No Imagination - Enigma

Some time ago I wrote No Imagination. Sandra was a character in that tale and here she writes about the central figure of Daevid.

No Imagination was important to me inasmuch that it has many autobigraphical attributes.

Shamefully I left Daevid unconcious in a hospital bed and have yet to return to him.

Time changes things. Therefore, be warned Daevid will be back ...

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Sandras tale

I am paid to write. I do occasional articles for many publications, sometimes at a moments notice. The topics can vary - the last was a PR piece on the usage of organic and synthetic materials in farming in the country of Chad.
All of which is relevant only because it shows how versatile the English language has to be. One minute it has to be matter of fact and scientific and then it has to cope with emotion.
Emotion. Easy word to write. Easy to spell. Phonetic… e - mo - shun.
How many different emotions fill his room when people visit him?
Jane? She sits with him constantly and exudes love. She so desperately wants to hold her lover in her arms again and cannot bear the pain of being so distant.
Frank? He loves too but in a different way. He loves him as a fellow traveller on this journey through life and offers the hand of friendship. He wants Daevid to know the joy that comes from having God as a Saviour!
Squirrel, Chip and Prof? They love him as they would a brother. A member of that close-knit community of bikers. The fellowship of like-minded people. You find it in music too.
Me? I lusted for him…
I first met Daevid at the Manse. I was immediately struck by his modesty. He is an attractive man and I have to confess that my initial thoughts did include lust but I quelled this as soon as I could; mostly I have succeeded. During the short times we were together he always behaved impeccably and there is a certain amount of disappointment here. I would like to have known him better but I didn't know about Jane at that point so I'm glad that I didn't try anything and make a fool of myself.
He is a very assured young man. Not arrogant at all just.. nice; and it was impossible not to like him. I've read of his misdemeanours and I'm not impressed, I have met a few ruffians in other places and Daevid pales in comparison. That is not to say that he is in any way angelic! A loveable rogue? Yes, I like that.
Playing the guitar is a gift from God in my mind and I hate to see a gift unused. His gift is latent. It is there but unused except for the odd occasion. I loved playing duets with him because it is rare to find a kindred spirit that knows exactly how you are thinking. But play we did and the music flowed. I made him late for work once and he did not mind a bit.
When I see him now it is difficult to relate to that same person. I gaze at his hands that lay there so still and I recall how those elegant fingers can fly effortlessly up and down a fretboard producing the magic of music. Oh, how I have prayed for his suffering to end and that he should be back with us. I know God has his own timetable and I have no right to question His judgement but… when I see Jane sitting beside his bed, holding his hand and gazing with such love at his face, it breaks my heart.
Please God, take him or return him, we all love him so.
Every week Mr. Gunn mentions him in prayers and I know that many others at Hilltop also ask for intervention in their own meditations. My faith remains steadfast but I still question. Forgive me Lord.
And there you have a range of emotion. Something for everyone. So is it any wonder that people doubt on occasion?

Or is it that we care so much but are helpless and must fall to You in supplication and cry 'Hear me Lord for I have sinned.' Or do we think to ourselves that there but for Your grace go I?
The answer will be revealed to us one day. My prayers ask that it is sooner not later.

Bull in a sweet shop

The Aberdeen Angus was first bred in Scotland in 1824 and records show that the breed has continued through to today. In general it is a mild-mannered beast without horns (which caused some consternation to the American market) It is generally regarded throughout the world as - Good Eating!
That said, there is always the exception to the rule.. When any beast of this size is unhappy it is best to stand aside.

Monday was the day of the cattle-market. During holiday time it was a magnet for all the kids in the area. The sound of the Auctioneer with his alien tongue, the smell, the animals lowing and bleating and snorting, the heavy trucks releasing their loads of livestock into pens, men with long sticks prodding and coaxing; it made up a tapestry that assaulted the senses.
At the far end of the market stood the Auctioneers hut which was in fact a caravan of the horse-drawn variety. A set of six wooden steps led up to the door which hung open on market day to reveal the men inside all wearing white smocks to denote their rank and busily writing in ledgers.
A brick wall surrounded the whole compound and the only way to sit atop the structure was to run up the steps of the caravan and jump up onto the wall. That done it was possible to walk, or shuffle if walking invoked fear, along and take up a position that overlooked the bull-pen beneath and the rest of the proceedings.
To the left was the entrance. The lorries would back up to here and release their loads of sheep, goats, pigs, cattle and the main attraction, the bulls. Over to the right the pens for those animals stood and the attendants guided the animals through a maze of moveable gates to the appropriate place.
This day, I had taken up my position early, though not before Pete who had a knack of being everywhere before anyone else. I started to tuck into a hot meat pie from the mobile canteen (sadly missed is that ‘Greasy Spoon; The best tasting meat pies in the whole world. Meat supplied by Taylors the Butchers of note.) when a loud bellow caught our attention.
A cattle truck was backing up and the noise came from within and it was loud. The truck stopped and the hiss from the brakes caused another roar. We knew a troubled bull when we heard one and fidgeted in anticipation.
On occasion various animals had made a bid for freedom. Pigs being the worst offenders, they could lead the men with sticks a merry dance in their attempts to get them to get back into line. A bull was a different manner and we waited while the men unbolted the draw gate and lowered it to the ground. The cross-gates are pretty flimsy affairs and serve only as a token barrier and are more of a guide for the creatures as they ascend or descend the ramp of the tailgate.
With another bellow at the world the black beast stood at the top of the ramp and snorted its defiance, it was not happy. The cross-gates were lifted and set each side of the ramp but no movement did it make. It stood and snorted, a mist appearing from each nostril. Noise is something that the Angus does well.

Mrs. Bowen owned the sweet shop. She had been the incumbent there since time began and Sweet Shops had been invented. It was no surprise to us kids when sometimes we would arrive at the door of the shop only to find a note on the door – Back in five minutes. Gone to feed the cats. We would wait of course, you cannot keep a child away from a sweet shop for long, especially when the shop in question had so many delights to lust for. She once had been married but Mr. Bowen had not lasted the course, he had expired before my time and indeed anyone else’s, except maybe Mrs. Stone who had laid everybody in the street out in her time and we all knew that She would be around to see us off to.
The shop next door belonged to Mr. Taylor the Butcher. He took only the best meat from the Market. He reluctantly left young Bob in charge whilst he was away but he fretted the whole time because Bob didn’t cut the meat in quite the right way; He would always cut rashers of bacon to thick or tie the beef to tight: Mr Taylor fretted a lot whilst at the market.

The Auctioneer began his spiel on the current bull that had entered the ring and hands or sticks lifted as he raised the price or they made cutting motions to indicate they were out of the bidding. Meanwhile the black Angus started his descent of the ramp albeit a tad reluctantly.
With a toss of the head, that maybe indicated a degree of boredom with the company that goaded him downward, the bull decided to strike out on his own. He simply lurched off to the left and crashed through the flimsy cross gate leaving the splintered wood about him as he stepped down onto the access road. Before him he saw a free path so he began to trot.
As one, the nearest people scattered. It was all very well to have a bull in a controlled environment, to have one loose on a road was not good.
Angus started to run and we watched with great interest, this was an extra to normal proceedings. We jumped down from the wall and followed – at a distance.
The driveway to the market first passed the Coachworks where Jeff stored and serviced his Luxury Coaches that made trips across Europe – Jeffways, The trip of a Lifetime. Call us for The BEST of Deals.
The bull took no notice and continued his way. Tossing his head and snorting as he trotted he rapidly approached the main road. Roads are everywhere of course, and the one the bull neared was the major road between London and Oxford. It was always busy and provided a headache for the Town Planners who had yet to realise what a wealth lay at their feet if they could bring the passing motorists to stop in the town and spend money. Alongside the road lay the river, this also provided another headache for planners. In later years they built a piped diversion for it and buried it forever underground and widened the road above to allow even more traffic to pass through.
At this time it remained a pleasant feature, the bull however was not into sight-seeing and he crossed the road without a thought. Much screeching of brakes and shouting accompanied this. A straight line bought the bull into Bridge Street and relative quite to the bustle of the market and main road. We followed the followers who, armed with sticks and loud voices advised each other on the best way to bring the beast to a halt and return him to the market. Advice there was in plenty – Action was there none.
With a hop and a jump the bull picked up speed. WE ran now to keep up, though still at a safe distance.

Mrs. Bowen came out of the butchers and fished into her handbag for her keys. Under her arm was a neatly wrapped parcel of fresh meat, a bit of steak for her tea and a few scarps for her cats. She looked up and beheld the mayhem that drew toward her.
She could have simply stepped aside and let it al pass. She could have opened her shop and stepped inside out of harms way. After all, a bull charging toward you was not an everyday experience.
Whatever sort of stubborn streak she had in her came to the fore. After looking up and assessing the situation she stepped out into the middle of the road and the animals path and stopped.
Now, it is true that the bull slowed and it is also true that we, the onlookers, drew a breath because even at the distance we were, we could see the anger in the his eyes. Mrs. Bowen saw none of this, what she saw was a naughty animal that ought to be chastised.
The loudest bellow was reserved for the old woman and the bull drew up in front of her, snorting and pawing the tarmac. With a casual movement Mrs. Bowen took the parcel of meat from under her arm and delivered a mighty blow onto the nose of the still snorting beast. “Now stop that you stupid creature”, she said.
It is difficult to describe the look the bull gave her. Surprise is probably the nearest, followed by one of pardon which quickly turned to fear.
Handlers gathered and roped and tied the beast and began to lead it away which seemed to please the bull no end; It gave a snort of acceptance and relief and allowed itself to be led back to the market without another murmur.
The old lady returned to her shop and let herself in.
We searched through our pockets and purses for a few pennies and followed her into the shop. We just HAD to spend more time in the company of this woman.

Smoke gets in your eyes

Night-shifts are a thing in themselves. It becomes a way of life that is one step removed from reality. As one plods ones weary way homeward, the rest of the world makes its way to work. As they in their turn hit the heights of an evening out, you pass the public places to put in your time.

My stint of night duties were spent as a Porter in a busy General Hospital. Not the most lofty of duties one might think, but it is and should remain a recognised part of a functioning Hospital.

I put in the hours and I learned a lot on how to spend time overnight in a controlled environment that requires that a lot of time is spent amusing oneself.

I had been hopping from job to job for a good part of three years. I was young and fit, free and quick to learn, on this basis I set out my stall in life and tasted a bit of what was out there. I had only been there a few months when one of the Senior Porters decided to move North to enhance his wifes’ career (she was a Staff Nurse, which in financial terms is a far better proposition than Portering.) As a result the Head Porter asked me if I would apply for the upcoming vacancy. It came as something of a surprise to me but with a little encouragement from the rest of the Staff, I accepted.

The Portering Department works a three-shift rota: 06:00-14:00, 14:00-22:00 and 22:00-06:00. Usually a week on each; this could change with swapping and holiday cover, but in the main kept to this pattern. The General Porters and the Senior Porters work as a team and as jobs come in they respond and go off and do them. At various times set routines must be done – meals, rubbish collection, post delivery and various other duties and despatches. All this interspersed with the phone calls that request anything from collecting a sample (blood, tissue or other unmentionables), to helping out when a gang of undesirables invade A&E. (Accident and Emergency).

All of which is a lengthy preamble to the night in question…

Duff was the Hippy. Nicknames are a part of working there, they appear randomly and stick. In Duffs case – his surname was Dufford – what else is there to say? Others escaped with a nickname from books, from TV, from who knows where? All escapism in some form…

Duff took the call – ‘Would a Porter go to A&E and help with a patient who thinks he is an alien?’

I was doing my first nightly round. Locking doors and making sure the place was as secure as the constraints of an open area would allow. My bleep sounded and I made my way inside to answer the call.

DUFF “Mand? Got a good one here. Can you meet me and an Alien in A&E. They are asking for help.”

ME “What?!”

DUFF “You heard! Get your arse to A&E, I’ll see ya’ there.”

Click.

I sighed and made my way out of the maze that makes up the Accommodation Block. I locked the last door and turned toward the road and noticed a window with smoke billowing from it. I hastily opened the door again and charged up the corridor. As I did so the fire-alarms started their unearthly din. Doors opened and people emerged some rubbing their eyes, some clutching late-night drinks and some without clothes… In other circumstances I might have stopped and indulged in a small ogle, but one has a duty to perform and I passed by, heading for the source of the smoke.

It was easily found. A guy wearing nothing but a sheepish grin dragged a smoking mattress out of his room toward the fire exit whereupon he threw it on the grass; Which was ironic, it was grass that had caused the fire. His last smoke before bed had betrayed him by dropping a small ember onto the bedding and had burned its way into the fabric and then happily settled down to smoulder. The amount of smoke was impressive.

Loud jeers and cat-calls accompanied his return. The Fire Brigade arrived in short order, which is not surprising as they occupy the building just across the roundabout, and dealt with offending article and allowed me turn off the alarm. Silence returned and the Nurses and Doctors returned to their own (and in a couple of cases, to other peoples,) rooms.

At last I was able to respond to Duffs plea to help in A&E.

It was the usual mayhem, with people scattered hither and yon awaiting treatment. The relatives paced up and down, friends called others on mobile phones and a long queue had formed for the single public telephone. I saw instantly where Duff was. He stood outside a cubicle with his arms folded and grinning from ear to ear. He waved me over.

“Hiya. I heard the fire call. Everything ok?”

“Oh yes. A dumbo set his mattress afire with his joint!”

He laughed. “Couldn’t ask for more. This guy,” he indicated inside the cubicle, “is from Uranus. No, Really he is. He told me.”

I looked inside and beheld a very strange colour. It was a darkish, stripy, purple-scarlet colour. It was also upside down. But the most striking feature was his penis; Aside from being green, it was an incredible length.

I cocked a head to one side to try and get things into perspective. The Alien walked on his hands around the small cubicle and talked non-stop. I tried to wrap my head around things (so to speak) and realised at last that the guy had a sort of thick hose pushed over his member which hung down to his chin. I blinked and resumed my position beside Duff.

“So, what are we doing here?”

“Well, the things is, the Docs want him certified. But your man here doesn’t want that at all. He wants some fuel to get him back home – to Uranus.”

“Fuel?”

“Yep. He wants them to fill the, err, appendage, with lighter fuel or any other combustible material. Then he intends to put a match to it and then Bob’s your uncle. Nature will do the rest!”

Duff was shaking with suppressed laughter and had difficulty talking by this point and I have to say that my own mirth however misplaced was bubbling under.

The Department Sister had other ideas. “When you two can be serious for a while, I need to get him into bed. Then Ican pull that…” she hesitated and coloured as the implication of her choice of words hit home. We smirked and started to giggle. - “thing”, she continued, “off his, umm, willy. Then we can examine him properly.”

I dared not look at Duff. I muttered an agreement and mumbled that we would help as best we could and said we would be down by X-Ray and await her call.

We turned away and wandered up the corridor. Around the corner we stopped and looked at each other. The full effect of a single joint shared just after the shift had started took effect and we HOWLED with laughter.

It is not nice to laugh at others misfortune of course. And I do not condone the behaviour of two grown adults ‘Smoking’ whilst on duty. But, I have to say that we Always did our job well.But above all - we had FUN when we did the night shift.