OffSpring

He loved her so much. If he could, he would give her the world. And some. He knew it was a cliché, but for once he was sure. And he had never been sure of anything in his life until now.  Been a train running on full speed, with no driver for so long. But now he was going to sort it out. Fix everything.

He was a child from before the OffSpring scheme. From a time when everyone, including his mother, were allowed to have children as they pleased. The thought had messed up his mind on many occasions. He hated his mother. Her unwillingness to give him a single glance, let along some comforting words. A slap on the face if he had been brought home by police, perhaps. A mothers touch. But did he wish he had never been born?
Well, here he was. Born and bread in a council flat in Gypsy Hill, south east London. Wanting to get away from the smelly flat, with his sweaty nicotine stained mother permanently camped out in the sofa watching dramas, he had roamed the city. He could not count the fights, the smashed windows, the bottles of cider. It was not a pretty childhood.

When the government publicised their plans of giving double the job seekers allowance if you did not get a job within the year, he had happily voted yes. Even though the price was high. Chemical non-permanent sterilisation until you could prove a suitable level of income to support a child. The un-loved brats roaming the cities, wrecking havoc on the streets, had become too much for the new government. "The OffSpring scheme is only for the benefit of the children, the ones who do not get the love and support they need. No one will be left un-wanted ever again!!" The suggestion had been hailed as a revolutionary idea. No longer would poor women be able to have children just to claim benefits. Children they neither wanted nor cared about. More benefits would be available for everyone. He had looked back on his childhood and agreed with the government. So had the majority of the population. At the age of 23 he had received his compulsory injection. A small injection just behind the balls. Could be reversed at any time. As long as you proved you were married and had a stable income of no less than £15000 gross per annum.

It only took three months after he had signed up for the new job seekers scheme before he had been offered a job. He liked it. Not that he had ever dreamed about being a postman as a child. But then again, he hadn't had any dreams at all. He liked to be able to walk outdoors. To wear a uniform. He knew the streets like the back of his hand and always planned his rounds to make sure he had spare time to chat with shopkeepers and pub owners when delivering their post. The salary was good. £13000 a year, with a 10 percent increase every 6 months for three years. Life was getting better.

It was a sunny day in September, a surprise late summer warmth in the air, when he met her. A cashier at the new teashop on Westow Hill. Their shop uniforms were pale blue, and he remembered how her beauty made him breathless as he entered the teashop with their first ever delivery of letters. Her dark brown eyes had smiled at him as he gave her her post, and he had suddenly found himself without a single word to say. Every day for a month he had entered the teashop with butterflies in his belly, and every day she had smiled at him and he had stayed silent. But one day it changed. He thought he saw something in her eye. A twinkle? It loosened his vocal chords and he finally blurted out his first words to her: "Would you like to go for a coffee with me on saturday?" She had laughed, said she preferred tea, but had happily accepted his offer. He didn't sleep for the rest of the week.
Their first ever meetings were strange and beautiful. They spent most of the time in silence, looking at each other, wondering if this was too good to be true. After six months they moved in as newlyweds into a small flat above Gypsy Hill train station. The trains were noisy, but so were they, riding on the waves of passion. Life was perfect.

Her illness crept up on them slowly. It pretended to be a common cold for the first couple of months, but then bloomed out in full blown pneumonia. She survived it, but her throat didn't. The scarring left her with a permanent cough and a dark raspy voice. He didn't mind. Made her laugh by telling her she sounded like a sexy jazz singer. The owner of the tea shop did mind however. Apparently no one wants to buy tea from a raspy voiced cashier who coughs on the fine blends. She was moved to the back, stacking boxes at two thirds of her pay. He tried to comfort her, but she didn't stop sobbing. Every night he cradled her in his arms, wiping her tears as the trains rumbled past beneath them. He knew why she cried. He had done the maths too. With her current income he would need to earn at least £20000 for them to be able to reverse their sterilisation and start a family. He had never heard of a postman earning that much.
But he loved her. He was going to sort it out. Fix everything.

On his way to the meeting with the head of the Post Office he passed a playground. He decided to sit down for a bit. A small girl was climbing the climbing frame, shouting at imaginary crewmen as she captained her imaginary pirate ship. He smiled. The mother of the child sat at a bench opposite him, her head bent down, emerged in the latest app on her smartphone. The girl fell and screamed. He felt like he needed to comfort her and help, but didn't want to intervene. It was only a bruise, and the girl had soon wiped her tears and was climbing again. The mother had not looked up from her phone once.

Sitting on a bench by a playground, he cried.

GENomskådad

Hon sätter sig framför datorn och knappar in adressen. Handflatorna är svettiga. En vag darrning.
Sidan laddas omedelbart.

GENomskåda!

Så löjligt glad titeln ser ut. Knalligt turkosa bokstäver på grå botten. En glad titel som döljer ett mörkt budskap?
Hon har aldrig förr använt sig av den nya tjänsten. Eller ja, ny och ny, den Amerikanska internetsidan har funnits i över ett år, men först nu har Sveriges riksdag klubbat igenom godkännandet av förslaget. Ända sedan regeringen sålde ut både justitiekanslern och justitieombudsmannen till privata bemanningsföretag har förslaget varit på gång, och fått stort intresse i media. Alla har haft något att tycka om den databas där alla sveriges medborgares gener ligger snyggt uppradade, och huruvida den ska vara tillgänglig för allmänheten. Självklart, tycker hon! Hon förstår sig inte på alla de som klagar. Alla människor är faktiskt inte lika, utan kommer med ett genetiskt bagage, och alla har rätt att kolla upp vem de till exempel arbetar för eller, som i det här fallet, vill dela sin kärlek med.



Det var bara tre dagar sedan hon träffade honom, på universitetets bibliotek. En riktig klycha! Hon hade tappat tre av sina böcker på sin väg tillbaka till sin lilla läshörna och som en gammaldags gentleman hade han plötsligt suttit på huk bredvid henne och hjälpt henne att plocka upp böckerna. " Så kan det gå! " hade han sagt klämkäckt, och hon hade rodnat. Hon rodnade alltid. Förbannat. Han hade givit henne ett brett leende och gått därifrån. Ett par timmar senare tänkte hon fortfarande på honom - de blå ögonen och det halvlånga lockiga håret som ramade in ett klassiskt vacker ansikte. När han sedan stod framför henne med en liten papperslapp i sin hand rodnade hon mer än någonsin. Ett telefonnummer. Med löfte om att träffas nästa dag hade han gått sin väg, och lämnat henne med hjärtklappning och klarrött ansikte i läshörnan. 

Dagen efter mötet hade varit som en dröm! Med kopiös handsvett - som fick fingrarna att slira runt på nummerskivan på den gamla retro-kobratelefonen - hade hon slagit numret redan på förmiddagen. Passade en lunch kanske? Det gjorde det. 

Han var perfekt. Pluggade psykologi precis som hon, men i året under henne. Gillade brittisk nittiotalspop, hundar och att se på Lynch-filmer. Skrattade med otroliga smilgropar. Lunchen på kafeet hade blivit middag på restaurangen över gatan och några öl på krogen halvvägs hem till henne. Hon ville inte låta honom gå. Så hon gjorde inte det heller. Med ett stort pilimariskt leende tog han emot inbjudan om en nattfösare i hennes lägenhet. 

Trots att det var mitt i tentaperioden hade de tagit ledigt hela nästa dag. Med huvudet på hans bröstkorg och hans hand lekandes med hennes hår hade de pratat om allt mellan mekanismerna bakom kognitiv psykologi och fördelen med hemlagad senap på varmkorv. 

Hon är kär. Så ofattbart kär. När väninnan imorse påminde henne om att gen-databasen var igång kunde hon inte hålla sig utan satt nu insmygen i sin vanliga läshörna med den bärbara datorn igång på bordet framför henne.

GENomskåda!

Orden nästan skar in i ögonen på henne. Det lät så smutsigt på något vis. Sm om Han skulle haft något att genomskåda. Som om hon inte kände, med hela sitt hjärta och sin kropp, vem han faktiskt var. Kände hans själ. Men det var väl ändå hennes rätt att få veta om det nu, mot all förmodan var så att han kom med ett genetiskt bagage! Eller? Nu när tekniken fanns att få veta, varför skulle man inte ta sig den rättigheten då?! Eller var det verkligen en rättighet? Med namn och personnummer på den vackraste själ hon någonsin mött inskrivet i den lilla rutan och med handen svävandes över enter-tangenten var hon inte längre så säker. Hon tryckte ner knappen och blundade.

Det som en gång är sett kan man inte göra osett. Det man gjort kan man inte göra ogjort. Sittandes med ansiktet gömt bakom sina uppdragna knän grät hon tysta tårar medan telefonen surrade på sängen bredvid henne. Men vem svarar på  ett samtal från en framtida alkoholist?

I dont wanna rub any thing in but...

... this is all I am planning to do for the next week!

Finally finished all work needed before the holiday. Time to pack!

//  Tee

Holiday!! // Semester!!

So... 6am tomorrow morning my flight leaves to sunny (it'd better be!) Bordeaux. This means I am at this very moment very near the top of the first peak of this excellent diagram:

Essentially, what I am trying to say is that Teetime is off...

Click HERE for a video to make up for it!

I am hoping that lazy days in the french sun (and a wee bit of wine perhaps) will bring outstanding inspiration for short stories!
Till the trough..

Tee  //  Stockpiled 50+ sunblock yesterday. My complexion is used to the Scottish summers after all...

The Circle

The rune was black.
So black it nearly looked burned into the dark wood.
I couldn't for the life of me understand why. Dark red, or even a hint of green, would've been expected after my disastrous meeting during the day. But black?!

I very rarely used the runes these days. During my teenage years, hormones flowing wild, I had snuck away on almost every school break to shake the little wooden bricks in my hand and eagerly await their answers. But age brings all kinds of wisdom. By using the runes I had not only learned how to read people fairly well from body language and tone of voice alone, I had also learned that reading peoples thoughts can be very unpleasant and unpredictable. But today I just HAD to.

It started already in the morning as I was brewing my morning coffee. Whilst I was concentrating on adding three clockwise stirs with the silver spoon in between every anti-clockwise stir (my mums classic recipe which wakes me up like nothing else) the cat suddenly came whizzing past from the garden through the open kitchen door. She jumped up onto the kitchen table and started staring intently at me. I knew the look instantly. "She's had a Vision!" I thought, "Excellent!". My cat was a bit useless when it came to letting me know she had had a vision, but when she did, it nearly always paid off. Only last month she sorted me out so I could pull a sickie on the very day the waste drains burst in the office bathrooms. Helen had had to send her best suit to the dry cleaners and thrown away a perfectly decent pair of brogues.
I took down the battered copper tim from the mantelpiece and grabbed a large pinch of dried catnip. My gran would always advice me to steep the catnip in water to drink, but I thought it worked fine neat. Besides, my bus was due in ten minutes, so i didn't really have time. Chewing the herb, I called the cat over and sat down on the floor. It took her less than a minute to convey her feelings to me. It was happiness! She had had a Vision that was about to make me happy! It nearly made me teary. And exceptionally excited! Before I went to work I opened the cage in the larder and put one of my quite pricey white mice on to the floor. It was the least I could for the cat, as a thank you.

I spent all morning doing absolutely NO work, waiting for the event that would make me happy. At half eleven I gave up and coaxed Helen to come with me to a pub for a cheeky glass of white with our lunch.

That's when I saw him. The Man.
- "I'm sorry but you must have dropped this."
His voice was smooth and deep, with a faint arabic accent. The dark eyes that met mine as I turned around on the bar stool to take my dropped scarf from his hand made me weak to the knees.
-"Oh er..tha..er.."
I answered confidently.
My brain was on mental stand-by for another full minute before Helens laughter woke me up. The Man was long gone, long black leather coat swaying as he had left the pub, and I wanted to die a little bit. Or at least disappear into a bottomless pit. Only one positive thing remained from the lunch break: Helen had recognised the Man as one of the bartenders of the new wine bar in town, The Circle!

The constant 'pinging' noise from my computer, announcing the arrival of every email Helen sent me during the afternoon, did nothing for my continued productivity. But Helen wasn't the only one to blame. I spent a lot of time committing the Mans eyes to memory. Partly because it made me week in the knees, amongst other pleasant bodily reactions, but also because I knew the runes worked best with a clear picture of the Thinkers eyes in the mind of the Reader.

I jumped off the bus, and ran all the way up the path to the cottage. I didn't even stop to catch my breadth until I was sat at my kitchen table, clutching the bowl carved out of an ancient hip bone. With the eyes of the Man clearly pictured behind my eyelids I took the runes from the bowl and shook them in my hand thrice. I threw them out onto the table like a desperate gambler throwing dice for a very large bet. As a little girl I had sat at this very table many times, learning the meaning of the many shades of colour of the runes, my mother watching and correcting my mistakes. Yellow, green and red for positive, indifferent or negative thoughts. Those were the basic colours. But a true Reader could read more than that about the Thinker, from the slight shift in shades of the runes. But I didn't need my years of rune training for what I now saw in front of me: Seven wooden bricks, each with a pitch black coloured rune on it. It could only mean one thing. He was one of us.

The happiness flew through my veins like the bubbles in champagne. Maybe I had found a partner, finally?!

With loud jazz blaring out through the cottage I got myself ready for a visit to The Circle. I threw the broomstick in the corner a look, but laughed at the thought. With a skirt as tight as this I'd better take the bus.

the picture is a Dartmoor stone circle taken from http://blog.rachelcotterill.com

Hemlängtan

När jag har hemlängtan drömmer jag alltid. Långa invecklade drömmar i starka färger och lika starka känslor.

Min längtan efter Sverige är alltid väldigt påtaglig. Men, som nu, när solen skiner och en Sverigeresa är så nära, då kan den nästan gå över styr.
Det är då de kommer fam från djupet - minnena. Otroligt klara minnen, underbara, ljuvliga minnen som gör hemlängtan outhärdlig. Jag längtar efter människor som inte längre finns och platser som inte längre är mina. Minnen från min barndom. Ett barns minnen och ett barns kärlek.

Dagens pyttelilla historia är inget annat än ett klart och tydligt minne. Av en tid, en plats och en människa som inte längre finns.

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Jag är på väg till stugan. Så exalterad att det nästan gör ont i magen! Jag är ung. Bara ett barn. Kanske en 7 år gammal? Solen skiner in genom fordens bakruta. Jag längtar.När vi äntligen kommer fram till den gamla grusvägen tar jag av mig bältet. Åh, så förbjudet att ta av sig bältet medans bilen fortfarande är i rullning! Jag får syn på stugan. Där är hon. Min gamla farmor. En liten bunke i sin hand, på väg från vattnet och upp till stugans dörr. Jag hoppar ur, springer fram och slänger mig om halsen på henne. Känner doften av tvål, mentolcigaretter och stekt strömming. Mina absoluta favoritlukter i hela världen. 

När man rensar strömming klipper man bort huvudet från nacken. Men inte helt av! Man vänder sen saxen och klipper utefter buken fram till stjärtfenan. Man tar ur inälvorna med pekfingret. Farmor har knotiga mjuka fingrar, och vi blir båda kladdiga från fiskrenset. Måsarna flyger över oss och skriker som galna. När vi är klara lämnar vi renset på stenen och går upp till stugan. Måsbuffet.

När vi ätit ligger vi på sängen. Kaffevattnet är på gång i den vackra kopparpannan. En orange fluffig filt. Farmor smeker mig på magen. Berättar historier. Om hur hon cyklar överallt. Klättrade upp för bron och hoppade i forsen. Hyss och jävelskap. Stark och busig. Jag vill vara som hon. Hon berättar historien om rödluvan på sitt eget sätt. Men hur låter egentligen räven? "Räv, räv", säger farmor.

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Nu när jag skrev ner det här minnet kunde jag inte sluta gråta. Det här får mig verkligen att känna mig levande - känslan av otrolig sorg, blandad med glädje. Glädje över att ha så fina minnen och att ha fått träffa en så fin människa.

Jag gick in till badrummet för att snyta mig och torka mina tårar. Och där mitt i mitt fönsterlösa badrum hör jag en mås skrika till, alldeles nära mig. I några få sekunder visste jag att jag inte var ensam!

Sedan tog hjärnan över såklart. Jag vet att måsarna flyger upp till Edinburghs innerstad och letar mat ofta. Jag vet att måsen sitter på mitt tak, precis där utsläppet är för min badrumsfläkt.

Men jag vet också att jag faktiskt inte är ensam. Jag är den jag är på grund av de människor jag mött och de historier de delat. De lever kvar genom mig och de sätt jag lever mitt liv på.

Nu ska jag ut i solen och cykla!!

//  Tee  --  Tror att det får bli en tur till fiskmarknaden i morgon för ett strömmingsinköp.

TwitterFiction

It's Teetime! I wrote earlier about wanting to try Twitterfiction (check it out HERE), so here are a few of my attempts!

This is great fun! I'll keep on going.
Feel free to follow me @FridayTeeTime

//  Tee  --  Just about to head to the office.. Finally.. The good thing about working from home is definitely that you can spend the morning wearing nothing but pyjama bottoms.