Giving up Smokey

Giving up Smokey

Yesterday I locked the monkey in the cage,

Oh how it shrieked and wailed,

“Friend,” it tried,

“Why do you turn your back on me?”

“I’m sorry”,

Came my reply, humble,

As I bumbled along with my day.

The primate grew louder and louder,

Crying hardest at breakfast and midday

Smokey’s “walkies” time,

To keep its appetite at bay.

I felt agitated to keep my ally locked in,

But my mind’s made up,

In deference of another friend’s way.

My pet isn’t all bad,

She helps my mind gather its paces,

Relax for a few minutes…

To ponder and to dote,

Even to escape bad company,

“Excuse me, I’m just going out for a smoke.”

“But Smokeys’ no good for you mate,

You know that,

She’s infected and ransacked the temple

That’s starting to crack.”

“I know and I have left her Will,

I just wish she’d stop howling,

Stop making me ill.”

God I want a cigarette.

George Ide Phillips Solicitors 2011

Where the Sky Scrapes the Ocean

Where the Sky Scrapes the Ocean

I left myself once,

Across the Pacific shore,

I buried my head in its rocks,

And threw my heart

To the Ocean roar.

Time forced me back home

To the calm, steady, and the known.

And I obliged to her convention.

When I return

I’ll find my head,

I’ll buy a boat and

Learn to sail above the

Blue floor,

Beneath the warmth of

Kiwi skies,

And go hunting

For my heart…

Where the sky scrapes the ocean. 

George Ide Phillips Solicitors 2011

The Hive - Part Three

The Hive - Part Three

    I used to be a honey bee - in my old life; I’m covered in setae. I wake up screaming sometimes, not because of the orange-black bands of fur that engulf my body, or the silver wings that protrude from my thorax, but because I’m not allowed to forget how I died. My life suffers from closure. I fly into a spiders’ web; I watch this eight legged tyrant shuffle towards me on its sticky trapeze and gorge itself… I’m allowed to wake once dressed in its sleeping bag.
    ‘Mum, mum!’ I would scream and she would run in with the bat she kept under her bed, “just in case” she told me later, in case it wasn’t the spider. Even now I keep a bat under my bed - just in case it is.
    At breakfast I must have honey on my toast. I refuse to accept any other spread except that which I once collected, I deserve it. I spent so long sipping the flowers and caring for my queen and in this life I take full advantage of commerce.
    In my hive I wasn’t noticed (at first); none of us are. We collect and shift our load amongst the waxy catacombs and hope that we’ve done enough - the workers that is. I started off by cleaning up everyone else’s shit. Once I hit maturity and I developed as all us females do I was able to help with interior design; but the hive doesn’t  like change and I don’t like babies; my proposed  goldenrod yellow to fulvous yellow transformation was rejected; my abdomen was kicked to the sky and I became a gatherer.
    Eventually the buzz got around and I got a name for myself, Brave they used to call me and after the War, it stuck. I would always forage from the daffodils outside the Great Metal Cage: our queen called it “The Gate of Hell.” I never wanted to prove a point; I just wanted to see more things. I loved the daffodils. I would mount myself into their golden trumpets and drink and drink until I believed I was unable to fly, bumbling around in my own gluttony as the sun passed over my pollen fur. On the fifteenth day of my existence I returned to my hive. Nothing was right. The buzz was furious. I could see small black balls dropping from the hive, some decapitated, some wingless. I remember I charged at the six giants pillaging my home. “Brave” they buzzed, the pollen glued to my fuzz-coat glistened in the sunlight; blinding the first giant with wings as the nomads continued their war path to our queen. I landed on its head staring into the devil itself.
    It’s spring and I’m still wearing my woollen fleece to work; I love the way it surrounds me; its own hot, micro-climate. My friends think I’m bonkers, that I’m secretly from the tropics - I am - in another life. In this one I take complaints from customers about their recently fitted garden awnings, ‘It doesn’t go back in love.’ ‘Listen love I thought your company were going to sort this out,’ ‘Look darling, I don’t want to hear anymore about it… gorgeous, treacle, poppet, bitch, love’. Love love, darling, gorgeous, love, I hear that too many times.
    After the Great War, after I realised that God did exist, (He smoked our hive you know, He came down, dressed in white, face veiled, and stopped the intruders, and when He left, He left his love, I felt such deep peace) after we drove out the devil, I realised something: that I had nothing else. I could only accomplish less. Others carried on with their duties, but I couldn’t. I had no sting left - I was getting old. I couldn’t let them hum, ‘There goes old brave could I?’ So I left the hive one morning and ventured toward The Gate of Hell. I used to fly over it, I knew that to fly through the eyes that criss-crossed like swords was suicide. So I did. I flew into its sticky trampoline and rejoiced. ‘Eat the light, you eight legged freak, eat it.’
    Every time I see a bee I have to wink at it, they know me. They know I was once Brave, that I once thought and felt as one. Perhaps once I’ve finished my rounds here I’ll go back to the right way. It’s because I was a coward that I am being punished, the giant flowers no longer profound; because I didn’t finish my life like I was supposed to, the gift of flight was taken from me and now… I have to walk everywhere. Last week I saw a suicide, another of my sisters who did the same as me in a different way. She saw the light and thought wrong. I picked her up and took her home. Under my bed there is a cardboard grave with four walls and a roof. I opened the tomb and put her with her kind. God works in such obvious ways.  


George Ide Solicitors 2011

The Hive

    The Hive - Part One

    That drone in the skull; an  electronic bee on a war path, “any cook should be able to run the country” buzz, “any cook”. Eventually it stops and rests for ‘Good morning? May I please speak to Mr Anemone please?’ ‘This is Miss Japonica his partner speaking. How may I help you?’ ‘Good Morning Miss Japonica, would it be possible to speak to Mr Anemone please?’ ‘He’s not home, what is this about?’ ‘It’s just a call back from Shades Inc. here from the awnings department, my name is Ivy Ro…’ flat line. Bzzz… starts again.
    I have to take off the headphones - that noise - the ears tight around my neck; collared that’s me. All the other bee-takers are making calls, ‘Good Morning,’ ‘Hello there’, ‘Mr Mugwort? Good morning…’ It’s a colony. It’s a fucking honey making colony. Shit, Henry is staring at me. Dog collar back on. Buzzing noise starts again. ‘Good Morning, Mr Madder? Good morning this is Ivy speaking from Shades Inc… from Shades Incorporated sir, we make garden awnings. No sir I did not know you are TPS registered. I’m sorry, you have a nice…’ flat line. Bzzz… it starts again. We’re all sitting at desks; our little hub: pen, paper, doodles, telephone, coffee (it’s free from the machine). Shit Henry is walking over, I haven’t booked anything this week, he’s going to tell me that, he’s going to tell me I need to start booking. Well I’m trying. I’m trying so hard. Shit, can’t lose, can’t let
    ‘Ivy, could I speak to you for a moment please.’ I bumble to the office. All the other worker bees are looking at me, I haven’t looked at anyone - I know they’re looking at me. ‘Ivy, I’ve noticed you haven’t booked any appointments this week. Now wait, I’m not mad, I just thought we could take this time to listen back to some of the calls you have made and see what we can do. Now, I’ve gone through a few and lighted these.
    I listened to my preambles, I have a very nice voice I think, it’s tone is sweet, something I’d like to listen to when I’m about to fall asleep, different story though, more about, Ivy, it’s melodic for sure. ‘Now, Ivy, what do you think went wrong there?’ Don’t answer Ivy, it’s a trick question, he’s trying to smoke you out, don’t look at the floor look at him. That’s a lovely chequered tie, cheap shirt though, why does he have to use so much gel? He has lovely fluffy hair. ‘Well, let me answer, you’re using too many closed questions Ivy, you need to bait the customer in. Here try this, good morning may I please speak to the owner of the house.’ He waves his hand a little, he wants to include you, go on, play. ‘Good morning, this is Ivy Rose,’ ‘Good morning Miss Rose.’ Don’t tell him your engaged. ‘This is Henry Teasel calling from Shades Inc, how are you today?’ ‘I’m well thank you’. Now Ivy don’t give them a chance… This is a very quick survey Miss Rose that we’ve put out to all the clients we have registered on the Conservatory Blinds and Awnings data, don’t ask them if they want to take it, just do it.’ I nod my head, stop nodding Ivy, you look like a bitch. ‘May I ask, on average how many days a week do you use your garden?’ He’s waiting for you to reply. ‘Three I’d say, but it depends on the weather.’ ‘Of course Miss Rose British weather can be an awful nuisance. Only last week I was out in the garden with the children…’ Is he being hypothetical? How many does he have? He’s too young isn’t he? ‘My eldest is obsessed with football, pitch is ready, nets are hung on the posts and it starts pouring. Now Miss Rose I didn’t have to go inside.’ ‘No?’ ‘We carried on with our barbeque and the sun rejoined us at the ribs.’ Sun or Son? ‘A lot of people think that a garden awning is just for summer, but S.I. awnings are an automated, mounted shield from all the elements.’ Everyone thinks I’m getting the sack, I’m not, I’m being taught, he’s teaching you Ivy. ‘Once you’ve stabbed them with logic, stab them again and again until you get that appointment.’
    ‘Thank you Henry’. ‘You’re welcome Ivy, now remember, the customer doesn’t know that they want an awning yet, it’s our job to make them see otherwise. Don’t let them say yes or no, let them loosen themselves, a lot of them just like speaking to someone. ‘Yes Henry, thank you.’ Get back now Ivy, the buzzing awaits.
    The board splits as Harry overtakes Greg on the bookings board. He’s so good, it’s his voice, it’s so subtle, it’s like taking a saga with Harry, I’d buy whatever he is selling. Get back to work.
    ‘Good Afternoon, may I please speak to Mr… Whor…tle…berry please?’ I’m actively make an effort not to laugh, that can’t be his real name can it? There’s only silence on the other end as the colony around me continue gathering honey, I mean money, for the blinds department. ‘Hello? Mr Whortleberry?’ Don’t laugh Ivy, whatever you do, now is not the time to laugh.
    I’ve been calling people for over five months now, my job is simple, get the people to book a free  no obligation consultation appointment; and I get ten quid commission on top. The moment you mention the word free, if you get that far, most become interested. I always wear a stupid grey skirt. You should wear black Ivy, it’s far more definite. I cannot begin to impress on you how much I worry for your position here. Ivy there’s plenty of larvae coming up who would gladly take your place and on your trot you go. Henry was nice earlier wasn’t he? He wants you to do well Ivy, he likes you. No he doesn’t… does he? You shouldn’t wear your hair back all the time, you should let it hang like the flowers in our garden, just bobbing Ivy. And that’s another thing, why do you always slouch? That’s better, straight back, you’re not a cook or cleaner No, I’m worse a fucking Why do you do that? Stop doing that, you’re better than
    A voice breaks on the other end, and all I hear is crying, Mr Whortleberry? It’s a woman’s cry. Snot, snivels, I can see her tears streaming down her face, her massacre is running, ‘Mrs Whortleberry?’ The cry becomes distorted as the lady on the other end pushes her lips closer to the speaker, pumping sadness down the line. I feel really, We feel solemn. ‘Are you ok?’ Think of something better Ivy, of course she’s not ok. You should hang up now. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll call back another time.’ Dead line… bzzz… can’t start again. Go get a coffee, shit Henry is looking at me. Wait, he’s looked away, he’s gone red. Get a coffee. He’s definitely looking at you. Busy Bees. Henry’s looking at you Ivy. I know! You’re engaged.

    The Hive - Part Two

    Smoking is the only pleasure I have. The black honey inside the lungs trickles itself around my body, masturbates my vocal chords for a solid three minutes; next break and more cum. Everyone smokes here. It might as well be listed as part of the job criteria - at least for the sales team. My name is Ivy Rose and I hate my job.
    Working at an outbound call centre is much like drowning yourself, except in the last moments you don’t swallow a tide of peace or feel a deep cleansing, you endure a prosaic hammer pummelling your skull as you watch the ants scoop away the inside. If you are a good ant you get a good commission, if you are like me and unable to meet targets you live in a constant state of unrest, because although this job is agonisingly mundane, it has the sterling mark embellished on the hammer head and you need it to strike as many times as possible. Tonight I was given my final warning - surely it’s the customers who should be getting their remonstrations?  not me. Tonight a painful truth hit home; you’re not very good at much are you Ivy? I need the hammer to start levelling me, I need to be a pancake - a sweet, rich one.
    It’s hard to make friends at a place like this, most stay the length of the may fly. The four people I trained with are long gone, their wings were clipped after a month. It’s because of the short space of time that those who remain, those who we listen to in training, those who we scrutinise and take notes about how to conduct our sales-pitch on the phone, become… Demi-Gods. Greg Fern manages the awnings department; fifty and settled for over four years. Silver hairs dart between his downy mop; he perspires profusely and smokes ardently. If you close your eyes and listen to him it’s more than likely that in three minutes you’ve signed up to one of his maintenance awning cleaning schemes. His tongue is slipperier than a dog - I should know. I worship Harry… Potter. For the first week, I couldn’t help but laugh and parried all sensibility to enjoy, if only for a week, the wizard ascending the appointment commission board. Harry has an acute face, and baby skin which I longed to stroke, just to feel what a new-born was like. Harry clinched the manager position at the Blinds department almost two years ago, long before my company birth. He hadn’t asked me out, he hadn’t kissed me at the Christmas party, he hadn’t wanted to grab a bite to eat with me, he didn’t smoke with me, he didn’t do anything with me. Treat someone like Pavlov’s dog and they won’t just shit on you, they’ll lash out and bite you. I just wish he’d have started experimenting on me sooner, bite him Ivy you know you want to, reacted to something… anything. My mind gouged out pieces of dialogue that I longed to use; but he never gave me a chance.
     Potter jumped up to the top of the bookings board for the third time this week. ‘Blinds are easier to flog anyway,’ Greg retorted, unimpressed and determined to book another two appointments on his double shift, compiling the latest group data received from Gardeners United magazine 2011. The hot fresh data Greg devoured like chocolate cakes, he was one of only three who were allowed the newest information. If you were a drone like me, you were given contact details to a person who had once, in boredom filled out a questionnaire sheet on their flight abroad and left it on their seat which was then taken by the airline and flogged to my company.  I didn’t’ care he worked in the opposite department, my hero was at the top and ahead of fat Greg. But why did he give me a written warning? Why after helping me so much with my pitch has he now wrapped a rope around my neck? My name is Ivy Rose and I need my job.
    I decided that I had to have a word with Harry; unplugging myself from my machine I knocked on his door and sat down in his small office space. ‘Harry, I was wondering if you would please explain why you have given me a written warning?’ My voice quavered at the end. Weakness Ivy, don’t let him see that. The young man looked at me like he had been wounded, as though I had barged in with a spear and stuck it in his heart. I could hear Jennifer outside, stupid tart, god knows why Harry spent his New Years kiss on her, buzzing with her shrill voice, I was convinced that half her appointments came from customer capitulation rather than brilliance. Harry remained silent. ‘You see Harry, I really need to keep making money…’ ‘For your wedding?’ I tripped and fell smack on my face. He wants you Ivy. Why on earth didn’t he say something sooner? My fiancée is nice, but had I known about Harry even seen him before I had accepted the nice man’s proposal… I tried as best as I could to formulate a response but to no avail. In the silence that ensued we both scanned each other, up and down, it was worse than a price check at the supermarket. His eyes invaded Me - I liked it. I had to cross my legs, for conventional purposes only, I couldn’t have him thinking ‘Please I really need to keep the money coming in Harry, I live alone.’ Yes Harry I do. ‘Without the money I can’t afford the rent.’ His eyes continued his examination and I could feel a courage exuding from his skin that I had never seen before. ‘Ivy.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Please, I mean, would you like to go for a drink with me now? And we can talk about your current state of employment I mean.’ Each word tunnelled out a new possibility for me and I felt brave.
    ‘Did you see the way they looked at us?’ ‘It was like the living passing through a morgue wasn’t it?’ I spoke with him for over an hour, talking about… shit knows now. Mindless nonsense; it was so refreshing. ‘Ivy I never meant to write you that statement, it was childish of me. I reacted stupidly against something you said and I should have accepted your generosity?’ What the hell was he talking about? ‘My invitation to your wedding?’ The curves on my face evaporated but then quickly returned. The wedding. ‘We haven’t booked a venue yet, even set a date.’ ‘No?’ ‘No’. His white teeth lit up from under his bow-like lips and glistened with enthusiasm… ‘But it will happen.’ His white rocks disappeared. ‘Ivy, please don’t take this the wrong way but you’re not very good at your job. Wait no, please let me finish, what I mean to say is that perhaps outbound calling isn’t for you?’ The sickly feeling that converges in your stomach when you see imminence on the horizon glaring at you started. ‘Perhaps a position in customer care might be better? I know Sally who is the team manager and she’s needing new staff, it’s not commission but it would be a much better rate than what you’re getting now.’ I didn’t know what to say. I had come to the end of my life with the awnings department and I could see a much brighter existence across the hall. ‘I don’t know what to say Harry… thank you. When can I do that?’ ‘As of next week? But I insist you take the next few days off, paid, and I’ll get Sally to get in touch. How does that sound?’.  He smiled like a dowager leaving a saucer of milk for a stray. I wanted to suck it bone dry.
    I come back to my phone hub and clear my desk. They all think you’re getting fired Ivy, silly ants, oh come on Ivy it’s not that bad, you’ll still see him every day, you can still check up on your hero’s score. Thank you Harry. Greg is still chomping away at his cake, dripping over his keyboard, insisting that everyone in the call centre should know that he is at the top of the bookings board by not three but four appointments. The glass door shuts behind me, the light from the electric fly killer greets me. I turn to see Harry looking through progress report papers and smiling, I can’t hear the humdrum voices anymore just a buzz: it levitates in front of me for a while; like the drunk who lives two streets down from me, and if spurned by a flying spider it darts to the light. I espy the remaining charred corpse of a bee at my feet, wince, and pick it up, I put it in my pocket, that will go nicely with your collection Ivy, and drive home for the last time a drone.


                                                        

Copywright 2011 George Ide LLP Solicitors

Don't let go of my hand

If I let go I know

If I let go I know I’m going to fall. Please don’t let me Mum. I can’t bear him. You don’t know. The way he smiles at me Mum, why can’t you see it? It’s diseased. Can’t you see the puss at the corners of his big mouth? that’s mine Mum. Do you remember last Saturday? You went to the book store? Why did you leave me with him; he’s not my Dad. Dad would kill him if he knew. ‘But you’re Dad’s dead sweetie.’ He laughed after he said that. I cried all the time we bounced on your bed. Could you not see my imprint on your sheets Mum? The outline of a clipped bird; did you not see my dribble on your pillow? or hear the scream hidden in the muff? I know you’re tired a lot Mum, I think he’s trying to poison you; when you dream I nightmare.  I don’t want him in the house anymore; every time he places his ogre hand on my shoulder my skin crawls into pimples: mountains against a miserable sky, like when you and Dad went to Rome remember? And my hairs stand like pikes. I’m not ill Mum, when I throw up, don’t you see? I’m allergic.                                                                                                                                        The white chocolate he gave me? It wasn't a gift it was payment.The games he tells you about, it’s not right. They’re not in the books you give me; there’s no detective that solves the mystery Mum and I’m scared. I have to wax – I’m only thirteen. 


Copywright 2011 George Ide LLP Solicitors                                                                                   

Chichester Observer - Short Story -

Title asked:  What makes Chichester Special for me

Last night a ghost passed through Chichester; he stayed until the morning, humbled by the courtship of dawn-birds and silence. As the residents of the Roman city slept, a spirit drifted through Chichester’s dream; a poem whispered from Lion street. ‘Perhaps she is speaking to the robins and jays, to the sparrows in College Lane’, the ghost thinks, ‘even to me?’

The ghost was spotted by a young man who had been sitting in Priory Park since… well he couldn‘t remember; he was sitting in the orange haze watching the spectre glide along the path. He hadn’t cared much, not with the thousands of other spirits all around. But on this occasion he called the manna over and the two sat down on the ridge looking at St Paul’s silhouette.

‘I lived,’ the ghost murmured.

The young man pulled out a pen and began to take notes.

‘You are a scribe?’

The Spirit told the young man his name, (the latter thought that such a King of Celts was guaranteed to get him a good grade), and that he could call him Coggie for short. Coggie had once lived - tendered the soil of Noviomagus.

‘Do you hear her?’ asked Coggie.

The young man listened to the wind circulate around the Roman walls - in between the flints. The high pitch sound invaded the hedge rows and his paper-thick clothes, converging around St Paul’s pious foundations. If you ever have the opportunity to sip the night scent of ancient flowers you know that it addles your mind, distorts the present picture with a tableau of something that was once there, Chichester’s flora reminds its present of its past.

‘That’s Minerva,’ Coggie whispered. ‘She’s our poet.’

Coggie told the young man how Chichester felt the same, ‘You see, History is always in front of us. Each step is only an allusion to the past, an unknown future is an illusion.’
The young man sniggered, sneezed the scent from his nose and walked away.

Silly thing, the young man thought, a paradoxical mess, rubbish: Chichester is about the Zee Bar, the drunken nights in Halls, sleeping next to toilets, the arduous lectures and assignments; the cheap drinks in Spoons, the bus ride to Thursdays, the high street shops,  not history - who cares? The young man passed through The Cross pulling the lapels of his River Island jacket to his cheeks. History, what a joke.

He couldn’t make up his mind where to go. South? East? West? He wasn’t going North, he couldn’t suffer another night in bed knowing the deadlines looming. He sat under the Chichester Cross and lit a cigarette. Bishop Edward Storey and Bishop Stigand were sitting above the arch waiting for the young man to notice their dangling legs. “Good Morning,” it shocked the young man who spurted the smoke from his mouth.  Not more, he thought. No more parables please.

‘I built this you know,’ the former ghost began… but the young man had already slipped away. ‘I suppose I did in a way, I was the Bishop after all. I (and I mean the larger “I” of the community) built it, all that silly old Duke of Richmond did was pull the string around his purse and chuck a few coins at it later, but I built it’. ‘I moved the cathedral,’ Stigand interrupted, I (and I mean the larger “I” of the Selsey community) moved every brick, every sediment of faith to here.’ The Ghosts looked around but the young man was no where in sight. They crossed their arms as the clock sat at quarter past three staring at HSBC on the corner of East Street. Edward Storey never imagined such a thing, no one could be trusted in my day, he thought, look after my money? no one but one’s soul… and it’s giver of course, could ever look after capital. He remembered one market he had organised, (it’s still going today) when he had been swindled and left with two goats which was meant to pay for two Cobs. By the time the man was supposed to return to him the thief was half way to Battle - long gone. Stigand, unlike Coggie, couldn’t remember what he had lived in. The cathedral was still there. He loved that. He would mollify his conscience amongst the Christian stain-glass windows and shriek with delight (visitors think it’s the wind flying through the stone cloister) when his name was mentioned, but except for his rock, his God, he remembered very little of his time. He was far too taken with other windows these days and the beautiful clothes that hung behind them; luxuries teased the old Bishop at every corner. He had languished for a millennia; he craved to change his tatty robes.

Coggie was sitting up at the Trundle gazing over the sea of fire-lights that came up from Chichester. As a ghost you can’t feel the South Downs: the on-shore gust that shoots your hair like an electric current; that pours a red dye into your cheeks and allows you, if only for a moment to change your perception on life, isn’t felt. For it is the spirits of this historic city that fuel the wind faster and fill your lungs with an ethereal breath. The Trundle, guarded by its levity over the flat City, has housed many of its ghosts and occult spirits. Their one complaint is the two radio masts at the top of St. Roche’s Hill that pour out distorted headaches: although many of the younger ghosts use them as maypoles. Coggie had helped the Romans when they had landed, he wasn’t going to fight Goliath. He liked the art they brought with them most; he laughed as Minerva’s voice washed over him,

“Sleep as all those who have before and dream as so many will after; now I sing to you….” Minerva kissed the city as the final ghost slid into the pristine night sky, and we begin to wake.




Copywright 2011 George Ide LLP Solicitors