fun.

This is definitely worth a click.

Enjoy your day.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
You can see the original film poster here

Not A Funny Badger In Sight

You all know me, right?

I like to write fluff, whimsies that cheer the days along.

Lions, and badgers, and bears, oh my.

I have little to grumble about, my life is easy.

I have security, money and prospects, family and friends.

Today I'm fine, and most likely will be tomorrow.

I'm a very lucky guy.

Not everyone is so lucky.

Shit, as they say, happens.

Some days there are no laughs, and precious little solace.

I love my friends, and I stand by them on bad days.

Someone else could do it, but I choose to.

It's important, even if we can't always affect the outcome.

We can place ourselves in the way of change.

We can stand ready to help a friend as life carries them along.

A little help is worth a lot of pity, as my mother would say.

Sometimes we make things worse, tho we don't mean to.

We may not even be needed in the end.

But the act makes a difference.

The effort is important.



Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

I Don't Think I Nailed It

Sometimes you just have to go with a recommendation.

As I step from the cobbled sidestreet into the musty shop, I wonder if I’ve been given bad information.

The place looks tatty. Distressed wooden panelling gazes indifferently past stacks of yellowing paper, while dusty sunbeams pick at the threadbare green carpet. A forgotten tale of spiders is written in the webs at the high corners of the room.

It’s not Savile Row, that’s for sure.

The future orbits gently on a turn of my heel. But before I can retreat, an elderly Jewish tailor steps from a stock room behind the counter. My instincts tell me that this evaluation is stereotypical or clichéd, but I don’t choose this reality; he is what he is. A dark skullcap, a thin beard and round spectacles, and a tape measure draped around the shoulders of his chalk-marked waistcoat.

The tailor regards me with polite intensity for a moment.

Good afternoon, Sir, he smiles, I’ll be with you in just one moment.

And that said, he steps back into the stock room and out of sight.

I’m taken aback by this abruptness, but take a few even breaths and let it go; it’s possible I’m feeling a bit tired and impatient today. I look about the place, hoping to see new details and subtleties that will soften my harsh first impressions.

Nope, nothing.

And then I hear a sewing machine strike up its rhythm in the back room. I glance at the door and once again wonder about leaving. But the old man returns to view as the sewing machine continues; there must be someone else back there. He places a neat stack of items onto the counter before stepping out to serve me. I note that he’s quite a bit shorter than me.

Right Sir, he says without apology, wielding the tape measure, perhaps you might like to tell me your thoughts.

A business suit. I state simply, though I doubt he sells casual ones. Something in a dark navy blue. His face is neutral, and I feel more explanation is necessary. I know what I like.

I see, Sir. Double-breasted, Sir? asks the short figure as he manoeuvres around me, moving both my limbs and the tape measure expertly. I grunt an affirmative as he measures my inside leg.

We continue in this vein, back and forth.

Will you be needing a waistcoat, Sir?

Yes, same navy blue as the suit.

Belt or braces, Sir?

Braces. I’m not the shape I used to be.

Perhaps a slightly higher waist, Sir?

Yes, exactly. Same reason.

Inside pockets, Sir?

Just one, on the left, as close to the armpit as possible.

Colour of the lining, Sir?

Blue, but lighter than the navy.

Turn-ups on the trousers, Sir?

Coin-catchers? I’m not sure. No.

As we finish, the distant sewing machine stops. Seconds later, a gangling youth in a pinstripe waistcoat steps from the back room and deposits another item of clothing onto the pile at the counter. The tailor turns and nods, before waving the lad out of sight again.

The old man returns his attention to me, raising an gnarled finger.

I have exactly what you want, Sir! he enthuses, heading back to the counter. Step right this way. I follow, admitting to myself that I’m impressed by his thoroughness, and the fact that he didn’t write a single measurement down.

He indicates the clothes on the counter. Here you are.

Right. Wait. What?

I don’t understand. We’ve only just measured me up.

Yes Sir. He shrugs with a hint of self deprecation. I was confirming the measurements I noted when you came in. My nephew has already made a minor change to the venting on the waistline of the trousers that’s needed.

I don’t know whether to be angry or in awe. I settle for flabbergasted.

In this light, it looks more black than navy blue.

He nods his head. The suit is black, Sir.

It’s curious, I observe, scratching my nose, as much for irritated effect as to salve an itch, but I imagined I would come along, get measured up, tell you exactly what I wanted, and you’d sort me out.

Well, of course, we’ve done all those things Sir. he says smoothly, reassuringly. I hesitate.

Well, I suppose we have. I just figured I would be in the chair, so to speak. I fumble for a rationale that sounds assertive but not petulant. You know, that I’d be The Customer. The one who’s Always Right. My voice tails off somewhat; I don’t think I nailed it.

His eyes exude kindness.

I have always considered it my duty as a tailor, he begins, with genuine humility in his voice, to provide the customer with something that they have not yet realised that they want. And this suit is one of my very best, Sir.

And he proudly raises the suit from the counter for my inspection.

Three pieces. Finely woven black wool. Double breasted.

As suits go, it’s pretty tasty.

Without fanfare or flourish, he slips a crisp, white, double-cuffed twill shirt and a striking three-shade gold necktie next to it.

I’ll give you a moment to change, Sir, he says, seeing my eyes glitter. He points towards the changing room. Oh, you’ll need these. He hands me a pair of gold cufflinks.

In the space of two minutes, I’m in the new suit, I've double-Windsored the necktie, and I’m slipping in the cufflinks. The tailor appears again as I check myself out in a full length mirror.

Sold. I say, decisively. I try to suppress my goofy smile.

Without a word, the elderly craftsman gathers my discarded clothes up. A moment later, back at the counter, he neatly folds them into a bag as I settle up the account.

I have to ask, I say quietly. But are you a metaphor for my resistance to a new approach in my ongoing mental healthcare? And my dogged insistence on what I believe to be the correct course of treatment?

He seems to consider this for a moment.

A dog does not bark in the distance. But it’s one of those moments.

No Sir, he concludes happily, I’m an elderly Jewish tailor. Remember?

Oh yes.

Well, thank you. It’s perfect.

No Sir, thank you. He gives me a easy salute. Until next time.

We shake hands, and seconds later I step back into the world a smarter, happier man.

And I didn’t even realise that’s what I wanted.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011