‘Useless!’ she yelled, hurling my precious beans out of our kitchen window. Somehow, I’d had the distinct impression that Stepmother was referring to me, rather than my beans
‘Make sure you give me back the change!’ she had barked. ‘Don’t go spending your father’s hard-earned money on yourself!’ In my view, though, if Stepmother was in such desperate need of every penny, she shouldn’t have sent me to the shop with a pound in the first place. If she wasn’t so lazy, she could have gone to Tesco herself – and checked out the actual prices of Value range products!
As it was, she’d been trusting enough to send me, her beloved stepson. And, being an obedient sort of a lad, I’d followed her instructions to a tee. Whilst paying for the 39p loaf of bread, my eye (yes, I only have one – Stepmother gouged out the other!) had been drawn towards a packet of dried beans – almost out-of-date and, as such, going cheap What could I do? These beans, they were so beautiful, all shiny red-brown and speckled with little black dots. I was buying them for my Stepmother wasn’t I, not for myself? Surely if one’s parent gives a little, the child can take a little, as long as they only borrow it for a little while, before giving it back? That was okay?
It wasn’t okay. How was I to know that Stepmother had an aversion to beans? How was I to know she’d had a particularly awkward bean removed from her ear when she was kid?
So, out of the window, my (her) beans went. And up to my left eye, my hand went; before, out of the door, my legs went! It was a wonder that I didn’t trip up on my way out, what with my one eye covered up and all. But, I’ve no doubt that my late Mother, my spirit guardian, had been playing her own part in all of the action, guiding me onwards, guiding me all the way to the safety of woodland. Once, I felt the crunch of bracken and twigs under my feet, I knew that I was safe – safe from Stepmother’s wrath! She wouldn’t come looking this far for me. Not only was she too lazy to be bothered with the chase, she was scared of the trees.
When I stopped to consider it, it occurred to me that Stepmother was scared of an awful lot of things. So why was it that I had always been so scared of her? But, no more. There would be no more Stepmother. I wasn’t the murderous or vengeful type, but neither was I going back to that house – not ever again! The trees were kind, the trees would protect me and look after me, so here, here in the woodlands, here I would stay.
If ‘butterflies are too fragile to hold’ (*), then why do we treat our fellow humans so roughly?
Why does the woman, seeing her lover’s eyes glance at perceived beauty, find herself accidentally brushing against a protruding elbow, causing a spillage, and an ensuing scene? Why doesn’t, she too, make eyes and smile with wonder?
Why does the workmate, seeing his boss start back in recognition of another’s talents, find himself accidentally spilling out false tales of that talented person’s ill-intentions. Why doesn’t he too, recognise the talent, ask about it, and learn from it?
Why does the sibling, seeing a fellow-sibling, wrapped up in a mother’s embrace, call out, demanding an explanation for a missing bar of chocolate, a missing sock, or an absent phone charger. Why doesn’t she too, consider the embrace, be patient and await her turn?
Why does the schoolchild, seeing a classmate’s essay held up by the teacher, read out and praised to the hilt, feel the need to take a pen, steal that essay from the marked-work pile and doodle upon it a bird dumping out labelled ‘shit’? Why doesn’t the child remember that they too had their work read out in another lesson, and arrange a swap of ‘How to succeed in Maths and English tips?’
Why does the author, seeing a fellow-writer sitting in Waterstones and signing copies of her latest publication, join the queue, make his purchase and proceed to ridicule the clichés and plotlines? Why doesn’t he just read the book, feel awestruck, and find himself inspired?
When will it be time, the right time, to recall the fragility of all our lives – of the envied and the envious? When will it be time to hold onto each other, keep each strong, and lift ourselves up together?
Why, instead, like silver teaspoons, gripped tight in the arms of factory robots, do we just keep batting – on and on and on – at the heads of pre-cracked eggshells?
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, April 2019
These questions are not intended to be rhetorical, i.e. pleasant responses welcome!
*Quoted from the poem ‘Holdfast’ by Robin Beth Schaer, as featured on the website poem-a-day.
From here, the way I see it, is that the rest of the world has got itself all fluffed up over nothing.
Where’s the pleasure in climbing high, at always looking out for more money for tomorrow? Why not enjoy the day? Today, you have friends.
Tomorrow, in the scramble, you will step upon those friends, and reap the rewards. But, the reaping from the sowing, will not sustain you for all of your tomorrows.
Today, hang low. Enjoy the day and only go forth to tomorrow, when you’ve stepped inside someone else’s feet. If you hang low, you’ll find this a lot easier, and it won’t take long – just a moment.
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Variety.
I’m back for another evening of laughs, with The Suffolk Punch Comedy Club, at The Brewery Tap. And PJ’s really gone to town on this one – seven comedians! Seven, to me (and therefore to everyone else), is a lucky number denoting all of my top seven favourite things.
The Secret Seven (love the character of Susie, the bane of everyone’s life!)
Seven for a Secret (a novel by Victoria Holt with all my best things – school, suicide, stalking, scandal, secrets, sensuality and seduction – put that in reverse order and leave out the last (and perhaps the second last) in the list!).
It stands to reason, therefore, that I, Jay Cool, enter The Brewery Tap this evening with a purpose. I’m on a mission (commission!) to find a wife for each of PJ’s seven comedians!
First, please!
1) Variety D
Variety D’s hatched out of a South London ghetto! Bit of a tricky one’s this – in spite of only being in her twenties, she’s not had ‘sex for three-and-a-half years’; a feat she blames on a plethora of bookings in gay night clubs and on a fear of Mr Blobby. Personally, though – not to be subjective of course – then I feel that Variety’s anger is misdirected. Stop blaming Mr Blobby for your abstinence, Variety! Your only man-repellent is the blob on the top of your bobble hat!
But these are all just excuses. In reality (Jay Cool’s reality), Lady Variety has been saving herself for the hot stuff, for the love of her life yet to be met!
Left to my own devices as a match-maker (i.e. no-one seems up for hiring me!), I would pair Variety up with her doppelganger, Cheryl Cole.
But, seeing as Variety’s only got the hots for sexy-young men, then I’m left with no option but to marry her off to this mystery-bobbled celebrity! Shame he’s already married, but hey, we’re living in modern times – something can be arranged!
Number 1 sorted! Next, please!
2) Alex.
To sum Alex up, then he’s short, young (courtesy of some black-hair dye), depressed (he loves Donald Trump), and his favourites song’s ‘Heavy Thoughts’. It’s pretty obvious, though, that our Alex’s oft’ used catch phrase of ‘comedy, comedy, comedy’ is just a cover for the real big Cs of his existence: he didn’t cause it, he can’t control it, and we can’t cure it. He’s well and truly addicted to the hero worship of Donald Trump. I do, therefore, present Alex with his perfect match … Trump’s youthful double! Sorry, Alex, I’m none-too-sure of your sexual inclinations, but I know you like the ‘goth’ look so, if the latter doesn’t suit, here is the alternative.
Now, don’t get all morose, Alex – I’ve given you choice, choice, choice!
Next!
3) Mike.
Mike, besides the trivial occupation of being a comedian, is a professional dog walker and lover of organic chicken and, given the choice (like that word!), he’d rather be paid £30 a night to look after a canine, than pay £30 a night for a quick thrill (or so he claims!). Somehow, though, I think Alex’d find this date, well worth the expenditure!
And, if not, Alex, then take a look at the alternative!
And next up’s:
4) Ali Mole
Ali’s got a thing about bears, nipples and flippers, and has been married three times! With such a tragic track record, I need to get Ali’s match spot on. So …
Mike’s a stand-up comedy virgin, who having been let down by six undesirables (Rita, Milly, Lucy, Vagina, Derek and Big Beth), really is relying on me to get it right with the seventh. Having figured out that he punctured the first six and, hence, lives in fear of ‘letting down’ another, I think I’ve finally got it right for Mike …
Yes, Mike the Second, having outlived the first six, now it’s your turn …
Our next comedian seems to have an aversion to the state of marriage. She equates the concept of a husband with the concept of a city called Birmingham, claiming that neither are places to be ‘stuck’ in for very long. I’m not certain I’m with her on the analogy, as to my knowledge, its the husbands who like to get ‘stuck’ in – rather than the other way around. But, I can see I’ll need to work hard to find a lasting match for our redhead, so here goes:
Once bitten by this Venetian, she’ll be smitten, and totally unable to escape! Sorted.
Next, please!
7) Louie Green
This one’s easy. Among his friendship group, he claims to have a ‘fan from Suffolk’ who ‘drives tractors’, and a lady from London who ‘knits tractors’. Louis, I happen to know of a very talented lady from Suffolk who knits people, rather than machines. She’s conjured up the perfect replica of Ed Sheeran, and is of such fame that she’s been invited onto Graham Norton’s TV show. And, if she’s not your type, or if it turns out she can’t be coaxed away from her existing love, then you can always get her to knit you up a suitable replacement. She has, for example, knitted up the entire cast of Poldark, so if you’re not so keen on the male variety of redhead, you can opt for the fake redhead, Eleanor Tomlinson, in the form of the sexy Demelza. Okay, okay – yes, I was putting off having to blog about your real passion, the lovely pole dancer, Theresa May. But, if you insist, then I’m sure that our Suffolk knitter can take on the order (for a small cost!)
And, if you get bored with the lovely Theresa (she only has once dance routine, after all), you can sell her on Ebay to the highest bidder (who will undoubtedly be a certain Arno from Estonia)! Yes, Louis, as you say ‘the youth of today are the future of tomorrow’, so make use of the oldies while you still can – catch our Theresa, before she signs her Brexit deal! Because it’s a dead cert that, prior to its publication, she’ll have nipped through the UK’s border control to make a home for herself in France. France is too close for comfort. Please, Louis, you can have my ‘Comedian of the Month’ award (anything!) if you pack her off to Estonia!
Next, please!
8) PJ (he’s the compere, so that still leaves seven!)
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‘Can we find a way through this?’ she asks.
Sorry, Alex, I’m none-too-sure of your sexual inclinations, but I know you like the ‘goth’ look so, if the latter doesn’t suit, here is the 
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