The Cleansing – 23 – Chapter 9

Posted on by Opher

I wanted to tap into the wave of populism that is sweeping the country and identify some of the nationalistic patriot tropes. I also wanted to explore the emotional and political dynamics of relationships.

Sci-fi for me is about the life we are living. I just create a different setting within which to explore it.

Chapter 9 – The Meeting

‘Bloody hell,’ Denby squawked as they approached the Ashley. There were crowds outside and it was twenty minutes before they were due to start. He turned to Billy with a look of incredulity on his face. ‘They can’t fucking be here for our meeting, can they?’

Billy shook his head in shock. ‘I wish I’d made a few notes.’

‘You’ll be fine, you daft sod,’ Charlene remarked. ‘You never usually have any trouble spouting your head off. Just tell them how it is.’

Billy had turned puce and looked far from convinced.

‘We’ll all be right behind you,’ Cheryl said, frowning as she looked at the milling crowd outside the pub.

‘Yep,’ Foxy added, ‘a long, long way behind!’

They managed to squeeze in through the door and push their way through the crowd to the bar where they were hemmed in and turned to face the crowd. Billy nervously stood at the front flanked by Charlene and Billy with the others pressing in around them. They had no option but to be squeezed together; the crowd was that tightly packed. There was a loud babble of noise with everybody talking at once. You had to shout to be heard.

‘Right Everyone!!’ Billy shouted. Nobody took the slightest bit of notice. ‘Hello! Can I have your attention?’

‘Up on the bar,’ Charlene hissed in his ear, shoving him towards the counter. Nobby reached over and Denby and Foxy gave him a hoist and Billy found himself up on the bar looking down at the crowd below. It did not take long for the people to notice him. The noise died away.

Billy peered round at a sea of faces packed like a bag of jelly beans. A great wave of nausea welled up inside him but he battled it down.

‘Hmmmph,’ he cleared his throat. ‘Thanks for coming.’ It came out like a squeak. ‘Thank you. Thank you for coming,’ he stammered, his voice stronger. Then, miraculously the panic inside him subsided and he found his voice.  ‘Bloody hell! I didn’t expect so many of you.’ A big cheer went up and he felt himself relax.

‘We’re all here because of the same thing,’ he went on more confidently. ‘We’re here because of these bloody lizards.’ A great roar went up that buoyed him along. ‘They’ve been dragging people away, terrorising families. It’s a bloody tyranny of fear!’

A roar went up. They unanimously agreed. You could see Billy visibly swell as the crowd boosted him.

‘They tell us that it’s for our own good,’ he told them while making it clear that he did not believe a word. A disgruntled boo went around the room. ‘I reckon it’s nothing short of control!’ The crowd liked that. A roar went up around the room. He jabbed his finger accusingly in the air. ‘These bloody lizards are trying to control us! They want us to shut up and for us to roll over!’

By now the crowd were baying. They were lapping this up. This is just what they wanted to hear.

‘I say, enough!’ Billy jabbed.

‘Enough!’ they roared back. ‘Enough! Enough! Enough!’ Punctuating each jab of Billy’s finger.

‘We want our country back!’ Billy shouted.

‘WE WANT OUR COUNTRY BACK!!’ they roared back at him. Billy looked round at the animated crowd. He couldn’t believe it. In no time at all he’d worked them into a frenzy.

It went on with more of the same. He fed them his gripes in short punchy one-liners and they amplified it back at him tenfold. It flowed out of him like lager out of Nobby’s taps.

‘Bloody Ada!’ Charlene exclaimed as they walked back. She was looking at her phone. She looked across at Billy with a startled face. ‘There’s over two hundred thousand hits on the site I put up!’

‘Might need a bigger venue for the next meeting,’ Foxy jested.

Billy looked across at Denby. What the fuck had they unleashed?

‘I reckon we need to be watching our backs,’ Bob remarked dourly. ‘Those fucking lizards are going to be taking a dim view of all this. They’ll be pulling us in with all them others. We’ll be the ones brainwashed!’

That sent a shiver through all of them. Debbie glanced up at the sky as if expecting an alien craft to swoop down out of the heavens and Charlene flashed Billy a worried look. Bob was right. They were putting themselves in the spotlight.

‘Gotta be done,’ Billy stated resolutely, walking with a defiant swagger.

Chapter 10 – Consolidation

Ron was in a quandary. Being rushed off to New York and told he was running the show had thrown him into a complete daze. He felt like he was awake in some weird dream that he couldn’t fight his way out of. Was any of this real? Had the lizards really come? Were they really putting him in charge? Or was this some strange hallucination? Probably someone had slipped some acid into his drink and all this was some great fiction served up by his overheated brain? Perhaps he was really stuck in some kind of Matrix? He was half expecting Keanu Reeves to walk in at any moment. It was too preposterous for words. Anything was more likely than the scenario he was being served up with right now. Yet it seemed real. It felt real. He found himself sitting down and shaking his head to clear the absurdities out, as if a few shakes of the head might bring everything back the way it was before.

Gradually it felt as if he was emerging from a narcotic haze. It was real. He really was here. As Chameakegra began to prime him on what they were going to do it slowly began to dawn on him that he really was here, it really was happening to him and he was being presented with a programme by a bunch of alien lizards, a programme that he actually approved of, from what he had seen of it. He was being asked to take control of a scheme to improve the world, a vision that weirdly aligned itself with his own ideals. Uncanny. Though it was totally ridiculous he was going to have to go along with it. What else could he do? Go and admit himself to the nearest mental asylum?

‘We are prepared to work with you Hydrans to create a better society,’ Chameakegra was telling him. ‘We will supply the means to enable the alterations – the scientific and technological expertise – but it requires a Hydran government to back and implement the changes.’

‘Whoa,’ Ron said, coming out of his trance and raising his hands to slow her down, ‘what changes? What changes are you after me implementing? All I’ve got to go on is that speech you delivered on the TV. I need details.’

Chameakegra’s iridescent green eyes seemed to glow. Ron got the impression that she was finding this amusing. ‘Right,’ she said slowly as if addressing a child. ‘We are looking to generate a global Hydran culture that is well-adjusted, non-violent, compassionate and tolerant. A single global culture that incorporates the richness of the different cultures that are incorporated but one that operates under an overarching philosophy based on equality, fairness and justice. We want a culture that retains the vibrancy and creativity of your species but is rid of the destructiveness. That global culture would set up a new zeitgeist and alter the way Hydrans develop and think.’

‘All very well,’ Ron remarked sceptically, playing along with the illusion as if it was real. ‘That all seems too good to be true. Very idealistic. I’m not even sure it can be achieved.’

Chameakegra studied him with an unflinching gaze. ‘That is what we are hoping to find out.’

Ron peered back at her, no longer intimidated by her size and ferocious appearance. ‘I’m all in favour of non-violence, equality and the rest.’

‘We know.

Ron peered at her questioningly.

‘We’ve carried out the tests. That’s why you are here. You have the qualities and ethics that we are looking for.’

‘But why me?’ Ron bleated.

The Giforian made a mannerism that Ron recognised as a chuckle. The more he was around these lizards the more he was beginning to understand them At least on a superficial level. He was certain that the lizard was amused.

‘I am concerned that Beheggakegri and Grrndakegra are doing their best to undermine your efforts,’ Judge Booghramakegra messaged.

‘I suspect the same,’ Chameakegra messaged back. ‘In fact I’m certain of it.’

‘I would suggest that you look to take charge of the rehabilitation process as soon as possible and look to have an input on the rounding up of the reprobates.’

‘I have limited power. We have a joint command which means that I cannot greatly influence what Grrndakegra is doing and how she is doing it. The lunar facilities are coming along but will take time. We will have to house millions.’

‘Can’t you at least begin to process some of them?’

‘Not really. I have the team of psychologists and psychiatrists you have sent all ready and prepared. They are fully up to speed on Hydran psychology. As soon as I am able I will initiate the process. But until I get the go-ahead that the facilities are ready to receive a batch, my claws are tied.’

‘From what I am seeing the rounding up process is causing a great deal of animosity.’ Judge Booghramakegra seemed very annoyed.

‘That was always going to be the case in the best of circumstances,’ Chameakegra reflected. ‘But I am sure that Grrndakegra is not making it run as smoothly as it might have.’

‘Some of those scenes look dreadful.’ Booghramakegra asserted. ‘Do you want me to press for you taking overall command? I can put some pressure on Beheggakegri.’

Chameakegra considered this. She knew that, despite the judge’s power, there would be a process and Beheggakegri would certainly throw some flujes in the werbez. By the time they got that through the damage would likely be done. The round-up would likely be over apart from minor mopping up. Open conflict with Beheggakegri and Grrndakegra might prove do more harm than good. ‘No, No, leave it for the moment. I shall see if I can’t sort things out.’

‘If you need help just ask. I think this experiment is of the utmost importance.

Quantum Poem

Posted on by Opher

Quantum Poem

This is a Quantum poem                                                                                                               In two places

At the same time

A quantum poem                                                                                                                            Two meanings

One lousy rhyme

This is a quantum poem

This is a quantum poem                                                                                                                               War and peace

The same thing

A quantum poem                                                                                                                            Hate and love

Pervades everything

This is a quantum poem

Opher – 1.5.2025

I just walked into the market to buy some berries. I like berries and yoghurt. As I walked along in the May sunshine I was thinking about the dualities of life – light and dark, happy sad, war and peace, hate and love. It set me thinking that they are both always there. They just wax and wane according to circumstances. There is no such thing as purity. Even Hitler was an artist.

The Nazification of the USA

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Pregnancy -Bodies in a Window – Paperback/Hardback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

For all you addicts who have been following these irregular instalments. Here’s the next. This is based on my mother and a schoolgirl friend who found herself pregnant at sixteen. My Mum went around to her house, talked to her, told her not to listen to pressure but to think it through for herself. When she decided to keep the baby my mum helped her with the things she needed. My Mum was a wonder.

I fitted these things into the novel. You can buy the whole thing for the investment of a few shekels: Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window Paperback 

Looking out through that window, standing beside death, peering at the world outside, it struck me that we were all stranded within the parameters of our own narrow lives – the fashions and attitudes of our youth and old age. We were victims of our times and ourselves. There was no such thing as individuality and freedom. It was an illusion. All life ran its course and ended in scenes like this. We were all trapped within the limitations of our days. Outside that window was another world. There were all manner of things happening. It was a panoply of everything you could imagine – rich and eventful. Life went on. It was only in here that it had stopped. In here everything had changed. All values and endeavours had been rendered meaningless.

Chris told me about poor June. She’s pregnant. It’s been preying on my mind ever since he mentioned it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve seen so many young girls get themselves pregnant. It messes up their whole life. Poor girl’s only sixteen and she’s such a nice lass. She hasn’t had time to enjoy herself. Her life’s only just begun. I feel so sorry for her. I can’t stop thinking about it. There must be something I can do.

I remember when I was sixteen. There was a bloody war on. We had a time with all those Yanks coming over here. Those were the days. They had so much compared to our boys, they seemed so rich and sophisticated. I remember them saying the definition of a brassiere – one yank and it’s off. But we had such good times dancing at the Palais. They’d promise you the earth, with their stockings. Real silk stockings, mind. You couldn’t get stockings over here in the war. Girls used to pencil in a line up the back of their legs to make it look as if they were wearing stockings. Some girls would do anything to get their hands on some real silk stockings – and I do mean anything. I never fell for it though. I could see right through their line – smarmy gits those Yanks – so smooth talking – they’d charm the knickers off a nun. But I don’t blame them. There was a war on. You didn’t know if you had a tomorrow. You had to make the most of life. We all did.

We had such fun. We danced home down the streets with the ack-ack guns pounding away, the searchlights, big Bertha up and down the railway line booming out its great deafening roar, the drone of bombers and orange burst of explosions as we tried to knock out the Jerry planes, red hot chunks of shrapnel falling in the road around you – and we were so full of it we were dancing down the street – immortal – not even wearing our tin hats. Not that they’d do much good it one of those great lumps of metal hit you on the head. You were a goner. But we didn’t care. It wasn’t going to happen to us – and it didn’t. Nothing happened to any of us. Well, apart from a bunch of my old school friends. They were queuing for bread and got wiped out by a doodle-bug – took out the whole street. That was tragic. But we didn’t care about those bombs or all that shrapnel – didn’t have a care in the world. We were completely blasé about it all. It was fate – if your number was up then that was it – nothing you could do about it. Put all those thoughts to one side and not give a fig. You had to live for the moment and enjoy yourself while you could. Who knows what tomorrow may bring? We were alive and that was all that mattered. Just the fun and excitement, the music – and dancing – dancing down the street as if you were as light as a feather. They were good days.

Of course a lot of those girls lived to rue it. All those promises from those sophisticated American soldiers with their smooth talk, snazzy uniforms and money. They got them pregnant and disappeared like ghosts in the night. Some of them lied about their names and took advantage but some were genuine. It was a job picking one from the other. They were all fancy with their chocolate, chewing gum and nylons. They had money to burn, all dolled up with their caps and creased trousers – so smart in those uniforms. They swept a young girl off her feet. They were going to whisk you off to a new exciting life in the States – made it sound like wonderland – the yellow brick road – the sparkling lights, big city and no rationing. Things were tough over here with rationing and many families living in poverty. Lots of girls fell for it. Except it wasn’t really like that. Even for the ones who did marry. It wasn’t all bright lights and big cities. Some found that life out in some dead end town out in the middle of the plains, in the middle of nowhere, was about as far away from wonderland as you could get – an unremitting dust of nothingness that they were marooned in. Then a lot of those poor boys never came back to deliver on their promises anyway, no matter how genuine they were. They are still over in France and Germany. Poor kids. Even if they meant every word they spouted they never lived to deliver on it. Even worse, I suppose – a lot of the ones that did come back were in no state to get married. They weren’t the same gay, carefree young boys who’d gone out. Even the ones who came back in one piece were not the same. They came back haunted and changed. Despite all those promise made by all those young men there weren’t many couples who lived happily ever after. Life is hard. You learn that the hard way.

Reality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. A moment’s pleasure and a lifetime to pay. Poor June was going to find that out, the poor mite.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Dad’s cancer – Bodies in a Window – Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

The backdrop for this novel was the death of my father. I am standing in the hospital room by the side of his dead body looking out the window.

In thia extract we have just been given the diagnosis.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window

We sat there stunned. I don’t know why. We both must have known it was coming. I’d known from the beginning. It was hearing it like that though. It sucked all the words out of your head and stopped you thinking. It was as if your brain stopped working. That’s what it was like for me – fuck knows what it was like for the old man. He was the one in front of the firing squad. But had that faraway look, seemed detached and did not appear to even be listening. The words were falling short. He was not taking any of it in. In fact he gave every appearance of not wanting to be here at all. I could understand that but…………

At least one of us was attentive. I listened as the Specialist told us what was what. The words seemed echoey and were coming to me as if I was in a long tunnel, but I tried to make sense of them despite the fact that I was still reeling from the impact of that first statement. Dad was dying. That’s what was going round in my head. It clouded everything. When those other words arrived they did not even seem to gel together to form any sense.

There are extensive tumours throughout the liver. I expect they are secondary. We will do further tests. I expect the primary will either be in the lung or gut. I can see from the extent that it is inoperable. Are you a smoker Mr Cooper?

Yes.

He smoked like a trooper – had done since he was a bloody trooper. He’d joined up in the war and his best mate had given him his first cig. Imagine that! You go through a fucking war with your mates getting shot to pieces, steel and bullets all around, the enemy doing their utmost to blow you to bits and you get a death sentence from your best bloody friend – killed by friendly fire! I felt like laughing out loud.

The feeling of being submerged eventually passed and reality hit home. Dad was dying. It was confirmed. He had inoperable liver cancer. There was nothing they could do. I sat there seething. This should not be happening. He was much too young. It should have been picked up much earlier. They should have been able to treat this.

What’s the treatment? Dad asked.

Treatment? I looked around at him in disbelief. He was highly intelligent. The guy had said it was inoperable. What was dad talking about? I stared at him and wondered what was going on in that head of his. The guy was telling him that he was dying. He was not stupid for god’s sake. Why was he behaving like this?

We will give you palliative care, the specialist said kindly. He must have been used to delivering speeches like this and the reaction of patients to the news. There will be some pills for the pain. But there is nothing we can do. I am afraid that the tumour is inoperable.

Dad nodded. He latched on to the pills. They were going to treat him with pills. That’s all he needed to know. The shutters went down again.

We will have a better idea of the state of affairs when we get the bloods back. They will tell us a better picture of what time we have left.

Dad was satisfied. He’d heard all he needed to know. He did not need to know the duration of the death sentence – they were going to treat him with pills. There wasn’t much more to say. It was as if he had blotted everything else out. He did not want to hear it. The specialist told us to check in with the receptionist and book another appointment. He would send a prescription through to Dad’s own doctor. Dad allowed himself to be shepherded out through the door. Our appointment was over – except it wasn’t quite over for me. I needed to know more. I waved dad off to the receptionist to see about his follow-up and stayed behind for a quiet word with the specialist. He seemed prepared for this, even glad. He must have done it a thousand times.

‘How long?’ I asked.

‘Two months – maybe four’, he told me. ‘The bloods will tell us a bit more. It is hard to be exact. Everybody is different.’

‘Is there nothing you can do?’ I asked – I mean I had to ask, didn’t I?

‘I’m sorry’, he said. ‘There is nothing we can do. It is much too advanced.’

‘Would it have made any difference if he had come in three months ago?’ I had to know. If I had done something about it back then, at Christmas. If I had noticed.

‘I doubt it,’ he said diplomatically. ‘The symptoms are largely silent on this type of cancer until it is far too late to do anything about it. It is rare for us to be able to treat a cancer of this nature.’

That did not make me feel much better and certainly did not let that sad excuse for a doctor off the hook; he had been utterly reprehensible. Something needed doing about that smug git. I thought I might just be the person to do it.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Diagnosis – Bodies in a Window – Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

I drew on a number of incidents and people from my own life experience to compose this novel. It was cathartic. I was standing at the side of my dead father looking out the window.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window 

Dad drove me in to the appointment in his flash blue Hillman Hunter car. I call it a flash car only because it was a damn sight newer and more expensive than my pile of rust. It was only two years old and he was very proud of it. He’d only just got it. In reality there was nothing special about it. It was a middle of the road saloon – a Hillman Hunter for fuck’s sake. But it was the best car dad had ever owned. He loved it. It was his pride and joy. I just wish he had managed to buy the thing earlier when he might have got a bit more use out of it. Trust him to start getting things together when he was about to fucking check out of the game!

On the day of the specialist appointment he drove that car like he had something to prove. I was glad we had seat belts in the front, my heap of rust didn’t. He drove fast. At one point a car pulled out of a side road in front of us. Did he brake? Did he brake fuck. He went straight round the back of it without slowing and with tyres squealing. Nice manoeuvre – unless some bastard was coming up behind the fool who’d pulled out. Maybe sitting on a death sentence made you a bit more cavalier with your life, though the bastard might have shown a bit more care and consideration towards me. I was planning on hanging around for a while to come. We lived and we somehow arrived at the hospital in one piece.

We sat in the waiting room and made small talk about football and cricket. Botham was the man of the moment. Dad talked about all of that incessantly. He was avoiding talking about his illness. Any distraction would do. He really did not want to confront dying. We assiduously skirted around it. I knew that if I hadn’t been there he wouldn’t have gone for that appointment. I was sure of that. But I got him there and he was going along with it.

Unlike that bastard of a doctor the specialist examined him thoroughly. Sent him for X-rays, took bloods and set us out in the corridor waiting again.

We were both quiet then. I looked out the window at all the people going past. I was deep into thinking. Those people out there all had dreams and aspirations just like me. Their lives were full. I could picture what some of their lives were like. I could even identify with some of them. I could fit in their shoes.

Dad just sat quietly, deep in thought.

Eventually we were ushered back in. The specialist had the X-Rays up on the screen. He did not bother explaining them to us. I could see the dark patches myself. I was a biologist. I knew the score. The specialist had everything he needed to know. The X-rays confirmed his suspicions. He pulled no punches. He sat us down and looked at both of us with a very serious face. I felt sorry for the guy. He must have to do this every fucking day. It was no fun telling people that they were dying. It had to take it out of you.

‘I’m sorry Mr Cooper you have inoperable liver cancer’.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

A passion for Education – The story of a Headteacher – Managing people is hard.

Posted on by Opher

For me there is nothing more important than education. We, as educators, are shaping the future. By expanding minds and nurturing questioning we create lively minds, harness idealism and energy and unlock solutions.

To do that you have to get the whole team rowing in the same direction.

Excerpt – A passion for Education – The story of a Headteacher – Managing people is hard.

There are lots of complicated issues around people. No two are the same. Many people are working flat out doing a brilliant job. Some are coasting doing a good job. There are always a few who are working themselves silly but doing all the wrong things, driving themselves into the ground and being ineffective. Then there are the lazy ones and skivers who need a nudge or a kick, the ones who are working hard but not doing it in the way you would like and the small number who are useless or deliberately antagonistic.

As a Head you have deputies and middle managers with a system of line management that is organised to manage these issues. You can direct them to manage staff or student behaviour.

You cannot rely on them.

The first thing a Head needs is a good source of reliable information. There is no substitute for first hand intelligence. Getting out and about, talking to all staff and in particular the students, not only gives you a picture of what is going on but also a good understanding of the people concerned, their worries, concerns, the issues they are up against, their personalities, relationships with other staff and students, how hard they are working, their effectiveness and how things can be addressed.

With a staff of a hundred and twenty it is not possible to deal effectively with all of them. It is important to know exactly what is going on though.

This is no different to a head of year managing their tutors but needing to form a personal relationship with all 130 students in their charge.

A Head needs a network of views. The information coming in from this network gives you an overview of what is and is not working smoothly, what needs addressing urgently and what needs nudging. This network should come from all levels of the organisation. It keeps you informed.

It is essential that nobody else, including your most trusted deputies, know the sources of your information. It is often the case that your line managers are playing politics, keeping things to themselves, not wanting bad news to filter through to you for fear that it might make them look bad for allowing problems to develop in their areas, or simply retaining information to use later to their own advantage. Line managers need keeping on their toes. When you come out with information it is for them to guess as to where you got it from. Knowing stuff before your line managers is always a good idea. It makes them think you know exactly what is going on. It gives them an impetus to prevent things happening. They know you will find out what is happening and there is no point in trying to gloss over things. It also means they have an incentive to tell you before you find out for yourself. You finding out their muck-ups simply makes them even worse.

It is good to keep them on their toes.

It’s all a game.

This is where touring, good relationships built up over a long time, and an open email, open door policy come in handy. It is quite amazing what snippets come out in casual conversation, as a single line email or behind a closed door.

This gives you the edge. You have to be aware of what is going on and have your finger on the pulse.

You also have to know your staff well.

It is pointless using the wrong tactics towards the wrong individuals. You have to tailor your strategies to the individuals concerned. Deploying the wrong tactics is not only ineffective, it is can be harmful. Using a heavy handed approach on some people can create life-long enemies who will hold grudges and become stubbornly entrenched in opposition to everything you are trying to do. They will then ferment bad feeling and be a focus for disaffection. One has to hone ones arsenal. It is all intuitive.

Flattery, praise, recognition, concern, logic, argument, dressing down, punishment and threats are part of the armoury.

This makes it sound cold and dispassionate, calculating and devious. Whilst there is an element of that it is not quite as bad as it sounds. The need to get people on side requires a degree of manipulation. That is the politics of the job. You work with staff the same way that you work with students in the classroom. Your tactics come out of sincere belief in what you are doing and care for everyone in your care. There is no dishonesty in the relationships. You just instinctively know the best way to get the best out of your staff and get them to go along with your policies. I genuinely liked almost all the staff I worked with, including the ones who were troublesome and had to be disciplined. In fact some of the rogues were the most interesting of all. Everyone has their reasons. Most of what you do is instinctive, intuitive and part of your everyday interaction. None the less it does not do any harm to review your tactics to make yourself more effective.

As a Head you have a vision for the school enshrined in your stated ethos. The object of your exercise is to ensure that this vision is communicated repeatedly to everyone with clarity and passion. You constantly harp on about it.

Your next task is to ensure that everyone on the team, in their own way, is buying in to your vision.

A passion for Education – The story of a Headteacher eBook : Goodwin BSc (Hons) NPQH, Christopher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

53 and imploding – Work/life balance.

Posted on by Opher

This novel might appear disjointed but it isn’t. It is a stream of consciousness that revolves around my life and reflections. What holds it together is my mind. That is the anchor.

What is important in life? What can be put to one side?

Excerpt – 53 and imploding

I smile. I did not realise that there was a competition.

Eternity smiles with me. It is a condescending little smile. I detect a little compassion in it. It is a little arrogant perhaps, a little superiority. I am being patronised.

In a billion years time my words will still be among the best but, just as today, no better than the worst. But at least Jesus will have been proved wrong – the poor will not still be with us!

I have to stop this now. Jan has come in. She is increasingly irritated with me taking time for this writing. I should be doing something. There are rooms to tidy, birthday presents to buy and send, and work to be done. She resents me spending time on this. She regards this as a pointless pile of egotism.

She is usually right.

I should be scurrying through the mounds of marking. I have a pile of work awaiting my attention but no desire to tackle it. We are off to China next week. I will be viewing walls, temples, terracotta armies, squares, and sailing up the Yangste. I have taken my first anti-malarial tablet today. We decided against the Japanese Encephalitis jabs and the Hepatitis B. The nurse explained to me that you catch Hepatitis B the same way as AIDS inferring I would be OK if I didn’t shag any Chinese babes while I was over there. I assured her that I didn’t think that particular jab would be necessary. Babes of any variety do not find me particularly magnetic these days.

I ache. My joints are seizing up, my waist expanding and my hair receding. Perhaps Chinese babes are impressed with these characteristics. After all they are signs of success. I have achieved this vast age, am obviously fact, and have wealth enough to travel. I am a biological success. They would covert my genes for their offspring.

Somehow I can’t see them falling over each other to fight Jan for my affections. Life has its phases. There are some compensations.

I will eat Chinese delicacies, drink slightly different alcoholic beverages, meet up with old friends, talk and reminisce, watch the sights, takes a million photos and come home.

So what is this all about?

I am sitting here in front of this screen. I have tidied my desk and put my heaps of CDs away. I counted them. I have about 3000. I am a collector. I am not sure why. It displays some psychological flaw.

Rog phoned and wanted Nick’s number but I didn’t have it. It is raining outside, grey and dreary with no prospects for improvement. Cars are passing along the road feet away from me and making a hiss as they spray water. Tom is at work in an architect’s office. He has a future designing mounds for the establishment. My dog sleeps at my feet contently. He does not like rain and has a bladder that was designed for an elephant. I have a hangover from drinking too much beer and wine last night. I am still tempted to roll a joint.

I haven’t quite stopped yet. Jan stomped past. I want a piss again. I have nothing to report. Life goes by.

I am a trifle bored. I intend to shut this down so that I can do the required work. It is only fair to do my bit.

Fuck it. I decided to go on. I am enjoying myself. Jan can go fuck herself and take her stomping elsewhere. After all, tidying can wait. You can never get a mound too tidy. I am aware that this could have fucking repercussions later.

I am compelled to write. Sometimes it flows as if I am connected to something inside myself and it is just using me as a conduit. Idea follows idea. I am not saying that they are brilliant. I am aware that it is all the same junk. It is just that it gets in a groove and those connections spark and I am pulled along.

53 and imploding eBook : goodwin, opher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

Bodies in a Window Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

Standing in the hospital next to my dead father looking out the window. This novel is about life and death. The array of characters are from all walks of life, all ages. There’s life, death, sex and boredom. Purpose?

Introducing my old man – a war veteran, now living on his own following the death of his life-long partner. But he has his dog.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window Paperback

The damn sun was shining in the window and woke me up. A nuisance – a damn nuisance. I curse silently. I should have pulled the curtains then I’d have been alright. It’s been so dull out recently that I didn’t think. It hasn’t disturbed Tom though. These days he’d sleep through the bloody Atomic bomb. He’s still curled up asleep on the bed by my feet. He hasn’t stirred one bit. He’s sleeping a lot lately. But that damn sunshine that is really annoying. It has made my day an hour or so longer. That’s another blessed hour to fill with nowt to fill it with.

There is nothing else much to do so I lay there and think. There’s no point in trying to get back to sleep. That never happens these days like it used to do when I was young. I could sleep for England on my days off back then. Not now. I lay there and allow my mind to drift. I think about Margaret and how proud she’d be about Arthur. She was so worried about him. He went through all that long hair phase and that loud Rock Music. She was so worried. That Malcolm Muggeridge on TV had produced that programme about all the long haired students having promiscuous sex and taking drugs. It scared the life out of her. She thought Arthur might get caught up in all that caper. She was vexed about him getting involved with all that drug lark, getting some girl pregnant or messing his life up with some crack heroin or other. But the lad’s done well. He made his way. He’s a teacher now. He’s settled down with a wife and kids. He’s a good lad. I like his wife Lucy. She’s a sweet girl. She’s been good for him and got him on the straight and narrow. I don’t have to worry about him any more. She’s sorted him out. That Lucy is a good girl. Margaret would have really liked her. All her fears have come to nowt. That’s good that is.

It’s a funny old life. You can’t tell where it’s going. I reckon they’ll blow the whole place up before too long. I wouldn’t be at all surprised. There’s no telling any more. They are capable of anything. All these Arabs and nutters with bombs. They only have to get hold of an atomic bomb and we’ll all be blown to Kingdom Come.

The world is such a strange place now. It seems to go at such a pace. I can’t keep up with it – all these drugs and sex and the weird fashions. They seem to change from day to day – all this long hair and dyed hair, shaved heads, tattoos – lasses with tattoos, drinking and smoking like troopers and popping out kids like nobody’s business. They’re so brazen and scruffy. There’s no pride. They do what they like. It’s become decadent. Law and order is breaking down in front of your eyes. Margaret would have a bloody fit. Good job she’s not here to see it. That’s all I can say.

It wasn’t like that in my day I can tell you. There were lads who had a few too many bevvies like, and there were always a few of the girls who were up for it. Oh yes, that went on. But most people were respectable. Most girls wouldn’t have dreamt of letting a fellow have his way. They kept all that for after they were married. That’s how it should be. Margaret would never have allowed any of that carry on. She’d been brought up right. Her parents instilled respect into her. I blame it on the parents. They don’t instil any respect any more. And as for that hair and the silly fashions – well – parents wouldn’t have stood for it in my day. They’d have soon knocked all that out of you. An’ if they hadn’t the army would have done. I can just imagine my old Sergeant Major West faced with a bunch of those long-haired layabouts – You growing your own greatcoat, boy! This isn’t the bloody Guards! We don’t wear Busbies here lad! Get yer bloody hair cut! He had a right old way with words did Sergeant Major West. And you couldn’t so much as make a peep back. He’d have you out on jankers soon as look at you. You’d be cleaning privies with a toothbrush and painting coal white, out in the rain and snow running around with rifles and full packs. That’d soon knock some sense into their bloody heads I can tell you. It bred discipline. That’s what’s wrong with the world – there’s no discipline.

I looked over at the clock. It was still not seven yet. I always get up at seven. Keeping to a good routine was important. I like routine. The world runs on routine.

I put my head back on the pillow and tried to will the second hand to go round a bit faster. It never bloody works. I don’t know what’s gone wrong with the world. It’s all gone mad. There aren’t any standards. People just do what they want. It’s disgusting. It’ll bring the whole country down. They’re no better than the savages; though you’re not allowed to say that kind of thing. If you said that to the little thugs they’d likely give you a right kicking. They scare the hell out of me. They stand around on street corners smoking and looking surly. I hear it on the news – the football hooligans and skinheads – they’ve got knives. So much as look at them and they boot yer head in. Where will it all end?

That minute hand was dragging.

Tom started to stir. It took him a while to get going – a lot longer than me, though we’re both in the same boat with these flaming old bodies of ours.

Eventually the hand touched seven, it was time to move and I dragged myself out of the sack. It was hard these days. My body stiffened up overnight. It was a mass of aches and pains. All the joints creaked and protested. I wasn’t tall and straight any more like I used to be. All my muscles have wasted away. My arms and legs have hardly got any meat on them and the skin hangs. I’m a bent old scrawny thing. I wondered what Margaret would have made of me now? Hardly the lover boy I used to be. But she’s not here to see. She’d probably tell me I’ve brought it on myself by not eating right or not exercising enough. Sometimes I think she was the lucky one. The big C is nasty, like. Seeing her waste away like that. Terrible to see. But at least she is out of it now. She didn’t have to put up with all this – all this deteriorating away and living on your own.

It’s lonely on your own.

I worked my way to the edge of the bed and fumbled around for my slippers with my feet. When I had located the dam slippers I slipped them on. Then I hoisted myself to my feet and winced as the old body protested – but at least I was upright – or at least as upright as I get these days. We’d take it from there.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

53 and imploding – a slice of reality.

Posted on by Opher

I’m finding it interesting to visit myself from twenty years ago. This antinovel is a slice of reality.

Excerpt – 53 and imploding

You can already discern from the way I meander that life is not very organised. There is nothing neat about me. Around me, on my desk, are stacks of unsorted CDs. And junk. I type in the midst of this chaos. My dog sleeps beneath my desk with his head on my feet. He is thoroughly content. He does not have to ponder the state of the world. He will know if I move. That is all that is important. As long as I am there, there is food in his belly and he is warm he has everything he needs.

Life is not like some well-constructed tale. I do not see things clearly. I do not understand too well. I see life as convoluted spaghetti of intermingled lines. Each strand’s a life. Each has two ends but they are so intertwined that this is not obvious or important. And the sauce is a corruption of greed, avarice and cruelty but worst of all indifference. No. This is no novel. This, if anything, is an anti-novel.