I was reading Stephen King’s Joyland, which I’d picked up in a charity shop, over my morning coffee when I encountered the following line:
When it comes to the past, everyone writes fiction
Is this fact or fiction, so to speak? This line was unearthed in a work of fiction. And, to further blur the lines, truth can be found in fiction and fiction hidden in truth. But what about what it refers to, in regards to history? Our own history?
Revisionism. I’ve known people alter the facts to suit and justify their own particular narrative. Events recounted that don’t quite match up with our own recollection of things. I guess we all know someone like that.
But what about me? Do I ‘write’ fiction about my past?
I think I’m mostly the opposite. At the time, wherever along my timeline that ‘time’ was, I’d sometimes put a spin on things. Make myself appear more favourable and, forever the storyteller, embellish things for entertainment purposes, playing to the audience.
And of course obscure things I’d prefer not see the light of day. We’re all human and life is a learning curve.
Now, further down the line and removed by years and even decades, I recount how things really were back then from my own perspective (and it’s all about perspective, isn’t it?), with an insight I didn’t possess at the time.
Maybe age brings with it, along with wisdom, a certain candour. A candour maybe recognised by encountering an alternate version of truth in the midst of a work of fiction.
So, we are well into the Euros. A year late because of Covid. Everything is late because of Covid. But it’s an ideal boon for a country needing lifting-because of Covid.
But anyway, that’s enough of the ‘C’ word.
I walked the dog yesterday and saw some Langley washing lines put to good use.
And then we returned home to watch England beat Germany, our long-time nemesis and hoodoo team. (I was wearing a Sweden shirt at the time, but I’m peculiar like that.)
And so-we are still in it. Our therapy continues.
Keep the washing lines clear of washing! Keep the flags flying!
A beleaguered nation needs it.
As yesterday was the solstice, I was feeling these Southern Californian summer surf-scene vibes from ‘64.
Love the old cars. Are those surfers still out there?
On this day in 1996, around 9.20 in the morning, a 3,330 lbs device was detonated in the heart of Manchester, the biggest bomb explosion in Britain since the Second World War.
While it devastated the city centre and injured 200, with an estimated 75,000 people present at the time it was both incredible and a miracle that nobody was killed. That was down to the bravery and rapid response of the emergency services, shop management teams and security guards who, acting on a coded warning from the IRA, had just an hour to evacuate everyone while stopping all transport heading into the city.
The last shoppers and staff were still running for their lives when the bomb went off.
I was working that morning on the outskirts of the centre, and in those days before mobile phones or internet, had no idea of the drama unfolding. I remember hearing the explosion and all conversation suddenly ceasing as we all looked at each other before heading to the windows to see the pall of smoke rising above the familiar landscape. Everyone of us knew people working in or visiting our city centre that morning, and in our silence were turning unspeakable fears around in our heads.
It wasn’t the first time, and God knows we now know it wasn’t to be the last, that our home city would suffer this way. But it could have been worse, much worse, the death toll could have been horrific.
And Manchester did what Manchester always does-it came back. It rebuilt. It regenerated.
Despite all of that devastation, the Phoenix of the modern Manchester that we know today arose from the ashes of that morning.
And, as a reminder to me whenever I see it, nothing stands more as a symbol of Mancunian strength, of Mancunian resilience, than that surviving red post box that can still be seen there today.
Marvel are scraping the barrel now.
from my poetry blog.Where We Used To
Day Two of Calorie Counting Update: Borderline Dead.
What a beautiful day it was today.
In fact, do you know what kind of day it was today? It was a Rosemary’s Baby and Fosters kind of day today.
So much so that I felt that I had to share with everyone on Facebook just how I’d passed the afternoon.
Why have you poured Fosters into a glass?! my daughter Courtney commented.
Because the glass wouldn’t fit into the can, I replied.
Obvious, isn’t it?
One pay-off to be made for the good weather at this time of year is that we have to share it with others. Other creatures, that is. A few days ago I noticed some bees flying around the end of the guttering at the front of our house, guttering that is close to both Courtney’s bedroom window and also her sister Millie’s bedroom window. Courtney and Millie are not the most bug-friendly girls you’re ever likely to meet.
When one of the bees turned up in our living room today I thought, while catching it to release outside, I’d take the opportunity to photograph it in an effort to identify the species. As it dropped onto the window ledge, I placed a glass over it (yes, the Fosters glass) and took a snap of it.
That’s right-the bee was doing what bees do and wouldn’t keep still, flying to the top of the glass. Eventually though, I got a close up.
From this, and from what I’d read when scientifically googling bee nests in gutters I deduced that the bees were most likely to be Tree Bumblebees. Eat your heart out Attenborough.
(Though don’t ask where the tree comes into play.)
And from what I’ve learnt I’ve decided not to take any action and leave them bee (😀) as it’s likely that they will leave the nest by the end of July anyway.
That’s only two months away. Eight weeks. Ish.
You can imagine how thrilled my daughters are by this decision.
Just wait until that sun is out again tomorrow, and the temperature rises, and how those windows should be opened to admit some fresh air.
I’m thinking now that tomorrow could be a Cool Hand Luke in the sweatbox kind of day.
You’ve got no chance when you’re up against twelve men, the Gods and the ancestors.