Character Monologue

In response to this task:
"Flip through some magazines and find a picture of a person who looks interesting. Don't chose a celebrity or anyone famous cos you know stuff about them already. Cut the picture out and put it on your desk. Now write about that person, their life, her problems, his goals, background , whatever comes to mind. Move towards some conflict in which the character can be involved. Then write a scene to explore that conflict."
I found an image in a newspaper, of a stern looking older man. He has white beard and hair, though is balding. Very smartly dressed in a business suit and tie. I decided on a monologue, trying to bring out aspects of this person's character. I won't post the image here as I wouldn't want to offend anyone who knows him in real life :-)

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Does she have any idea what pressure I am under at the moment? I have that bloody young whipper snapper watching my every move at work and then I come home and have to deal with this nonsense.

What the hell is she talking about? How the hell can she just decide that, after 10 years of adult life? She’s never been good with relationships – one boyfriend after another, and there’s always some problem with them - although they’ve always been nothing but charming with me and her mother.

Her mother. Her bloody mother. Pandering to her, never off that bloody phone. It’s almost as though Karen condones this nonsense. “She’s still our daughter, Johnny”. If I hear that sentence one more time, I’ll walk out. I am not to be patronised: I am quite aware of the children I have raised. A son who wasted his education and can only make a living as a gardener and a daughter who has suddenly decided to have sex with women and become a pervert.

And all the hard work. Never away from that office, living for the company. They never wanted for anything. The best schools, the best childcare, the house, flats at university. And all for what? To find out that all the effort has led to a drop-out sexual deviant for a daughter.

And while she “finds herself” in whatever depraved way she sees fit, I’m still working all hours, having to “justify” myself. Having to “justify” the last 30 years? How dare they. How dare they suggest that they have no need for me. Who won the first overseas contract? Who turned this company around when everyone said it was over? 19 million pound turnover, from just 10 million 3 years ago. And yet, I am being asked by a business graduate - young enough to be my worthless son, who covers himself in cheap polyester suits and excessive aftershave – to “justify” my job. The bastards. They will pay.

I cannot relax. I cannot switch off at home. That bloody mousey woman who can’t see a thing wrong with her daughter’s behaviour. You know, it’s months since she threw a proper dinner party. I can’t recall the last time she cooked anything that wasn’t out of a packet. It’s not as if she has anything to do all day – pill popping, reality television and chatting to her boring friends about the latest diet fad, for God’s sake. She wants for nothing. She has her dream house, her garden full of expensive rose bushes, her cleaning lady and her new car. And all she can do is mooch and moan and worry about her perverted daughter. What about me? Does she ever worry about me? Does she ever ask about the office?

So I cannot relax at home. She won’t allow me. I have to find other ways. It is not my fault. It’s hers – and that stupid girl’s. It’s their fault I need to look elsewhere for relaxation.

This is exactly what I was saying to Maria last night, just before she tightened the eye mask and gag. We always have a chat before we start and she is a good listener. I think that must be part of the job. And I know she agrees with me – although it’s all the same to her: she gets paid either way. Though she does understand why I come to her. She knows it’s not my fault: it’s the stress - of the job, of the hopeless wife, of the sexual deviant of a daughter.

So I’m able to relax. She keeps the lights off, although the eye mask is always so tight I wouldn’t know. Her voice in the dark. The vile things she says, the way she tells me I am her dirty worthless slave. Her stiletto heels digging into my back. The smell of the leather in the air…

It is the only way for me to relax. I have no other choice. It’s completely natural for someone in my position.

Cheese Pretzels

"Homework" exercise for my writing group. We had to write in any way we wanted on the subject of FOOD.


I am a bit fat. I know I am a bit fat. And to be honest most of the time it doesn’t bother me. I don’t feel too unhealthy, I try to keep fit and I also try to eat healthily. But I’m still a bit fat.

Recently, this has bothered me for a simple reason – a wedding. Not mine, I hasten to add, but my best friend’s. My best friend’s wedding. Dunkeld Cathedral. Athol Palace Hotel. Hundreds of guests. Big occasion. And I’m her bridesmaid. And I have to fit into a corset style outfit. Oh goodie.

So, as it always happens with me every couple of years, I make the commitment to get slimmer. Not slim – I’ll never be slim, and I wouldn’t want to be (I like my curves J). But I need to lose a bit.

Now, there is a simple truth about losing weight. All the books, plans, clubs in the world that try to help you with slimming – underneath it all, the truth is YOU HAVE TO EAT LESS AND EXERCISE MORE. End of story. No matter what they try to get you to believe – red days, green days, WW points, activity points, low carbs, no carbs, more fibre, less fat – you lose weight by eating less and exercising more. Sadly, there’s no quick fix – or certainly no quick fix that’s good for you.

And this is what I’m trying to do. The exercising has been surprisingly easy to get into becoming a habit. Thanks to Ms Davina McCall’s “Thirty Minute Workouts”, I am managing to actually enjoy working out at home. And I’ve started to see a bit of a difference.

The eating thing. Ah. That’s a slightly different story…

I am an utter food junkie. Eating and enjoying food is one of my major pastimes. I just love food. I love eating out. I love trying new things – and old favourites.

Now, if I cook at home, there’s no problem – I always cook healthily and never buy crap. However, I also have a tendency – a number of times a week – to just say “bugger it” and head out for a meal, or to the takeaway. Not only is this not helping the bridesmaid dress struggle, but it’s also not too good for the bank balance.

And the other struggle, of course, is snacking. I try to have only healthy snacks in the house, but who wants carrot sticks and salsa when you know – and everyone knows – that the only thing that’ll satisfy you at that 10pm-in-front-of-the-tv-with-a-glass-of-wine-in-your-hand stage of the night is a dirty big bag of Kettle Chips or a few slices of toast, thickly spread with butter and jam, or a couple of cheese and pickle toasties…

So, snacking is another downfall. But I believe I have found the answer…

Cheese pretzels.

I honestly believe I have found my ultimate munchie in the form of Penn State cheese pretzels. Now, I’m not saying these are healthy – they’re not. But the point is (and, yes, I know I may be deluding myself somewhat – but bear with me..) they are at least healthier than normal crisps – they have much less fat for a start. Let’s not discuss salt content for now.

So, I’ve found a crisp substitute that’s lower in fat and calories by quite a margin. Now, normally, we all know that the healthier option is rarely the tastier one – let’s think about low fat cheese, low fat oven chips, light mayo, “healthy choice” sandwiches (healthier simply, because they are about half the size of a normal one…). None of these are as satisfying as their full fat, high calorie cousins. Be honest.

But, the thing about my cheese pretzel friends is that they are simply bloody delicious. I love them. I love everything about them. I love the smell as you open the pack; I love the crunchy, biscuity texture and the way they go gooey as you munch and stick in between your teeth; I love the tangy, salty taste as you lick the coating off each tiny, perfectly formed pretzel one by one; I love the fact that the cheesy salty coating covers your fingers and you can lick it all off. As I said, I am close to being obsessed with my new snack love.

There is, however, one downside. And it’s a significant one. The main supermarkets have stopped selling them.

No, this is not a joke. I used to go to Asda’s as usual and drop a couple of the joyous yellow packets into my trolley without a care in the world. Then, one day about 2 months ago, I turned into the crisps and snack aisle to be faced with a shelf full of Penn State pretzels – but only the basic salted flavour. No cheesy ones in site. No “Sorry we’re out of stock” stickers. Nothing. Gone.

The next time I went shopping, it was Morrison’s. They at least had the Sour Cream and Chive flavour – which are pretty good, kind of a poor but almost-acceptable-if-needs be substitute. Still no cheesy ones.

Tesco’s. Only the salted ones.

Sainsbury’s. Even worse. They only stock their own make pretzels! Pah!

After weeks of this disappointment, I had to resign myself to the fact that my love affair with my little cheesy friends was over. The search would have to continue to find a healthy(ish) snack to fulfil my cravings and not seriously put my weight loss plan in jeopardy.

Saturday night. A few gins on. Nothing in the fridge for dinner. Takeaway? No – too unhealthy and expensive. I suggested I popped round to Scotmid (horrid little supermarket on Easter Road that depresses me as soon as I enter it…) to get something to slam in the oven.

I wandered round the small and sorry-looking aisles (it was after 9pm on a Saturday night and most of the stock had been decimated) looking for inspiration for dinner. Remembering I had a tub of salsa in the fridge I though I’d treat myself to some tortilla chips. I looked at the varieties. Nothing was exciting me looking at those shelves. Since the end of the cheesy pretzel pleasure, snack shelves just didn’t excite me much anymore.

For some reason, I looked up to the top shelf.

If I was a religious person, I would almost have said there was an angelic glow coming from that top shelf. Although maybe it was the gin.

But, sure enough, my eyes were not deceiving me. Penn State Cheese Pretzels. In Scotmid. On Easter Road. The pleasure I felt was immeasurable and I was glad that the shop was quiet and noone was around to witness my inane grin.

Is it pathetic that such a simple thing as finding a variety of heavily salted snack food in your local supermarket makes your weekend?

The answer, of course, is yes. But pathetic or not, my little bundles of cheesy joy are now nestling safely in my cupboard, ready for the next snack attack.

I only hope I can ration them a bit this time…

"I Like Getting Older"

(Short story in response to the pic - a 15 minute unplanned writing piece from my writers' group)

I sit in the dingy staff kitchen waiting for the inevitable morning rush of those less organised with time-keeping than I am. I hate people who aren't on time. Lack of care for others. Lack of respect. Lack of discipline. I always get to the office by 8.30am at the latest - then there's time for coffee and my morning sudoku. What these others don't realise is that 9am is when you are contracted to start working - not when you are contracted to start making a morning drink.

And here they come...

"Aw, fuck man - Ah wis pure wasted! Ah'm tellin ye!"

"Aye man. Ah saw ye chattin up that burd. Ye wir all over her!"

"She wis pure gaggin fir it..."

The obnoxious voices growing gradually louder as they reach the kitchen door...

"Aye, fuck man... Oh, morning Miss Clarke."

The two men who have just ruined my silent sudoku solitude with their cheap-suited, loud-tied entrance stifle giggles as they remove their cotas and head for the kettle.

I just nod a refined greeting and go back to my sudoku...

But I can still hear them, yapping like excited gibbons as they make their coffee...

Booze - "pure cheap, man!"

Burds - "hot as fuck!"

Parents - "Ma maw wis ragin, man!"

Friends - "He's been pure doin ma heid in."

I listen to their inane ramblings. The ramblings of youth. Of ignorance and short sightedness.

I remember it.

I do.

I was once the drinker, the flirter, the shagger, the trouble-making daughter, the unreliable friend. The youngster.

I like getting older.

L Stokes 1st August 2006

The Greek Sailors

(In response to my writers' group's task of writing about a person you met while travelling who made an impression on you...)

I found myself in a dark, noisy bar, surrounded by smoking shadows and speakers pumping euro-pop into the atmosphere. I remember staring at my pint, feeling very peculiar. And then starting to feel a bit panicky. And slightly sick. “Whitie”.

This trip to Amsterdam was a statement. Well, a statement to myself. Planned as a romantic weekend; scuppered by the fact that the relationship had ended before we’d had a chance to book it (just as well, really…). I went anyway. Alone. That was my statement to myself: I’ve been dumped, I’m alone again, but I don’t care – I can fend for myself in my favourite city.

By night two, I had walked miles: miles of streets and miles of aisles in galleries. I had smoked too much, drunk too much and eaten too much fast food – the inevitable “body-abuse-without-the-guilt” which is likely to occur when you are the dumpee. By that night, though, I was feeling low. I was enjoying my own company, but I felt like I hadn’t spoken to anyone in days (in truth, I hadn’t, really…) - I wanted a blether.

So, already feeling rather low, the unmistakable feeling of the oncoming whitie was far from welcome. Just as I was about to admit defeat and seek out the fresh air of the Spuistraat (well, as fresh as it gets there…), I suddenly realised the two other seats at my table had become occupied.

Dodgy pub, in an often dodgy city, wasted young female – the fact that two men of large stature had sat down at my table could easily have been a slight cause for alarm, or at least a slight cause of discomfort. However, as one of them said “We can sit here?” and I said “Sure”, I felt my threatened whitie ease.

I can’t remember the names of these two guys: although I remember clearly they were Greek sailors, on leave in Amsterdam for a few days. And they were partners. I remember a great conversation, which lasted well into the next morning – although the Amstel and hash was flowing, so perhaps the conversation was not as high brow as I choose to recall it. I remember talking about politics: me explaining about the opening of the new Scottish Parliament - which I was ecstatic about at the time - and them telling me all about the Greek government, and their life together.

The most memorable thing, however, was their view on homophobia.

My two companions for the evening told me about their relationship, how they had met many years before, living in the same small village. How they had always known they were gay – no doubt about it – and how they had always known they could not be open.

I remember being perturbed by this. Why should anyone not be open about their sexuality? Surely, in the early 2000s, all (legal) forms of sexual expression were much more celebrated and accepted. Don’t get me wrong – I wasn’t naïve: I wouldn’t have argued that it was a good idea for two gay men to walk into the Sarrie Heid in Possil holding hands. But that was just pockets of ignorance and cruelty on the part of people who were ignorant and cruel about a lot of things, surely. But the idea of two gay men, who had been in love with each other since their teens, not being able to “come out” – that did surprise me.

But they explained. Greece was, they said, still rife with homophobia. Greek society – especially where they came from – just didn’t acknowledge that being gay was a way of life for some men. “Why do you think we come to Amsterdam whenever we can? It’s not just for the hash.” They told me their families knew - or had guessed - but it was never spoken about, and certainly never “accepted”. One of them had even been married for a few years in his early twenties. That’s just the way it was.

But didn’t it drive them crazy? Didn’t they feel that it wasn’t fair? Didn’t they think they should be allowed to be open and honest about their lives? I remember asking them these questions, and more, as the night went on, and the smoke got thicker. They just shrugged most of the time, and laughed – it wasn’t even an option, they said. Just would never happen. They lived the way they lived and that was that. For the foreseeable future, at least.

So that was why they had chosen to work together on ships. Their employers and workmates didn’t know about their relationship – but, as they explained to me, THEY knew, and they were together every day, and that was the only thing that really mattered to them.

We were sitting in a bar in one of the most sexually liberated cities in Europe, where unconventional, as well as conventional, sexual behaviour was the norm…

And these people I met were a reminder that there’s still a long way to go…

L Stokes 1st August 2006