Official warning

Hello dear readers,

Well, a bit of excitement in my long dormant life. I have for the first time in my short professional life been OFFICIALLY WARNED.

It even came with letter sporting the header OFFICIAL WARNING, underlined, in bold. I'm not certain what happened to being subtle. I had a short meeting with my manager - my fifth since the start of my employment. But that's another story.

All I can say is if your name is Diana Ross, you're bound to get a few remarks of a jovial nature come your way. And if you're a pasty white woman of a certain age (mid 40s), you would think one might foresee the potential for irony and go by a different moniker. Perhaps Di Ross? Perhaps a middle name?

And if one were offended by what I'll admit were perhaps over frequent remarks such as 'How are the Pips today?' and 'I may ease on down, ease on down the road* for a sandwich, would anyone like one?' you would think the offended party would voice some sort of dissatisfaction and not lodge a formal complaint.

*remember that classic? still holds up

Not that anything is likely to come from my wrist slap. I will simply substitute comic overtures with withering looks of veiled contempt, which I have been practicing in my mirror while beard trimming. And any notion of a romantic night out is now most certainly off the books.

Yes, still single and looking.

Well, dear readers, it has been a long time since anything noteable or interesting has happened in my life. Read this as good or bad. Perhaps I shan't wait so long to communicate in future. Please leave some comments. I am still quite desperately lonely.

Stay well,
Nate

Writing

Her name was Creamery Butter and she was a dancer.

That's certainly better than Margaret, he thought. Not that there's anything wrong with Margaret. Though likely, the Margarets of the world might have to try a touch harder than the lithe creature gyrating so close he could feel the heat from the burning sticks she was waving seductively.

He supposed the risk of third degrees burns added to the sensuality.

Mind you, he wasn't certain of much. He looked around the dim confines with its glowing florescence and dark corners. The drinks certainly were dear.

"Would you like a private show?" she asked.

"Yes, very much," he replied.

What would mother think if she were alive?

Mind over matter

Hello dear readers,

Well, I am definitely feeling on the upswing, more my old self and less a sentient, moving corpse with sensitive emotions and the tendancy to over-indulge in comfort foods and bad television.

It's all in the grey matter, you see.

I've been bothered for several days by a dripping shower head. It's really quite maddening and despite wrenching (and pleading) keeps up its endless din.

I realise I should employ a plumber, but a) they are costly, and b) I don't like people in my home.

The solution: I have convinced myself that the constant drip-drop-drip is actually the ticking of a grand and majestic grandfather clock, bestowed upon me by my beloved grandfather, who taught me how to fly-fish in the streams of Inverness and who smelled like cherry pipe tobacco.

All of this is complete bollocks, of course, including the fish, but it has transformed the annoying battering of water droplets on ceramic into the reassuring and comforting movement of finely crafted clock workings.

Mind over matter. I've transformed misery into joy. Now I'm off to bend a spoon.

Stay well,
Nate

Sh'boom

Hello dear readers,

Well, I'm happy to report that I've had a positive encounter with a group of young, urban people. As many of you know, I haven't always been comfortable with teenagers, but have been working on giving them a chance to prove my prejudices wrong.

Yesterday I was wandering aimlessly about, window shopping, people watching, buying cheddar and apparently humming loudly to myself. You see, I often inhabit my own little world. It's empty and not much occurs, and the drapes are dingy, but the natives are nice and no one hassles me about rewearing the same trousers every day.

Anywho, I passed a group of young types hanging about and a female shouted, "Sh'boom, dance it out!"

Now, I was momentarily taken aback, and knew the encounter could go one of two ways, the most likely with me frowning, muttering about social values and stomping away.

Instead, I decided to oblige, and gave them a slight wiggle of the hips and a tip of my cap, thus leaving them in laughter. Had their thoughts been amplified, I believe the words, "You're alright, Geez" would have been heard.

And they would have been correct, for I am.

So, there you go. Despite media reports and occasional rioting, not all young people are out to stab you in the face. It's nice to know.

Housekeeping: I'm currently working on my fantasy dinner party. Right now, I've got Lee Mack and Michael Caine. The long-list is quite ... well, long, so the final guest list is proving difficult, never mind the food and what I'm going to wear. I may run heats in the days ahead and allow voting. Stay tuned.

Or better yet, make a suggestion in the comment section!

Stay well!
Nate

Award winner!

Hello dear readers,

Well, I'm pleased as punch to announce that my blog has received a Versatile Blogger Award nomination, which by the nature of the award, means it has won a Versatile Blogger Award!

Huzzah! I am legitimate.

Now as longtime readers will know, my blog did clean up at the inaugural Natesy Awards last year, taking top blogger, top pet in a blog (Linus) and a raft of other awards. But seeing as I was in charge of the jury, award selection, PR and the buying of the celebration dinner (Peking Duck, if I recall correctly), I fear it looks about as legitimate as a FIFA world cup selection panel.

Needless to say, given my lack of posts recently, I did not deem myself eligible for the Natesy's this year. But now that I've written two missives in a week and been recognised for my entertainment and education value, I may ressurect the prize. I may even open it to outsiders. Alert your networks and stay tuned!

Now, in keeping with VBA policy, I'd first like to thank Louise Broadbent for putting me forward. She is a longtime reader and often provides words of encouragement in my darkest hour (ie, most hours).

I'm obliged to nominate a list of bloggers worthy of the prize as well as tell you seven secrets about myself. Given that I've laid my life bare in these pages for years, that might take some digging, but let's have a go.

1) I recently neglected to flush the loo for three days to get a sense of what it would be like to live in a third-world country. This was done as research for my action-thriller genre novel Yet to Be Titled.*

*I don't recommend it; nor do I recommend living in a third-world country

2) I am overweight. I could spout some nonsense about being bigboned, husky, having gland issues, etc, but in reality, I am a gluttonous fat bastard with no self control.

3) I am generally a nice person, though often misunderstood.

4) I darn my socks. I don't need to darn my socks, I simply feel obliged to the planet to fix very minute holes instead of wasting reams of new fabric no doubt woven by a seven-year-old Bangladeshi lass.

5) Though I feel great affection toward him, I often regret allowing Linus into my life. He shows very little empathy and is regularly quite cold. We could be having a perfectly nice Sunday evening in watching telly, but he'll sit on his chair instead of my lap, despite numerous invitations. And given that I have allergies, this is doubly hurtful.*

*For new readers, Linus is my cat, not my life partner

6) I believe I *may have* coined the phrase 'lamb-burgers' decades ago, when I ground my own meat to make the dish. Now it is common parlance. I don't recall anyone else using the term back then. Who knows...

7) I've recently watched a bit of football in an attempt to fit in better in the workplace. I believe I did quite well approximately a month back commenting about how 'Spurs took it to United through the entire match, yet got shafted by some unfortunate goals'. No one even blinked an eye. Seamless conversation flow.

Now, as for bloggers I'd like to recognise:

Louise for her relentless pursuit of fiction http://louisebroadbentfiction.wordpress.com/

Emma for her relentless pursuit of meaning and diet strategies http://emmasimms.wordpress.com/

Bruce for his relentless pursuit of pedalling quickly http://blogorollo.wordpress.com/

Mark for his relentless pursuit of the photo that is worth 1000 words http://mrtmobile.blogspot.com

Sandy for his relentless pursuit of Scottish history and truly excellent hotel deals http://sandyschauffeur.blogspot.com

Jo for her relentless pursuit of comedy http://joblogden.blogspot.com

Manuel for his relentless pursuit of good customer service http://welldonefillet.com/

Now it's quite late, so I bid you all good night and pleasant dreams.

Stay well,
Nate

The Homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood - Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

He looked at the enormous photo of Spiv, bedecked with flowers and wreathed with black silk. It seemed more like an advertisement for a lounge singer in the piano bar than a solemn memorial image.

Shouldn't his kin have found a photo in which Spiv looked serious, pondering the larger questions of existence? He looked like he'd just come back from Ibiza.

At least they'd converted the photo to black and white. Monochrome added a semblance of distance from the event, like it had happened long ago, back when Michael Caine was doing Alfie perhaps.

Kenneth supposed the real Spiv would be a deep shade of purple now, as no one had found him for three days. The poor dear lad had hung like a forgotten Christmas ornament for 72 hours.

4320 minutes.

259,200 seconds.

Seconds just like this ONE. Or this ONE. Or this ONE.

Kenneth tried to imagine the initial drop. He wondered if Spiv had felt regret as his windpipe was restricted. Perhaps he had fought, realising that life on the dole wasn't actually that bad. At least you could see films during the day. And tellie could be a nice distraction.

"Did you know him well?" a woman asked.

Kenneth turned to see a pretty girl in a flowery dress and black hat. She was in her late 30s, had familiar eyes. "We worked together."

"I'm his sister, Beth."

"Ah, of course. Kenneth."

They shook hands and stood in silence looking at Spiv's eerie smile. They'd certainly photoshoped his teeth. No more tobacco stains. His skin looked smoother as well, buffed and cleansed of imperfections. He might have been selling aftershave.

"He took the redundancy hard," Kenneth said.

"He was working through a great number of issues," Beth said. "But I suppose you would have known that being his friend and all."

Kenneth didn't feel it appropriate to say they mostly mocked clients and talked football. He hadn't even known Spiv had a sister. He hadn't really ever thought of Spiv outside a two-block radius of the office.

"Were you close?" Kenneth asked.

"Very."

"I thought he had things locked down," Kenneth said.

"That's just the point. He pushed the pain deep until it erupted in this final call for help."

They lingered for a respectable amount of time.

"Shall we?"

She took Kenneth's arm like he was a gentleman leading her across the threshold into a grand ball. It wasn't the sort of thing one could protest. The room was deep and mostly empty, with black suits and dresses in the front two rows and a smattering of peripherals elsewhere.

Two men in Arsenal shirts sat on folding chairs near the door. Add Bovril and a pie and Kenneth would be tempted to ask the score.

They made their way toward the sanctum of family. Kenneth thought about politely disconnecting his arm and stepping into an aisle, but Beth's was clasped tight in grief. The spasms of her sobs vibrated against his skin.

Kenneth nodded to an older couple and sat down beside Beth, who erupted into wails of grief, like an Arab woman. He had never been a great believer in Keep Calm and Carry On - it seemed a recipe for subserviance - but raw agony was much worse. A quiet tear, a partial collapse onto a nearby shoulder, surely that was enough.

The older woman reached a hand across.

"I'm Helen, David's mother."

He'd forgotten his coworker had a proper name. Even management had called him Spiv, which was refreshing in these political correct times. Kenneth introduced himself. Her face brightened.

"Why of course. David spoke of you often. The football, lunches at the pub, the Christmas parties. And of course your witticisms. He said you brought real levity to the office."

He and Spiv had eaten lunch at the pub no more than three times in five years, and the only parties they had attended were tepid office affairs. He wondered if there was another Kenneth at JobsPlus.

"We appreciate the support you're giving Beth in this dreadful time," she continued. "Depression runs in the family."

"Helen," the gentleman said.

At this point the Middle Eastern wails gathered strength as Beth broke into another sob drawn deep from her larynx (which the ancients and Celine Dion might call their souls). It reminded Kenneth of the time he had stepped on Barry's tail while getting a glass of water in the night.

Spiv's father put a stiff hand on his wife's shoulder. She dabbed a small tear from her eye and looked forward, as if waiting stoically for her stop, leaving Beth careening in empty space. Kenneth realised people were looking at him in dismay. He put an arm around Beth.

She buried her face into his shirt.

"Thank you. Thank you, Kenneth."

He wished he'd had a proper bath and put on a clean shirt.

The Homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood - Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Kenneth weaved along the pavement, in and out of shoppers, teenagers and drunks. He himself wasn't intoxicated, simply inebriated on misery.

"Please God, no. Please God, no," he kept repeating.

For an agnostic boarding on atheism this was quite a feat. His rational self told him the act was pointless. At the same time, there wasn't exactly anything to lose.

Kenneth attempted not to cry. A babbling loon he might be, but tears would certainly push the tableau into that uncomfortable sphere of social faux pas that could get one questioned by the constabulatory.

When he could bear the weight no more, he stumbled into a pub. It wasn't his local or one frequented from time to time. In fact, he had purposely walked in a direction different from his usual route. He didn't want to be seen by anyone he knew.

He put a hand on the rich laquered wood of the bar and pulled himself onto a stool. He then placed another hand on the bar and centered himself in line with the pork scratchings. He then decided to give up completely and put his forehead against the cool, smooth wood. He moaned.

"Help you?"

He looked up to see a young barman eying him. The accent was Australian. He wondered how many work visas for barmen went to the antipodians. Did they have special training schools for pulling pints down there?

"Pint of cider," Kenneth said. "And keep them coming."

"I can only serve you two at a time. New regulations."

"One's enough... I simply meant..." He shook his head. "Pay the comment no mind, lad."

It occured to Kenneth that this young strapping kangaroo wrestler was gainfully employed, whereas he was redundant.

Redundant. Of no use. A spare prick at the orgy. You couldn't call a person looking for a job a "jobseeker", but you could tell someone going out the door that they were now useless.

"One of those days?" a lad nearby said.

He and his mate were in their 30s, well attired and looking jovial. Kenneth nodded and realised he hadn't even taken a glance around the place. It was a large pub, likely built in the 90s when publicans realised a drinking establishment could be larger than a WC without losing its charm. Must have saved them a bundle on people not losing their pints on the carpet trying to weave around tables tucked in together.

But the place hadn't been tarted up like those hideous later gastro-pubs, appealing to toffs in suits and everyone else chasing easy credit and Gordon Brown's promise of the end of recessions.

Mind you, Kenneth liked Gordon. He was an intelligent man caught in a world of social media and superficiality, ill-armed to cope with 24-7 news. Yes, he had kept them in Afganistan, but he was a Scot and thus victim to his national genes. The tartan brigade had never known when to give up a fight.

And yes, Gordon had buggered the economy by loosening the reigns too much, but he'd tried his best to be fair, unlike David Cameron and his shitsui lapdog Clegg.

He would have a drink with Mr Brown. They'd no doubt become fast friends, sharing a similar world view and hope for humanity.

"I've been made redundant," Kenneth said.

"Join the squad," the gent said. He and his mate lifted their glasses. "Got our marching orders last week."

"What are you planning to do now?" Kenneth asked.

"No fucking clue. Until then, bit of this."

He held up his pint. Kenneth took his from the barman and counted out his coins. He took a long swallow of cider, feeling the gentle bubbling in his throat and the sweet copper on his tongue. He thought of the sea. Blackpool.

Australia. Sharks.

Wellies made from surf material.

He got his pen and notebook out and jotted down the idea. A pair of boots made from wetsuit material, running just below the knee with firm soles. His father had made him go into the sea with his shoes on, to keep steady on the pebbles. This way you could feel the salty wet properly, stay warm and not look like a spastic.

Could be worth millions.

He looked around again. Efes. Turkish beer. For God's sake, why did so many pubs have that muck on tap. Who in their right mind would drink Turkish beer?

He felt bad for the Armenians.

He had once had a young lady from Armenia as a client. She had told him about the Armenian genocide by the Turks at the end of WWI. He hadn't known a wit about the event, even though hundreds of thousands of men, women and children had died. Old people too. Marched to their deaths.

He waved a finger for another pint.

No, he was lucky to live in the time and place he did. Imagine how much those thirsty travellers would have given to be able to raise a hand and get a refreshing high-caloric alcoholic beverage on the dusty road to Demascus (or wherever they were going).

Why did human beings do it to one another? Why couldn't David Cameron have just left well enough alone, let attrition trim the ranks, looked for areas to cut that didn't necessitate damaging the lives of people who knew nothing but their jobs?

Because he didn't understand.

For all the talk of a classless society, there was still a chasm larger than Mariana Trench (11,033 metres deep in the ocean - good trivia to know).

He jotted the name down and wrote: excellent name for a female protagonist in a crime novel!!! Now that he was redundant, perhaps he would turn his hand to a novel.

And yet he knew pursuing a life even more solitary than the one he was living would most certainly send him over the edge. Perhaps he was already over the edge. Perhaps that was why he had been chosen for culling at JobsfuckingPlus.

He drained a third of the pint in one go, belched like a champion and closed his eyes. He began to feel warm and happy.

JobsfuckingPlus.

He'd show them. He'd do something amazing and let it filter to Pickle and the other draconian thickos that getting made redundant was the best thing to ever happen to him.

He opened his eyes with a smile. The Australian was eying him warily.

What did the koala hugger care; he didn't have to take Kenneth home and put him to bed. No one did. No one. The bed was cold. Tea was never made in the morning. He didn't awake to the smell of toast and the sound of the knife spreading butter and jam across the jagged wheaty surface. It was just him and one ungrateful cat.

"Give us a vodka," Kenneth said. "And two for these lads."

His new mates toasted him.

Suddenly he was part of a society he had never wished to join. Still, it was better than drinking alone.