Jimjan’s Journal

It’s a bright autumn day.  Quivering leaves of orange, beige and brown blaze a trail from my new friend Georgia’s front door.  I stand at her ceiling to floor window, my reflection gawping, like someone deranged.  How did she get those windows so clean?  I mean really.  Everything’s on display.  A fifty-inch TV, laptop, Ming vases, a proper thief’s paradise. 

“You’re living in a fish bowl,” I say to Georgia.         

“No, a detached villa, in fact,” she shoots back at me. 

“A spotless detached villa,” I feel it pertinent to add, and wonder if I should remove my louvres and gold shimmery curtains? 

It’s not that she’s houseproud or anything.  My friend Georgia is just like me, she loves a laugh.  She maybe isn’t houseproud but her house would make anyone proud.  The glossy white kitchen cabinets gleamed, along with the fridge, the kettle, the toaster, even the crumbs inside.  I’m joking.  There are no crumbs in her toaster.  Her toaster is crumbless and shining, shining and crumbless like brand new. 

I curl my shoeless toes, my converse left neatly at the door, and I look at the floor, while simultaneously checking out Georgia’s outfit.  She has such style.  Today it’s a leopard print shirt and black leggings.  Anyhow, the floor, I was just about to tell you about the floor.  You can eat your dinner off that floor.  Not a mark, and her with a dog.  No pawprints, no smudges, no puffs of hair.  It was perfect, I tell you. 

But it’s not that she’s houseproud or anything.  She’s just like me.  It was this connection which drew us together, only last month, at the gym.  I can say anything to Georgia.                   

“You must spend your whole life cleaning,” I say. 

“I don’t.  I only do my housework once a week, “she says as we leave her vision of cleanliness, me just having come from my house, where the fingerprints from my children still decorate the patio doors three weeks down the line, and a cobweb hides in the corner where the lounge door meets the hall.  Actually, there might be a woodlouse in it also, I’ve been too scared to look.  I make a mental note to remove it when I get home, providing there are no distractions.  Yesterday, you know, my son came home from school wearing a tub of tomato sauce on his school shirt.  A disagreement, he said, about the value of having Nike Mercurial Vapor XIII Flite FG football boots. 

“The floor gets a wipe every time I come in from walkies with Zara, and the doors get a rub down too.  I launder every day of course,” Georgia added locking the door, almost blinded by the glint from the brass knocker.   

“Every day?” I ask, my lower lip going that floppy way, when you reach thirty-six and someone shocks you.  Maybe I should have got that Botox when Georgia got hers. 

“Well, yeah.  There are towels to wash every day for starters,” she said, blinking her luscious lashes my way. 

My towels lasted five days, but I wasn’t about to tell my friend that.  A friend could be ditched for less.  It’s not that I’m slovenly or anything, but I don’t have two showers a day, like her, and well, I just forget.  There’s always something going on in my house to distract me. 

Like the other morning when my neighbour, Jackie, ran up my back yard, to tell me there had been another spate of break-ins and to make sure I kept my doors locked.  I mean really, of course I make sure the doors are locked.  Will that woman never get to know me?              

Talking of locking doors, I’m itching to tell you what happened next.  Well I’m like admiring the peony roses waving prettily in the borders when Georgia turns, walks back up to the door and tugs at the handle to make sure it’s locked.  I mean, dangling Dolce keyring, she’s just locked it.  I’m sure she has?  This happens six times.  No exaggeration.

“What’s that all about?” I ask.  “Checking your doors six times.” 

“I’m just being careful,” she says, her eyes turning again to her door.  I pull at her arm. 

“No Georgia, come on, our walk awaits us,” I say, looking at this dream of a woman.  Tall, legs a giraffe would be proud of and blonde hair, straight from a L’oreal advert.  “You’re so houseproud you can’t bear to leave your shiny palace.”

“I’m not, really,” she says and I cough.  Wow, had I said that out loud?     

“Cool scarf.  The colours suit you,” I say to cover up my embarrassment, but she did look great, it complimented her pale skin and her thick tresses.  Georgia nods.    

“Yeah, it has sixteen pink squares, sixteen brown and sixteen green.”  

You have to be joking, my sideways glance says.  She isn’t.

“Where are you going?” Georgia asked me as I made to cross the road.

“We’re going down the old railway walk are we not?”

“Yes, but I can’t cross the road here.”

“Why?”

“I cross the road down at the crossroads.  I always cross there.  I can’t cross here.”

Her eyes are wide and her legs wobble.  They did wobble.  I’m sure they wobbled.  I opened my eyes wide too.  I was beginning to sense Georgia wasn’t so like me.  But we got on so well, laughed a lot, talked a lot.            

“You’re right Georgia.”

“I know I’m right.  We can’t cross here.”

“I don’t mean about where and where not we can cross the road,” I whinny, “I mean you’re not houseproud, are you?  You’ve got OCD?”

Georgia nods, “I thought you knew already.  You’ve always said we’re so alike.” 

“Who the hell counts the squares on a scarf?” I scoff, to which Georgia’s lips clamp shut into a wonderful pout.  “And who checks their locked door six times?” I laugh.  Georgia laughs too.

“I know, crazy huh.”

Regret crawls from that mockery.  Mockery, thuggery, robbery spits at me.  Anger, fury, ire, disbelief too.  I’m home now.  My door’s ajar.  I’m peering in.  My house has been ransacked.  Burgled.  Emptied out.  And then I see it. 

They’ve left something, I see. 

Only the fucking woodlouse filled cobweb.      

Warm days from sunshine rays makes her happy.
Birds sing, her choir, her glory. Bees hover over clover.
A step light and airy.
Over grass, by sweet hedgerows, a bearded dog
sniffs around, examines a log. Squirrels take flight, in fright
breaking free, eyes agog.
Sneaky moves of self-preservation. Teasing smells.
A tongue pants, ears like bells, his tail waves, betrays
his excitement as it swells.
Where would she be without her pooch, her whiny Tim,
his loyal eyes full to the brim with words to her,
her alone, her kith and kin.
Fresh air calls them away from the house. Locked in,
locked out, and about, a rattling tin. Patience a gift, Covid a rift,
adrift, where do I begin.
Beardy knows no stories of woe, senses change
in her, moods have a certain range, calm, raging impassibility
in a life turned strange.
A walk does them good, their legs stretched, tensions a flight.
Willows weep, hog weed flout, dandelions grout, and lilies
spout, coloured petals bright.
Home again, time to lay down his head slip his collar
Don’t have her holler. Come to me, run to me
she croons, my favourite follower.

“Don’t put it there,” Georgina said, her face clouded, a perfect profile marred by distaste. “Why?” asked Greg, balancing a buff cardboard box on his arm. “Germs,” shouted the mantled maiden. Only she wasn’t a maiden, she’d been around the block a bit. “Put it in the garage out of sight.” Greg turned to the back door. “No, on second thoughts I don’t want the garage cluttered, put it up the attic.” Georgina tugged at her hair, twirling it around a well-manicured hand, her gaze turning dreamy as Greg whisked by.

“Greg, where are you going?” “The attic.” “I need you to open that bottle of wine.” “My hands are full.” “Put the box down.” “I’m not allowed.” “For god’s sake Greg, there’s no need to be bolshy,” Georgina said, her voice reaching that octave that few men can reach. “I’ll get it when I come back downstairs.” “But I want a drink now,” said Georgina, voice wheedling. “I’m having a zoom party and the girls will all be clinking glasses to the screen.” “Just open it yourself then,” Greg said, eyebrows raised. “With these?” Georgina flashed a set of cerise nails.

“And don’t look at me like that?” Georgina said. Greg shook his head and put the box down on the floor. He opened the cutlery drawer, the bread knife poking out. He ruffled beyond it and found the corkscrew. Eventually he opened the bottle of wine. “There,” he said as he laid the bottle on the worktop beside his partner. Georgina was still just his partner as their wedding had been postponed. That had been another tragedy, that and the fact she couldn’t get her botox done. It had been eight weeks now. Greg liked the look, at least she could smile now, he’d seen the glimpse of a smile twice.

Georgina wanted to dress up and have a virtual wedding, Greg didn’t, but he was having to go along with it anyhow. His life would not be worth living if he didn’t and to be honest the thought of having an iceberg rattling around the house didn’t really appeal to him. They’d known each other only a short while, meeting through friends, a whirlwind romance, smiles and loving glances then he’d moved in with her. A fortnight later and he would have had to stay alone in his bachelor flat.

“I’m going to send for a dress online Greg, it’s lovely, only £1200.” “That’s too much Georgie, let’s just wait.” “I don’t want to wait, I want to be married to you, have babies,” Georgina puffed on her nails. “Once you’ve pushed yourself and got that promotion that is.” “I’m not certain to get promoted Georgina, you know that.” “You bloody better Gregsy,” Georgina lilted, her eyes burning a hole in his fat wallet.

“Greg the tap’s dripping, can you fix it?” “Right now?” “Well it’s like the Japanese water torture,” she said, rolling her eyes. “How can I concentrate with my besties with that continual drip, drip, drip?” “Do you actually know what Japanese water torture is?” Greg asked. “Of course, I do, it’s a dripping tap in your lug all night long.” Greg smiled. “What?” “That’s not what it is Georgina.” “Oh, soreeee, you’re so smart, aren’t you?” “Well no, but I do know my history,” he said folding the corkscrew.

“You know what’s gonna be history if you don’t fix that dripping tap, don’t you?” Georgina tapped an acrylic tap tapping on the worktop, your move her actions seemed to say. Greg felt his heart sink and shuffled over to the tap, tightened the washer, dripping gone. “You should’ve done that last week Greg, I don’t know what you find to do these days.” “Work Georgina, I work.” “But you’re here every day, under my feet.” “Yeah, you never heard of working from home?” “No need to be rude,” Georgina said and pouted her botoxless lips. She turned from him, with a flick of her red hair and picked up the laptop carefully so as not to break her nails.

“Cheers girls,” he heard Georgina say and then a gaggle of giggling girls joined in. His sign to move. He picked up the box and disappeared from the kitchen. “Oh him, he’s so getting on my nerves, I can’t stand this not getting out with my girlies,” Georgina said, Greg not quite out of earshot. “Oh, I love your hair Rosie, I wish Greg could do my hair like that, but he’s fucking useless.”

Greg stopped in his tracks, the box hitting against the hall wall. He looked at the picture decorating the space between doors, the one that Georgina had him hang in ten different places before she decided on the right place, the hall. It was a black and white print, and he suddenly thought, like her. There was no colour, other than her garish nails. Black and white she was. Her way or no way. Happy or raging, moaning or nice, only when she was looking for something, often sex, but more often money to buy a dress, a blouse, precariously high shoes.

She’d done nothing but put him down, since they’d moved in together and become engaged. The honeymoon period was over, before the wedding had begun. Was this it? Pre married bliss? Could he live like this?

In answer to his self-appraisal of life with Georgina he turned and walked back into the room, put the box on the worktop, took the glass of wine from her and poured it down the sink.” “What the fuck?” she shouted, “Georgina, you ok doll?” a voice from the laptop. Greg flapped the top down, his brows meeting, eyes blazing. Georgina studied his face, knew he meant business, had an idea that her dress would be the penalty for whatever was bugging him.

“Give me a kiss,” she said crying, waterworks spouting from nowhere.

“Kiss my arse,” Greg said as he marched from the house.

 

 

 

There’s a star in the sky, like an eye
shining strong.
Left of the tree, five foot above,
head to heels, from her stance,
horizontal.
Lying out, the day behind her,
lingering long, loathe to leave her alone.

So she stares outside, at the light,
in the dark,
and the star shouts aloud
in a tinny vibration, resonating,
jingling
“Forget the foot, try a trillion
and more, that’s where I am.

Far off, my light is strength.
Passed to you.
I filled you with force,
gave you might, tight iron tears.
Your life,
through love, a soul to survive,
to touch a world, different to mine.”

Words at play, memories stray,
look ocean deep.
Wrecks galore, life’s sacrifice.
What’s she become? Lost, she’ll get lost,
melt away,
searching, pastures peace pill,
a way to bestow the same principle.

The star, it glistens, a pearl, sangfroid.                                                                                              Blinks.                                                                                                                                                        A link towards her being                                                                                                                      and it calms the beating, fluttering,                                                                                                    fighting.                                                                                                                                                     It calms the words, saying, replaying.                                                                                                It eases the sights inside, assailing.

The fading day seeped away, shedding shadows on the shelves. The birds had hopped, popped over the fence to noodle doodle nests, sucking their beaks as they spread their tail wing. She sat at the restless table, elbows down, hands on chin, her star lights, lit behind her. Six hanging rows of cherry red. How long will she look at them before they too fade.

The toys were quiet, the lid down. It felt sad not to see them scattered. Horses riding tigers, cows hugging dinosaurs and cars in a row, a toy time traffic jam. Nowhere to go. Stuck in time. The pink cube on wheels rolled, daring her to open it, to tickle its sides, to rattle its residents. She kicked it instead, it hummed and hawed.

Burnt in carrot stains under the pot, browning blobs against stainless steel, the clasped rings reviewing their surroundings, the flame doused for now. A pot looked down in bubbling disdain, an orange trail escaping the rim. It waited, had settled, cooled, fooled, not settled at all. It frothed, brothed, spouted whistling sorrow.

Nothing more to do, she slipped into bed, the covers wrapped around her, ears and nose, touched by cotton, cooled cotton touch. The lamp shone, too bright, watered her eyes, pierced the atmosphere, and cold metal, a ribbed cage where the cuckoo sang, masking the real song.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My attempts at a Tautogram – text in which all words start with the same letter – in this case, the letter C

Carbon clawmark’s crunching cankers
cause careful considerations, constructions
carrying callow cadets.

Caption.

Circling corona cures climate change clouds.
Compiling camps,
causing craters, conflict,
closed cloistered citadels,
counter conclusions, contrary contusions
curiously crafted.

Ceases caresses, close cadences.
Contact crystallized, crumbled,
creating clefts, compressed chests,
coviD contracting, coughing, choking.
Casualties collapsing, communes cleared
cadaverous cages, capitulate,
ceaseless cascade.

Cataloguing, categorizing, censoring,
calling commiserations.
Chant chance, charity, chagrin.
Chant cheer, cherub chorus.
Console, contain clamour,
care, clap, clasp calm.

Calamity causeways can cede
Celebration’s coming.

My home town is set in a valley, but then there is a valley within a valley and this one holds the river. Moving towards the town by road, from any direction, one sees green fields and trees, so many trees. In the fields there are sheep, pheasants, and big brown cows, and in the trees, warbling birds. A dull little town but with a beautiful backdrop.  Stunning steep green hills rising to one side, and rambling ones to the other, my town nestled between, schools, shops houses, greying out the landscape.

Burns and streams spring from the hills, curving down through parks, and quiet paths, until they disappear under the trees, where they meet the rock ridden river in a covert assignation. Here is the home of the fish, rats, kingfishers and beavers, while its journey’s end is the sea.  My town is awash with secreted spiralling pathways, lurking behind the undergrowth, a threatening eerie pulse, ridges, still ponds, ravines, the craters waiting to kill you.

Poised ready for that downhill spiral that life can be. A snakes and ladders of hope and despair. A coil of hurt and confusion. Birth the starting point and around this, life winds, increasing in velocity. Growth spurts, learning, independence, careers, weddings, children, an unravelling far from the mind.

Then you have the corkscrews which curl around your life’s epicentre.  Gripping you tight, a slinky of sensations.  Happy, sad, angry, cold, hot, hungry, joy, irrationality and darkness.  The gloom brings shadows, you can’t see what’s coming, a nervy coiled spring, heart pounding behind the cage of ribs, the fear of escape, to where next.  Where will the heart take you next on this twisted journey.

The river in my town knows where it’s going. It knows it must reach the sea.  The geography is all mapped out.  We don’t know have any such map, don’t know where we’re headed. We might think we do but the wheel kinks suddenly and you’re warped, thrown in the wrong direction, into a gulley of fear, and your soul, washed away with the current.

 

Ben looked out the window.  Too much time on his hands, you might think, but no, he was at work, at home. He’d been furloughed being in the Finance area. Had been furnished with a laptop complete with the necessary apps.  IT wasn’t his thing, but this working from home business meant he was now an IT techy come pension administrator. He was stuck. A glitch in his system.

Gavin over the road was in IT for the same company, but they weren’t allowed to mix for fear the virus would spread. Ben laughed to himself. It used to be PC viruses him and Gavin discussed. Not now. Those were the least of his worries. Ben had his wife to worry about. She had emphysema and she and their two boys were shielding with her mother.

This working from home, fixing IT issues wasn’t all bad, meant more break times.  He could make his own coffee and look out the window without being frowned upon.  This morning, the computer germs created a perfect pause and he used this time wisely, checking out the activity in his neighbourhood.  He needed a clear coast for his task at hand. He had set the louvre blinds at just the right angle so he could see out but nobody could see in. Then he eyed up the gardens.

His was a small patch, just big enough for a red robin bush, a tub with daffy’s, a birdhouse and a whirly-gig. Unfortunately, it was very close to his neighbour’s small yard and his bushes, where, through the gaps in the hedge, a car could be seen, jacked up on bricks.  Gavin was underneath, tinkering.

Living next to Gavin there was Sue.  She was friends with Ben’s mother-in-law.  Yeah everybody knew everybody else in this area.   Sue was doing bunny hops around her lawn.  Then some bum crunches.  She wore fuchsia leggings and a black lycra vest. Very nice. Ben liked the look.

Sue spotted him at the window and waved, mouthing something while miming, ‘open your window.’  God, how had she spotted him. “How are you coping?” he heard her say on opening the window.  “Did you hear Adam down the road has been struck by the virus?” she added before he could speak. ” No, that’s awful, ” Ben said putting on his compassionate look.  He didn’t know Adam from Eve.

“Hi mate,” Gavin shouted. “Your old dear still at her ma’s?” “She is that Gav, missing her madly,” Ben said conscious of the washing machine murmuring in the corner of the kitchen, talking to the bubbling pot of minestrone. Ben waved to his neighbours and made his excuses to leave the chat.

He usually sat with Gavin, on the bus in to work, but could take him or leave him, they had nothing in common.  Ben liked cooking, Gavin eating.  Ben liked opera while Gavin was a Meatloaf fan.  Gavin worked out with weights to become muscle bound, Ben danced, keeping lean and supple.  Could Gavin put his leg up around his neck?  Ben didn’t think so.

The door-bell rang just as Ben was taking the soup off the heat.  He walked through the hall to the door.  A parcel sat there on the step as if it has been beamed down, all important, only void of ribbons the words Majorette supplies scrolled across the brown cardboard.

“What’s that you’ve been ordering?” shouted Gavin, sidling up to the fence.
Privacy.  Was he allowed no privacy?  “Man, is it not time for your daily walk?” he asked his neighbour who stood hands on hips, his biceps bulging from his boiler suit.  “Later,” shouted Gavin.  Ben pursed his lips, picked up the parcel and pranced back indoors. He guessed his neighbour wasn’t going anywhere soon.

The washing was done now and his laptop was beeping.  Ben swayed on the balls of his feet for a second.  What to attend to first?  Parcel, washing or emails.  The emails won.  His head was down and a tap tap on the keyboard, a woodpecker in heat, when a whistling sounded. A warble not associated with any local birds he’d heard.   Wait, that funny little incantation sounded familiar.  Could it be?  Ben peered out the window and there was Gavin, whistling the same tune he’d been whistling for the last five long weeks. Gavin was whistling and walking out, at last.

Ben looked across at Sue’s.  Her car was gone.  She must be away her weekly shopping.  He must hurry.  Where’s that blasted laundry basket.  He ran from room to room, eyes flashing side to side and eventually found it in the spare bedroom, hidden under a pile of laundered towels. Back to the kitchen and the washing machine was quickly emptied before he pivoted himself out to the garden and his whirly.  He pegged the garments efficiently but meticulously, didn’t want peg marks in awkward places, and the job was soon done.

He sighed and then strut back into the house.  He sat again at his laptop, waiting another email and looked out to the garden while he did.  He had a couple of hours. His washing would surely dry in two hours. Yes, two hours would do it and it would be back in before his neighbours returned.  Gavin always walked for two and a half hours, same route, up and down valley upon valley to keep his gluteus maximus tight and Sue took about three hours, whatever she got up to.

Ben relaxed with a cup of coffee and a ginger nut. He crossed his legs neatly, a feeling of satisfaction surging through him as he watched his pastel pink dressing gown dancing on the whirly-gig. He’d pulled it out of his private collection of outfits, hidden in the attic for years. And the delight he’d felt to discover again his silver leggings and matching leotard was more than he could cope with. Washed now, hung and waving with pride.

What was that? Ben heard the side gate rattle. Probably the wind. He sank further into his seat by the window and rested his eyes. Then a yelp of throaty proportions caused him to sit to attention. “Ben,” he heard his wife yell. “I knew it,” she roared, her lungs apparently recovered. Ben dived up from the chair, like a deranged meerkat. “You’ve got a bloody woman in there,” she bawled, her chubby hands screwed into fists.

 

 

 

If you wish to like, comment or follow please keep scrolling passed the adverts.  Many thanks for reading.  Jan.

 

 

Donna had lost all track of the days, but this was Wednesday.  Yeah definitely Wednesday she thought, because the bins were lifted today and she knew the bins got lifted Wednesdays.  Well only the refuse bin and the food waste.  The bottles were the pariahs, left behind, pillars of glass, shards of proof that lockdown doesn’t bring temperance.

“If this is a conspiracy to rid the world of alcoholics, then it’s a staggering failure,” she said to her police officer partner, in between popping peanuts into her mouth. Still, conspiracy or not the refuse collectors have a new confidence, they strut, preen, important in the world of Covid 19.

What would happen to them afterwards. Dumped, no doubt.  A forgotten pile.  Or would people remember this time, remember how essential these men are?  Without it the rats would infest.  People would become ill.  I know, I know, that’s already happening.  917 deaths in one day!

“I know all about conspiracies, but not that one. Why do you ask?” asked Ray as he tied his tackety boots. He was on duty in half an hour, his third night shift in a row. Donna’s shoulders raised, her narrow back tensing, vertebrae by vertebrae.

“Just thinking about the dustbin men,” she said. She’d always wished the bin men a good day, given them a smile, a wave. They were people just like her and she’d always respected and valued their contribution to the community. “People are only now seeing their worth, but will they be rewarded?” she asked.

She wished she could speak to them, pay them to rid her of the other rubbish that seemed to be appearing more and more.  Trash that was circling the world wide web.  If she could but tell them to lift Swanee Riva, far far away, to a cesspool more fitting her/him, eliminating a larger pest than the Scottish midge, then she’d be happy.

But who is this Swanee Riva daring to rush against the rocks of truth, splash the tides of temptation?  She or he is a swindler, that’s what he/she is.  An opportunist, blackmailer, hellbent on destroying minds.  Minds already black and blue from this deadly virus sweeping our lands.

Donna imagined Swanee sitting in an unknown darkened room, in an unknown land, on a computer, sending out emails to unsuspecting people. The scary thing is she – let’s just simplify things by calling her she – she knows Donna’s password. She told her that first off, in the email she’d sent her that morning, the shock hitting the gut right away.

This scammer told Donna she knew she’d been watching porn and they had a split screen webcam, if she didn’t pay them 1900 dollars, they’d show all her friends what she’d been up to. I’m not saying Donna was as pure as the driven snow or anything, but she was offended by this allegation.

She lifted her glasses from her nose, looked around the room, her painting of coolies building a railway, her spiced yellow cushions, bright yellow tulips decorating the window sill, all this was hers. She’d worked hard for it. Her blue eyes burned through her possessions before going back to her email.

On the downside she realised, even although knowing this claim to be untrue, that these people could dub over photos and things and if they had her contacts, then they might just be able to send nasty waves her way.

“Ray, have you been watching porn?” Donna asked her man as he adjusted his tie, just to rule this out. “Dinna be silly, I’m a copper,” answered Ray, his lips pouting while his brows met. “I’m being blackmailed,” she shouted, her voice going up a level or two, from doh to me and explained the whole sorry story to him. “Have you paid them?” Ray asked. “Why am I hearing sirens going off in my head?” another question thrown in before the first question was answered, pulling his shoulders back, squaring his jaw.

“No, I haven’t paid them.” Donna pursed her lips and glared menacingly. “Ok, ok,” Ray said and paused a while. They both sat all of ten minutes, thinking about the contents of this email, Donna racking her brain as to what apps she had under this password?

Then eventually she tap-tapped away at the laptop keys, her tongue protruding, her glasses on top of her head, the little grey hairs spreading, not just visible now at the sides of her face but her fringe, her crown. She lifted a bottle of beer from the side table and took a swig. Ah, another bottle for the glorious glass mass. Perhaps she’d put a letter in this one and send out a message.

“I haven’t paid them,” Donna said, breaking the silence and then breaking wind, the beery burp resounding around the room. “But I have emailed back.” “You what?” “Yeah, I told them I wouldn’t be paying up, that they should be paying me…royalties.”

The grass was greener on this side, he was certain. Bill took a few steps to the right then the left, examining the turf below his feet and once he was happy that the grass definitely was greener here, he sat on the park bench by the fence. The wood of the seat was grey, having been brushed by many blasts of snow this winter.

The Spring sunshine only highlighted the fading perch, but we all knew it wouldn’t be freshened up for a while with the council being busy right now, painting park benches not a priority, feeding the vulnerable was. The vulnerable, thought Bill as he looked across at the row of houses, in particular at number 45, his house. Easily identifiable with the red painted roof which Jean had insisted on. Was that a face at the Velux window or was it just the light playing tricks?

Bill was considered vulnerable with his dicky heart, and being a bit podgy. He shouldn’t even be out and about, but cabin fever had flushed him into the garden, then the park was just a step away. It didn’t seem too risky, only the odd dog walker about. If only he’d had a dog, he might have been able to walk away some pounds of flesh, but instead it was drive here, drive there, Billy boy, the wife always having some shop or other to go to.

He looked down at his denim jacket, proof of his bulging weight increase, gripping his pecs somewhat obscenely, but then he’d left the house in a hurry and grabbed the first article of outerwear that he could find, this being his denim jacket. It was in a pile for the Oxfam shop. Jeannie had been clearing out, the whole nation was clearing out, but there were no charity shops open for deliverance. Hence the piles of unwanted gear sitting in the back porch, in neat little colour coordinated bundles.

He’d hated the jacket and even now thirty years later, he felt the abhorrence stir as he touched the brushed denim cuffs, his puffy wrists peeking out below. If only Jeannie could see him now. He remembered the day he got it. Jean had bought it for his twenty fifth birthday, that, a white t-shirt, and a pair of black cotton trousers. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that he hated denim jackets, being more a sports jacket guy.

But Jean always thought she knew him better than he did himself, always wanted to dress him, like a Ken doll. You know, as in Barbie and Ken. “You suit green,” she said at least once every two months. “It goes well with your hair.” He had a great thatch of hair. Red, bright red and he liked to show it off. Italian Sunset he called it. The last thing she bought him was a pair of skinny jeans. That was just before the retailers shutdown. If he wore those jeans his blood supply shutdown, the flow trapped at his feet.

He would groan when he heard her say, “I’m just nipping down to Next,” but now he almost wished she had shops to go to, take up her time, keep her mind activated. Instead she would wander around the house. “Am I mad? Never before have I washed my hands this much. My knuckles are raw,” she spouted. “Apply some hand cream,” Bill replied. “Yes, I’ve got plenty of that, thanks to Christmas,” she said, pausing before rattling on again.

“We got Christmas at least, even though it was a worry, wondering if the turkey carried salmonella. And the brussels, black and blue. Blue cheese is ok. It should be like that. But was the cow it originated from healthy? Did it have any underlying conditions spreading to our superior race? So superior now huh? The cows are laughing in the fields, passing time with the sheep, shouting arghh..the plague, the plague as we pass them by.” Bill squinted at her, scared to make eye contact.

Just yesterday she’d got back in from her one walk of the day, and stripped off. Coat, in the wash, jumper in the wash, jeans, socks pants, bra, all in the wash. Then a hand wash. “Ah, my nose is itchy. Can’t scratch it or I’ll get it,” she said. “You’ve just washed your bloody hands,” said Bill, laying the car keys down.

“Get those keys off the worktop. I’ll wash them, wait, did you wipe the car steering wheel, the handle, the seatbelt? Have you washed your hands, you’ve just touched your phone, now your mouth and nose? Wipe that pint of milk from the supermarket. And the paper? I’ve just touched the paper,” Jean panted before popping a pair of latex gloves in the bin and then washing her hands again, all in time to The Floral Dance times two.

Bill’s face clouded. “Am I annoying you?” Silence. “I’ll retreat to the attic. No sink to wash my hands, no electricity. I’ll take some wipes and some bleach, will tide me over until I come back down for my necessities.” Bare necessities, she sang as she disappeared upstairs, ran down again to wash her hands once more, “I touched the door handle,” she said, rolling her eyes and ran back upstairs.

This is driving me mad, thought Bill. Could it be OCD? He’d heard of OCD, and had thought that the words switched around spelt DOC. Can’t even phone the doc to get a cure. Keep away from the doc. He’s off limits now. So, Bill had climbed the stairs, carefully folded the Ramsay ladder back into the attic space, turned the latch on her shouts. “Hey, what’s happening,” Jean had roared before turning the air blue.

“We have Lockdown,” Bill said and then toddled back downstairs and outside.

A dog barked, and Bill sat upright. He’d almost nodded off. He looked across at his house again and there it was, the face at the Velux window. He stretched out his legs and chuckled.