Idle Pretention (a.k.a. Learning from My Lazy Student Days)

 After a bit of a tidy-up, my Mum found this sheet.

 

Holes with Flaps was a story that I wrote during my time at university. It was part of a flash fiction collection that I submitted for a short story module.

            The story itself is curious but re-reading the rather faint pencilled comment from the marking tutor really struck me. For one thing it is a rather generous critique for a flimsy and thematically embarrassing piece of writing but it also includes two words that have followed me around for many years. These are ‘poignant’ and ‘ambiguous’.

            ‘Poignant’ is one of my favourite adjectives to describe anything that makes me go hmm. Unfortunately it took me a couple of years to actually learn its precise definition, which is a strong and often sad effect of feelings. Here I was thinking it meant incredibly intelligent. Must have got it mixed up with ‘profound’.

            Nevertheless I have always intended to write stories that are poignant and profound. This is a foolhardy endeavour but has taken me just over a decade to realise the fact. I had an inkling as far back as 2010 that what I was putting to paper wasn’t quite as clever as I hoped it would be. Indeed my love of quirks and gimmicks in fiction doesn’t necessarily lend itself well to writing in the styles of Raymond Carver or Alice Munro. I tried regardless and had some occasional successes, Holes with Flaps not being one of them. Prior to rediscovering this sheet, I had all but forgotten the story.

            The other adjective ‘ambiguous’ is precisely the reason why these stylistic experiments rarely worked. Not enough meat on the bone. At university I learnt that the coolest short stories were the ones that were plain-speaking with short punchy sentences that only highlighted details the reader absolutely needed to know. I came to overlook the nuance of clear character development and mood-changing setting description. I neglected playing with a unique idea over multiple paragraphs, for fear that explanation would counteract a Hemingway-like honesty.

            While ambiguity was the common complaint, only I knew what it really was: laziness. Pure and simple sloth. I didn’t want to put in the hard work to make a story truly meaningful and memorable, I just wanted it to stand out. And it did though usually for all the wrong reasons. Oh sure, there was a poignance to some of those stories but it lacked depth and definition. In fact, you could say that there was a big ambiguous hole in my stories that was disguised with a thin flap of poignant expression.

            Now it’s not for me to say if I have developed much as a writer since then but I like to think I pad my stories better. If there are any conceptual tears, I try to sew them up and hide the stitching. It’s a lot of work but worth it. With every story I write now, I actively move away from idle pretention. It would be lovely one day to write something that combines gimmick, genre, philosophy and simplicity; something that sticks in a reader’s mind. Still that could take years. Another decade perhaps.

            Once upon a time I persevered blindly. I genuinely thought that stories like Holes with Flaps were erudite and enlightened. Since then I have added observation and self-awareness to that perseverance. I still create tales that fail to connect but I learn from them. That is the wonderful thing about keeping on with creativity through one’s life. You slowly shrug off idle pretention and grow up.

Out in the World with a Chunky Blue Jotter (a.k.a. What Actually Happens When You Write in Public Places)

Pub

I grabbed a seat in a busy pub and waited for a friend. He wasn’t late, I was early. Still I was concerned we wouldn’t be able to hear each other over the laddish din. Even the short bar stools were occupied by people spilling their pints on the varnished circular tables.

            Across from me sat three lads sharing a phone. One in a maroon rugby jersey was holding off about some ‘fat bird’ he knew in his nasal Geordie accent. He thumped the shoulder of the lad who was holding the phone, seemingly just for the hell of it.

            By this point I had taken out my chunky blue jotter and was distracting myself with a jokey story about the Trolley Problem.

            It took the Geordie lad a moment to notice this. “Harry Potter over here,” he muttered. He meant the glasses as that was the only similarity between me and the boy wizard.

            “Hey, mate,” he said. “What you writing?”

            “Something for work,” I lied.

            “What’s it about though?”

            “Nothing of interest.”

            Though he still had on his open mouth smile he clearly wasn’t happy with that answer. “Seriously though, what you writing?”

            I paused and looked him in the eye. “Work, you know?”

            He would have asked a third time had the phone holder not thumped him back. It occurred to me the Geordie lad thought I was writing about him and his mates or maybe even the ‘fat bird’ they just had been discussing. Perhaps I should have been more open and honest but I really wasn’t in the mood to justify myself to a nosy bar fly.

            My friend arrived shortly after that and supplanted himself between me and Geordie lad who had fortunately lost all interest. He announced to the whole pub that they would move on to a nearby alehouse and make a proper night of it. I was glad to see him go.

            A frustrating experience but, most frustrating of all, I didn’t get back to my story. The Trolley Problem had run away without me.

Café

I hid away in a café that itself was hiding from the high street. I settled at a granite top table beside an oak staircase and ordered a hot chocolate with all the trimmings.

            Having brought my chunky blue jotter, I started outlining a plan. The idea was thin, about a printer that printed dreams, but I made it work with two creative characters. Sometimes that’s all it takes to be inspired.

            The short blonde manager in a comfortable green hoodie stood behind the counter's cake display and grinned warmly at me. “Are you a writer by any chance?”

            “Yes.”

            “Is it a dissertation?”

            “No. I’m not a student.”

            “Oh. So you’re a creative writer?”

            “Yes.”

            “Excellent.” She seemed genuinely pleased. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

            Such interruptions can put me off my stroke but not that day. The sun was shining and the background chatter was moderate. Soon enough I had finished the plan and had started the story itself.

            A meeting broke up and a tall black-suited man with thinning brown hair stopped beside me.

            “Sorry to bother you but I’ve never seen anyone write so fast before.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Well. You do remind me of a lad I used to know. He had fast penmanship too. Hand-wrote his entire dissertation. Is that what you’re doing?”

            “No. I’m not a student.”

            “A creative writer then. Published?”

            “Some places. Not many.”

            Nevertheless he seemed genuinely interested. He offered me his hand to shake. “What’s your name if you don’t mind me asking?”

            I told him. He repeated it though if he was actually committing it to memory I do not know.

            “Right. Well I’ll look out for you on the shelves.”

            Another, more substantial interruption but I didn’t mind. The sun was still shining and the background chatter had diminished even further with his exit. Besides I had been rather sweetly complimented. The manager must have noticed the little smile playing on my lips as I sipped my hot chocolate.

            “Our own resident writer,” she said with a chuckle.

            I’m afraid I haven’t been back since.

What I Have Learnt from Writing Guides (and What Actually Sticks)

There are so many writing guides out there. Too many, some would argue.

            I personally enjoy reading a variety of perspectives on what constitutes good writing. While ‘how to’ guides can irritate with single-minded arrogance and even intimidate with the rigidity of the ‘rules’ they set, all that is really important is that you find at least one idea that you like and want to implement.

            Over the years I myself have come to look on every ‘definitive’ guide as an orchard from which to cherry-pick the juiciest stylistic suggestion. A lot of these books contain a variation on classic advice (e.g. show don’t tell, ‘said’ is the best speech tag, step-by-step plans etc) but sometimes the author shares a suggestion that is uniquely appealing. These are often small and based on personal quirk but if it works for you then it’s made for you.

            That being said here are three writing guides that have gifted me with tricks and techniques that I still use to this day:

Reveal Character or Advance Action – 8 Rules for Writing a Short Story

While this is strictly speaking a short list, it has still proven an invaluable guide to the way I approach writing.

            Of the eight rules, the most important to me is ‘4. Every sentence must do one of two things – reveal character or advance the action.’ It’s obvious when you think about it: what purpose does a fiction sentence really serve if not to tell us something we need to know?

            Consequently a big part of my editing process now involves going through each sentence of a short story or chapter and marking them green if they advance action or yellow if they reveal character. Then I go back over the sentences left white and get rid of them. It can get fiddly but it is truly rewarding to see whole paragraphs of green and yellow sentences, knowing that not one has been wasted.

The Curse of Knowledge – Wired for Story by Liza Cron

In Wired for Story, Liza Cron shares a cognitive approach to reader relationships with the text and how a writer can make best use of it.

            One of the concepts that she shares is Chip and Dan Heath’s “The Curse of Knowledge” which they describe as ‘Once we know something, we find it hard to imagine what it was like not to know it. Our knowledge has ‘cursed’ us. And it becomes difficult for us to share our knowledge with others, because we can’t readily re-create our listeners’ state of mind.’

            This provides an essential insight into why some writers fail to connect with readers. It certainly goes a way towards explaining my early years where I wrote disconnectedly, hoping that the reader would do the work for me. Cron’s book dismisses such thinking in no uncertain terms: if you don’t convey the full story, the reader will just put it down and walk away. They are under no obligation to stick around until it gets better.

            I like studies that confirm how readers generally interact with a story, they provide a swift kick in the pants for lazy kids like I was.

The Cosmic Sentence – Why Will No-One Publish My Novel? By Fay Weldon

Every story needs a reason for existence, something that can be summed up in a single elegant line. Every fairy tale has a moral and every scientific study has a hypothesis.

            For those who are dismayed, I once thought this sacrilegious too. How can one possibly condense a nuanced story wherein so much is going on? It has taken me a while to realise that no story is too complicated to summarise. Indeed, if you can’t, then how will you ever sell it?

            This realisation was cemented by Weldon’s hype about the cosmic sentence ‘that sums up the thought that started you off, the idea that caught you all of a sudden, the emotion you were trying to validate, the point you were trying to prove.’ When put like that, you can’t deny that every piece of fiction has some kind of cosmic sentence at the heart of it.

            You might say the cosmic sentence of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick is ‘revenge is fatal for all’. The cosmic sentence for The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien is arguably ‘adventure enriches the soul’. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein has part of the cosmic sentence in its subtitle: ‘the Modern Prometheus’.

            I can’t say how many times I have caught myself wandering off point with a story and dragged myself back to the original cosmic sentence. It is my best focus.

***

Suffice to say, most of the inspiration I have drawn from writing guides is for editing and rewriting. These are the two aspects of the process that I find hardest and I’m sure I’m not alone in that.

            Being disciplined is hard and so the mind naturally seeks distraction. I would argue that reading writing guides is the most effective way to distract yourself. Still mind you don’t stop writing because you’d rather be reading writing guides. I find them oddly addictive and so read them only occasionally.

            At some point you need to get out of the cherry orchard. It’s tempting to fill your basket but then you may never fill it to satisfaction. Instead take those cherries, those ideas, and make something from them.

I NEVER LIKED TWO THOUSAND AND NINETEEN (a.k.a. A Villa-knell to Mark the End of a Rather Unpleasant Year)

I never liked two thousand and nineteen

Not just an odd number but on the verge

Of a brighter twenty-twenty dream.

The year itself: dull and awkward scenes

With some tough memories I long to purge.

I never liked two thousand and nineteen.

My tired eyes have a teary sheen,

Overflowing with a desperate urge

For a brighter twenty-twenty dream.

And still how maddening time’s march now seems,

Its beat so solemn it might be a dirge.

I never liked two thousand and nineteen.

It’s become so hard to vent my spleen

For if I start, I might very well splurge

Before the brighter twenty-twenty dream.

I suppose it won’t be too long between

The years, before present and future merge.

I never liked two thousand and nineteen

But I might the twenty-twenty dream.

A CHILD'S BOXING DAY IN ENGLAND (a.k.a. A Remembrance of Post-Christmas Transition Days Past)

One Boxing Day was so much like another, in those years of small responsibility and not much to worry about.

All the Boxing Days roll into one as I remember pitter-pattering barefoot down the stairs to grab a bowl of cereal and the leftover tangerine from Santa’s stocking. It was quiet but not exactly peaceful with all the presents scattered around the living room still to put away but this was still technically Christmas for me and the rest of the family were asleep so why bother rushing?

I would eat my small breakfast by the computer table, turning the swivel chair to see the heated trays on the dining table just behind me, still full of vegetable spring rolls and prawn vol-au-vents. The greasy smell pervading from the kitchen would remind me that there was still the Beef Wellington to finish, something I had nibbled at the previous night rather than scoffed. However, if the stringy brown slices were to be put in a buttered bread bun that day, I wouldn’t say no.

Once the last segment of tangerine had been swallowed, down came mother who was then followed by sister and eventually father. We would find there wasn’t really much left to say after all the exuberant ‘thank you’s of yesterday so we would instead begin a slow and steady tidy up of the living room.

All my presents: books, DVDs and action figures would be dumped on my bed where I would fiddle with them some more and lose a good twenty minutes contemplating the points of articulation of this Doctor Who figure or really how little I wanted to watch this film that I asked for in earnest.

Then I would dress myself properly, brush my teeth and descend the stairs to find the kitchen occupied with the whirr of the oven heating up leftovers and maybe the hob being click-click-clicked on. The kettle would already be boiled for the parents and perhaps my sister but I would have what was left of the milk bottle once the teas and coffees had all been poured.

Food would then be transported back to the heated trays on the dining room table and we would stack a small china plate each with those spring rolls and vol-au-vents as well as mini-pizzas, breadsticks and crisps. I would always fill up with more crisps than substantial food and had a tendency, when eating battered shrimp, to swallow the tail too.

Then, when I was fit to burst and queasy with all the salt and grease, I would supplant myself on the toilet for a long stretch, both out of necessity and for the me time. If it occurred to me, I may have even started reading one of my presents even if that was only the back of a DVD box.

Outside wasn’t usually worth visiting, a stiff white sky that occasionally cracked and let through a fine winter drizzle. Still, with all the hustle and bustle indoors, any chance to step out was ultimately a good thing even if I only managed to snatch a handful of shallow breaths of chill air. Then I would return to find everyone in the living room, watching whatever animated feature was on, Dreamworks often after Disney. There would be some buzz as the TV guide was handed round, at the prospect of the special episode of whatever show was popular at the time being on that evening. We would set our eating schedule around that then break off from family time, some of us to wash up, some of us to tidy away presents, and me to visit the toilet once again.

I often lost track of time, Boxing Day being so slow, and I would look up and wonder why I was being called back downstairs. Then I would wander into the kitchen to find Beef Wellington slices being packed into bread buns and found that that would be the main course for dinner. Of course, it did turn out to be dinnertime or perhaps half an hour earlier than usual.

I would hunker down and eat, grabbing a fresh plateful of snack foods to fill out the meal, watching whatever was on the telly before returning to the kitchen to begin washing up. We didn’t have a dish washer for a long time so it was up to me and my sister to make sure the fancy wine glasses we only ever brought out at Christmas were sparkling clean and ready to return to the dusty wooden display cabinet. Then father would empty out the heated trays and give us them for ‘a quick wipe’ but I always gave them more attention, at least until there were no visible suds left. Then, if the snacks were sufficiently depleted, the trays and the heater were all boxed up and put at the very top of a tall set of shelves. Dad would deal with this, with some assistance from me when I was tall enough.

Then in the gathering dark, we would seat ourselves in front of the TV once again and spend a little more time watching the latest DFS sale advert and glancing around at the Christmas decorations, determining when they were to be taken down and in what order.

By now I had opened my chocolate selection box and started working my way through a mini bag of Maltesers and perhaps a single Twix bar because there really was little else to do. Boxing Day didn’t make much sense when it came down to it, other than to be a transition day between Christmas and shops re-opening. The older I got the more I realised the disappointing mayfly that Christmas Day was, after the long run-up, after the hysteria those same shops and the TV had caused. It seemed a lot of exhaustion for a short period where presents were torn open and expectations were met. And Boxing Day? That was merely the day when the wrapping paper was stuffed into the recycling bin.

Nevertheless Boxing Day got away from me soon enough and I was back to bed, watching a film I had recorded instead of one of the DVDs that had been gifted to me. When that was over, I muttered some happy nonsense about doing things better next year, and then I slept.

TODAY AT A CAFE (a.k.a. A Nonfiction Experience from Actually a Few Weeks Ago Now)

The café was all black granite top tables with padded white stools and booths that were difficult to slide into from the eyesore diamond tile floor. Still, it was clean. As I approached the main counter, the man behind it spied me as I passed by an interior design topiary.

            “Hi there,” he began. “Today we have a special deal on curry and rice. You can buy the Jalfrezi, Tikka or Korma for just £6.”

            I nodded along as he showed me the contents of each steel container on the heated display. I looked back up and said, “Can I order a hot chocolate please?”

            He gave out a whiny little laugh but turned towards the steamer behind him. “Is that with whipped cream?”

            “Yes, please.”
            “That’ll be £2.80.”

            As I passed him a fiver, a skinny waiter with a fat yellow tie stopped beside me.

            “Bored,” he announced. The man behind the counter grinned in response. The waiter caught my eye. “And how are you today, sir?”

            “I am fine, thank you. How are you?”

            “I am well. As well as I can be working with this kidder over here.” He gestured at the man behind the counter as he handed me my change. They both giggled. “And what will you be doing after your drink, sir?”

            “Go home.”

            The waiter nodded. “Do you play computer games?”

            I hesitated. “Sometimes. Not as much these days.”

            “You look the intelligent sort. Would you say you’re intelligent?”

            I frowned but laughed it off. “That’s not really for me to say.”

            This was not the most comprehensive of answers. I waited for the interrogation to continue but then the waiter turned, apparently called over.

            “Sorry about that,” the man behind the counter said.

            “That’s all right,” I lied.

      I sat on the opposite side of the topiary, using it as a green leafy window to the only other customer in the building. She tucked into a panini, knife and fork tearing through the thick bread. Her eyes were damp and she had to stop a moment to wipe away the tears. The waiter appeared with fresh napkins for the table which he handed to her personally. Her wedding ring glistened in the light as she touched one of the stiff brown sheets to the corners of her eyes.

"Poor dear," the waiter muttered before moving off in the direction of distant clattering crockery.

I felt bad for looking at the woman so I stopped. Nevertheless, she watched me carefully until she finished her panini.

The man behind the counter came to bring the hot chocolate over to me himself. There was a small biscuit on the saucer. "No extra cost," he said with a smile before returning to his post.

I then took out my phone and lost myself in my emails. Halfway through my hot chocolate, I heard the waiter reappear at the counter.

“Bilal's got a chicken bone in his throat," he told the man.

"Is he choking?"

"Go see for yourself."

The man came out from behind his counter once again, this time in a definite rush. Barely a minute later a short woman with a beehive hairdo arrived to take his place.

"How are you today, sir?" she asked me. I gave her a thumbs up as I crunched my biscuit. 

Raising my phone again, I finished composing my last reply then emptied my cup. I left behind a small crumbly corner of the biscuit. In the meantime, the man had come back and he, the woman and the waiter were all busying themselves behind the counter, all getting in each other's way.

"Thank you," I said. None of them turned to me. A little flimsy wave and I was away, out of the door.

I'm afraid I didn't have the wherewithal to compose a thorough review at the time. Something tells me this here will suffice.

THE MAJESTY OF NATURE IN LANDSCAPE (a.k.a. A Lindisfarne Vignette)

Man and Boy stopped a while to snap a Red Admiral. Boy had his phone out in seconds while Man was still fiddling with his Fuji camera strap.
   "Landscape or portrait?" Boy asked, tilting his phone.
   "You'll get more of the majesty of nature in landscape," Man replied.
   Camera finally switched on, he pointed it at the butterfly in the hedge. It flitted off. He groaned. Boy laughed.
   "Too slow," he said.
   "I'll get the bugger," Man muttered. "Don't you worry."
   They followed it along a stone wall. The Red Admiral stopped at every other crack, unhelpfully keeping its wings folded. They waited for it to move.
   In time a procession of school children passed by: ten little reflector jackets led by one big one. The teacher hesitated, wondering just what Man and Boy were doing.
   "Butterfly snapshots," Man explained with a curt smile.
   The teacher nodded and moved the kids along. They were almost away before a girl at the back spoke up: "I licked one of those once." The rest giggled till they were all gone.
   At last the Red Admiral set off again.
   "Oh yes!" Boy said. "I got it mid-flight!"
   Man sniffed. "If you would be quiet for just one second, we might catch it by those pink flowers."
   Boy snapped his fingers. "Look! Quick!"
   Man saw his perfect picture opportunity. The butterfly landed on a single low-hanging branch and was steadily fluttering its wings. It held them open long enough for him to take quite a few photos. Man even managed a detailed close-up of the wing symmetry. Meanwhile Boy stood beside, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He smiled at Man when he was done.
   "Will that do?" Boy asked.
   Man nodded his thanks to the Red Admiral. It bowed low, twitching its antennae as if contemplating him in return . Then a gust shook the branch and the butterfly followed the currant.
   "Yes," Man said, tucking the camera back into its case. "That'll do for me."

TORNADO AT THE DAIRY FARM (a.k.a. A Morwick Vignette)

We were sat round a bench at a dairy farm when the jet flew overhead.

     Mum licked her ice cream and squinted up through the blue breaks between clouds. "I'd say that's a Tornado."

     "That would explain the warning on the weather this morning," I joked. Nobody laughed. Instead they traced the jet's flight path with their mint chocolate chips.

     "It's flying a bit low," Dad muttered.

     "And fast," my sister added.

     As if on cue, the Tornado whooshed by, rumbling the clouds like thunder.

     "Those get up to Mach 2," Dad said, checking his phone. "That's about 1,550mph."

     I looked down at my hand. A small yellow dollop of jersey cream slid down between thumb and forefinger. Cleaning it with a serviette, I glanced up again.

     "Looks sort of like the mouse cursor on an old Windows desktop," I decided.

     "It would have to be white," my sister pointed out. 

     I shrugged. "True."

     Even so the black angular arrow kept weaving through and around the clouds as if searching for an operation running in the background. 

     "There might be an air show nearby," Mum said. "It looks like it's biding time." 

     The jet did so for a while, managing to avoid our cameras whenever it swept past low. Eventually we wiped the corners of our mouths, brushed wafer dust off our clothes and returned to the car.

     As the Tornado jet sank behind a pure white cloud, I swallowed the tip of my cone. 

EASY RIDER AARON (a.k.a. A Morpeth Vignette)

Aaron spins his wheels in the parking lot. Dad is taking absolutely ages in Home Bargains and Nan is dozing off in the Land Rover. She is supposed to be keeping an eye on him but Aaron is glad to have a few minutes' freedom. 

    He races his shiny green scooter up and down the short stretch of pedestrian walkway in front of the car. This would be more fun if he was wearing his black and silver streak helmet but Dad forgot it in the morning rush. It was lucky they had left Aaron's old red one in the boot but it's now tiny and squeezes his head, especially at the back. Nevertheless he drives through this discomfort, steering around uneven paving stones.

    When it's time, Aaron pulls up by the trolley shelter and waits until a white van reaches the traffic lights across the way. Then, as the lights go green and the van sets off, he zooms forward himself. 

    He's lucky this time, scooter reaching maximum speed just as the loud engine kicks into gear. Aaron roars along with it. In this moment he forgets everything: the midday boredom, his nan snoring and the squeaky front wheel, and imagines that he is the one burning rubber.

   However this feeling soon slips by like the wind in his face and the van's noise fades off round the bend. Just as he spies a lorry approaching and his foot pushes down on the pedal, Aaron finally feels the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder. The boy looks up at him, failing to hide the disappointment on his daredevil face. 

   "Come on, easy rider," Dad chuckles. "We're heading home." 

LOBSTERS GROW THROUGHOUT THEIR LIFETIME (a.k.a. A Late Crustacean Poem for International Women's Day)

The girl scrunched her nose at

the hatchery, the fishy smell.

Her mum led her inside.

Aren't lobsters interesting?

A tank filled with dirty water.

Those aren't mud flecks, Mum said,

Those are babies.

Lobsters grow throughout their lifetime.

The next tank had fewer flecks

and the one after that had things that looked like lobsters.

The girl stared at the curves of their shells,

the curves that would be their pincers.

They arrived at the nursery,

large lobster mothers sheltering busy babies

crawling back and forth beneath stiff, still figures.

Mum drew daughter close.

The last lobsters were huge, one per tank,

men in aprons standing over them.

Occasionally an antennae twitched,

a pincer closed and opened.

The girl gripped her mother's hand

and they hurried out together

past cartoon lobsters collecting donations:

a pound each for the privilege.

At the car, the girl touched the window

while Mum watched, hand on the key,

wondering just how big they would be

in half a century.

THE GIRL WITH THE MICHAEL BALL BOWLING BAG (a.k.a. A Valentine's Reminiscence)

          She stepped out in front of me at a car park.

            Long red hair flashed in the failing day. Straightened to a fine sheen, made-up but gradually coming down. I figured she'd come from some classy business function, what with the little black dress, the clip-clop high heels. Not so dignified though; her every other step slipped a little, wavering closer to the roadside.

            She threw her bag over her left shoulder. I've seen a lot of handbags make a lot of women but never a tope bag. A bowling bag. A bag with Michael Ball on it.

            I tried to keep an eye out for oncoming traffic as we crossed the road but I was hypnotised. Her perfect posterior popped with the uneven paving.

            She led me past Dong Dong, the Oriental Superstore and all the failed betting shops. She swept back her hair somewhere around Tesco. For a moment it seemed like she was going to detour inside but I knew better: she was far too sophisticated to enter the market area.

            Still I had no idea why she used the pelican crossings that I used, why she made her way under the same viaduct.

            We passed an IMO car wash, Kobane Restaurant, a Texaco petrol station.

            I almost lost her for a second: two young lovers came between us, holding hands and dangling empty banana skins from their free ones. When those crazy kids disappeared into the Slubber's Arms, I wasn't surprised.

            The true puzzle remained. She led me further up the hill. Michael Ball stared at me from the bag, his open mouth smile mocking me. He was going to sing a sad little song for this sad little moment.

            Around Birkbees Nursery, she finally noticed that I was still behind her. I wanted to say "Hey, lady, you're just going my way" but I was wearing my headphones and besides didn't have the courage.

            We shuffled up Halifax Old Road with its Jamaican takeaway and monumental Mosque and yet I had yet to see her full profile. She yanked the handle of the bag further up her sleeveless shoulder. Never before have I been so jealous of eco-friendly luggage material.

            I arrived at my gate and she was still going on. I hung around as long as I could see her but not once did she turn back. Considering the distance we had crossed, it seemed to me that the smallest glance of acknowledgement would have been a courtesy.

            And yet she marched on towards the traffic lights. I briefly wondered if I should have raced ahead, said something meaningful.

            Then I realised she was probably a Michael Ball fan.

NO WORDS NEEDED (a.k.a. An Ironically Verbose Appraisal of Wordless Picture Books)

2018 has brought me a new hobby. I have started reading picture books.
           I know. A grown man, a bachelor with no children of his own, likes to pick up and flick through books meant for toddlers aged 3 and up. At best: strange. At worst: creepy.
           However my eye is drawn to what my eye is drawn to and my eye is mostly easily drawn to excellent drawings. Brilliant brushstrokes. Incredible colour. In short, art.
           This is my next revelation: picture books are an art form and that ought to be appreciated by a wider audience. Of course, they're primarily meant for the development of babies but I should say they have appeal to adults too. What better way to encourage a parent to read to their child?
           And yet, here is my third peculiar truth: the picture books that I have most enjoyed are the ones that I don't actually have to read.
           There is a trend of rising popularity in junior fiction at the moment and that is picture books without words. Picture books in the purest form.
           Below are three fine examples and a succinct exploration of why I find them so particularly charming...



FOOTPATH FLOWERS by JonArno Lawson and Sydney Smith

            My first official wordless picture book.

            A very simple story. A bright little girl in a red hood (coincidence?) is walking home with her father who is preoccupied with his phone. In fact the whole town seems preoccupied and dull for it.

            And then there are flowers. Yellow footpath flowers that our young friend uses to bring a little colour to the washed-out busy world around her.

            As such this is a perfect springtime book and it certainly made me smile. The unfurling of good will was subtle and creative with such touching pictures as below.

            Quite frankly words would have spoiled this journey as they seemed to have already spoiled the world that this little girl lives in. If nothing else they hardly seem to matter much.

            Vibrancy and creativity are of far greater importance. After all we don't have enough of it in our own world.

A STONE FOR SASCHA by Aaron Becker

            We move to the beach now. To a stone. To a broad but gorgeous history lesson.

            In fact there are two stories to this book: the first of loss which is handled very sweetly. A little girl's dog passes (presumably the titular Sascha) and her whole family is heartbroken though not as much as her. The impression given is that she doesn't quite know how to act on this feeling.

            Then she finds a golden stone. We are flung into the past to see this stone's journey throughout history. It's a destructive one from fallen meteorite to numerous fallen civilisations. There is plundering and wreckage. And yet the glow of gold remains in the picture. It survives all that to find its way to a lost little girl on a late summer's day.

            I would venture that this is a surprisingly complex tale for children. Then again that usually means that it's the kind of book that parents can learn from too.

            Death is difficult to process but so is life. Neither is permanent but what remains in between should be cherished.

LINES by Suzy Lee

            Here we are at last at winter. Or is it?

            Compared to the previous two books, this is a minimalist tale of black and grey lines on white pages with a little ice skater at its centre. The only splash of colour is the red of this skater's hat and mittens.

            However, look at the curves and loops that that little skater leaves behind. Look at the criss-cross of thick and thin lines and the gradual, beautiful mess.

            It may not seem like much but that becomes necessary to the ending. For this is not just a day on the ice, it's a gentle musing on the magic of imagination.

            As it reads in the blurb: 'It starts with a line. Whether made by the tip of a pencil or the blade of a skate, the magic starts there.'

            Again this can be read as both an encouragement to children and a reminder to adults. The white page may be daunting at first but don't worry too much about making a mess. You'll get there in the end and you certainly won't be alone in it.

            As you can see there is a broad potential to such books.

         In a way it saddens me that we don't have such picture books for adults. We do have comics and graphic novels though these still largely rely on a balance of pictures and text which can sometimes eschew more in favour of words.

         As for animation, that is a wonderful experience too though it takes some of the imagination out of the process. As I flipped through these books, my mind was allowed to wander and then to focus on the subtle crafty details left in by the artist that are open to interpretation.

         Nevertheless, in the interest of easing young children into the sometimes baffling world of reading, such titles are a great starting point. These books are there to help with dyslexia and other learning difficulties that might impede language acquisition. These books are there for slow learners. These books are there for parents. These books are even there for strange blog writers.

         These books are there and I do hope people realise.