Another rough-as-fuck late-night laptop discovery. A MAHOGANY-PANELLED ROOM, WELL-LIT. THE ROOM IS FILLED WITH WALL-TO-WALL BOOKSHELVES TEEMING WITH HEFTY AND DUSTY LEATHER-BOUND TOMES. ON THE WALLS ARE DOZENS OF FRAMED AND OFFICIAL-LOOKING CERTIFICATES. THERE IS A SOFA, AND IN FRONT OF IT IS A COFFEE TABLE. ON THE TABLE LIES A BOX OF TISSUES AND A MUG OF TEA. A WOMAN IS SITTING UPRIGHT ON A LEATHER SOFA. SHE IS SITTING AWKWARDLY AND TENSELY, WEARING A STIFF COAT AND A SMALL HAT WITH A LEATHER HANDBAG PERCHED ON HER KNEES. SHE IS AROUND SIXTY YEARS OLD. AS SHE SPEAKS, IT BECOMES CLEAR SHE IS EXTREMELY NERVOUS. THE MORE SHE SPEAKS, THE MORE SHE RELAXES. I’d always loved children, you know, ever since I was a little girl. I’d always be playing with those baby dolls, you know the plastic sort with those ugly-looking faces. I’d always wanted three children myself, two girls and a boy ideally. I had their names picked out and everything! Mad, me. When me and my husband bought the house I had to make sure there were two spare bedrooms. I wanted to get started on making a family of our own as soon as we could, really. We were a happy couple, me and Brian. We got married young and we had a comfortable life, nothing fancy but with no troubles really. We weren’t rich but we had good lives. We had hobbies and friends and jobs and our nice house. It was perfect, or was going to be when we had kids. THE WOMAN IS QUIET FOR A MOMENT AS SHE PUTS HER BAG ONTO THE FLOOR. SHE PICKS UP THE CUP OF TEA FROM THE COFFEE TABLE. SHE SIPS IT SLOWLY BEFORE PLACING IT CAREFULLY BACK WHERE IT WAS. SHE SPEAKS SLOWLY AS IF CHOOSING HER WORDS WITH GREAT CARE. SHE SUDDENLY LOOKS VERY SORROWFUL AND PAINED. When we found out we couldn’t have them…well, that really affected us. Me more than Brian, probably because I felt it was my fault really. And it was. I took it hard. And Brian, bless him, Brian was so concerned about me, but there was nothing he could say to make it any better. I think that’s when he started getting ill, and the doctors, they tell me it‘s nothing to do with that, but I knew it was, I knew it. He died a few years later. It was awful, the saddest feeling in the world. There was little old me in our house that suddenly felt huge. I didn’t know what to do with myself! I spent the next few months pottering around the house, doing the daily chores, fixing up the garden a little bit. Not really sure what I was doing really, just carrying on like always. I’d quit work because Brian had left me a fair bit of money to do what I liked with and I’d hardly touched a penny. He’d told me to enjoy it, but there wasn’t any money in the world that could make me happy. The only thing that I had was God. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’d never been the religious type, not me nor my mother or her mother. We were a Christian family, but we never went to church, never prayed. We just weren’t the type. But Brian had wanted to be buried in a church, all traditional you know and the service was just lovely. I sat there and I sang hymns out of the little books and I looked at all the fancy old stained-glass windows and I promised myself I’d go back there every week. And I did. I didn’t go for the socialising though, I wasn’t into that. I was there for God, and only for God. SHE SIPS FROM THE CUP OF TEA AGAIN AND LEANS FORWARD AS IF ABOUT TO REVEAL SOME JUICY GOSSIP. This is the part that I found strange. I mean, you hear about God appearing everywhere but you just think the person’s crazy. I mean, the face of Jesus on a slice of toast! I read that one in the newspaper and I thought the world had gone mad. SHE REPLACES THE TEA AND REMOVES HER HAT, HOLDING IT ON HER LAP. But God came to me in a dream and he said that I had a purpose. He told me I had a job, a really, really important job, and if I did it right I’d join Him in Heaven as one of His angels. And of you course you don’t say no to God! So I told Him I’d do anything, and He smiled and told me it was nothing bad. He told me I was going to have a son, a boy I’d rescue from poverty and certain death. And no, he wouldn’t be my biological son, but what did that matter since we are all God’s children anyway. He told me about the millions of people who fight for and save and adopt children and how they’re going to join Him in Heaven. I just knew it was right for me. Brian and I had talked about adopting and fostering and the like but neither of us had fancied the idea of raising someone else’s baby. It hadn’t been right then but now it felt like nothing had ever been more right. With Brian gone and it just being me…I was in a good position financially and I’d always wanted to be a mum. But I didn’t just want to adopt, I really wanted to help. I wanted to give a poor child a chance. So I arranged it all and when it was all sorted out I was very excited, you know. SHE BEGINS TO VISIBLY RELAX. SHE IS OFF IN HER OWN LITTLE WORLD OF HAPPY MEMORIES, HER VOICE TAKES ON A LIGHTER TONE. The first time I saw him…he was a lovely little lad. He was seven years old but you wouldn’t know from looking at him, him being such a tiny little mite, and his name was Alex. He was a scrawny-looking thing, obviously malnourished, and his knees were all scratched and banged up. He looked awfully badly treated, and he was shy. So shy! I asked him if he believed in God and he nodded, and that’s how I knew he was my son. He had a generic-looking face which ended up working in my favour really. He would barely speak to me on the way home, he just kept peeping out at me from under his fringe with these big terrified eyes. He was a love. I’d found him down south, you see, I wanted to give a child a whole new life a million miles away from their old one. So I’d been looking far away, you know. And Alex was the loveliest boy you could have imagined. Even after he’d been with me a while he didn’t have any friends around the neighbourhood, I guess it was hard for him, having lived in such terrible conditions and then suddenly being rescued by little old me. He didn’t know what to do with himself. I imagine it was like being whisked out of Hell and sent straight up to Heaven. For the first few months he barely spoke. He seemed very skittish really, and when he did speak he was forever asking after his mum. I’d tell him, “I’m your mum now, Alex,” and he’d cry and cry. I felt sorry for the poor thing. He’d had a hard life and didn’t know how to be thankful to me. I couldn’t blame him for that, though. These things take time. I home-schooled him for a bit. I thought it was for the best, him being so shy. School is a tough place for kids and it just didn’t seem like a good idea. I didn’t take him to church with me either. Alex should have been welcome in God’s house just as he was in my house, but it was the people I didn’t trust. You can’t trust anyone who thinks they’re acting in the name of God, and that’s what everyone at Church was like. They were people who had to bribe their way into Heaven and they‘d sell you up the river in a second. They weren’t special like me and Alex. They had to find big sins out in the world and expose them, they had to become heroes on earth to even make it to the gates. Me and Alex would be VIP. I love the lad. That’s why it hurt me so much when he tried to leave. I remember it was late. We’d watched the telly after tea and we’d done a bit more schoolwork and Alex was getting ready for bed while I did the washing up. I tucked him in like usual and we both went to sleep. Since Brian died I’d had trouble sleeping, so my doctor was prescribing me pills to help me sleep. By 10pm I was usually deaf to the world so I didn’t hear Alex banging at his bedroom door until the lock gave way, and I didn’t hear him creep downstairs…It was the crash of the back door’s window that woke me up and I ran downstairs swinging my bedside lamp, thinking we were getting burgled. I ran to the back door, which was still locked, but the glass window was smashed through and the big Bible was on the patio outside, surrounded by glass and I could just make out his these little feet scurrying over the fence into next door’s garden as he scrambled over the fence. I thought about chasing him but there wasn’t much point. I wouldn’t be able to find him before he found someone in the street. He could have knocked on next door’s and they would have let him in and sorted him out. And it didn’t help that his face had been all over the papers and the evening news for months now. Everyone in the country was out looking for him. So I picked up the Bible and I swept up the glass and I made myself a cup of tea and I sat down to watch some telly. It wasn’t even half an hour before the police turned up at the door. There was a lot of them and they kicked down the front door before I even had a chance to let them in. Two of them grabbed me and held me back, as if little old me was going to be a threat to them! There had to have been at least five of them, too many people, everyone was tearing around the house, ripping out my room and Alex’s room. I could hear them shouting things, talking about the lock on Alex’s bedroom door, his boarded-up window. I didn’t answer when they spoke to me, they were talking to me as if I was common criminal! “Me!” I said to them, “the only crime I’m guilty of is saving a poor child from his miserable existence. I’m one of God’s angels!” They asked me if that’s what I thought I’d been doing and that‘s what I was, and I said, “Thought! What do you mean, thought?!” The police are all the same. They’re the same as the people at the church, thinking they’re helping the world, thinking they’re doing something good. But they’re not, they’re not following God’s laws they’re following some made-up laws that people think are there to help them. It was an injustice to be held in my own home by these Devils, speaking to me like that and rough-housing me. I’m not a criminal. I haven’t done anything wrong. SHE IS QUIET FOR A SECOND, STARING DOWN AT THE CUP OF TEA AND FROWNING SLIGHTLY AS IF SHE IS STILL TRYING TO COMPREHEND WHAT HAPPENED. I thought maybe things would be different when they found his home-schooling work and his toys and the educational posters and pictures in his room. I thought maybe they’d understand how I’d saved Alex and how I’d never hurt him. They spoke to him and they spoke to me. Alex got sent to psychiatrists and psychologists who poked and prodded around in his head until they decided I hadn’t abused him. Abused him! As if I ever would. Then they got their hands on me. They analysed me and tested me and spent hours and hours with me, talking and questioning and wondering. They asked about Brian and my life. They asked about my hobbies and my friends. They asked about mental illness in my family. They asked about God, what He’d said to me and how often I saw Him. I told them just what I’ve told you, about how God told me to save Alex from certain death, certain death were His exact words, His exact words! And the woman, she had a face like a dog, she told me that Alex hadn’t been anywhere near certain death, and that he’d come from a loving home. She told me about his parents, who were lawyers, and how Alex was a bright kid who was going on for a great future. A great future! Well, she hadn’t seen him when I’d found him, with his knees banged up and him being so scrawny-looking. She gave me this sad look and shook her head and wrote something down on a piece of paper. Then they decided to lock me away like a crazy person, and send me to see you, twice a week, two hours a session, so you could unpick my brain some more and try and make me see what I did was wrong. But the problem there is that I haven’t done anything wrong and you can try and convince me otherwise but I’ll never believe you. I’m not sorry, I just want to see Alex. Can I see Alex? Will you take me to see Alex?

Raiding my hard drive...

Found this rough little gem I have no memory of writing...Enjoy! What’s happened since the last time I saw you? Well, let me tell you about my Tuesday, 3pm. Can’t really say much more about him, confidentiality and doctor-patient and all that. You know how it is! All I can say is that he used to swallow spare change, and on the Monday he’d kicked a cat to death. We’ll call him 3pm for now. He’d been seeing me for a couple of months and he'd sit on my leather sofa, complaining about how the world wasn’t fair, and how he’d been bullied, and how the cat had looked at him funny and so deserved his size 9 Reeboks embedded into its skull. Anyway. It’s Tuesday and I’m listening to 3pm vividly explain the death of this cat. The crunch of bones, the coppery stench of blood...made me feel a bit uncomfortable to be honest. And it’s not just that. Truth be told I'm getting a bit bored. It's not like I hate my job or anything, and let's face it - 3pm's an interesting guy, not the usual Jeremy Kyle reject that I always get. But sometimes I just get sick of listening. I guess you must feel the same sometimes? I realise 3pm’s stopped talking. He’s looking at me and waiting. I’m supposed to say something, but what? What the hell can I tell this kid? I’m looking at my certificates and awards on the wall, the shelves of leather-bound books, a picture of my children on my desk. And then it hits me. I don’t know how to help this guy. I haven’t read those books, I don’t have children. The books were in the office when I moved in and the picture came in the frame. I look back at 3pm and I think, Shit! I can’t help this poor bastard. No-one can! He’s too far gone for that now, he’s slipped too far into the shadows and I can’t tell him this. I’m a doctor. I’m a psychiatrist! And not just that, I’m great. I’m the one the Queen would send her family too, I’m the one who’s going to be sifting through the shit with Katie and Peter’s kids in ten years time. I’m bloody brilliant! He's come to me for an answer, but there’s not a single thing I can say to 3pm except the truth. It’s cliche, but 3pm can’t handle the truth. Even I can’t handle the truth, which is why I pay to see you every two weeks. But I’m looking at 3pm and he’s...scared. He’s off the rails, he’s gone, he’s a murderer of cats. You can’t come back from that. So I made a decision. Right now I'm thinking about all the shit I could get into for saying this, but looking at the poor sod at the time...it felt like the right thing to say, you know? So I lean forward and he sits up on the sofa and leans in too. I’m about two inches away from his face and I say to him, 'Do you know what I do?' And 3pm looks confused. He goes, 'You're a psychiatrist,' and I said, 'Yeah, but what do I do?' 3pm looks a bit stumped at this. He says, 'You make crazy people better,' all tentative like he knows he's wrong but doesn't quite understand why. This is where I did something stupid. I broke the rules and I told him the Big Secret that nobody knows. I said, 'No, I don't make crazy people better, I get paid to teach crazy people how to look sane.' And his face! He pulls away and he’s confused and alarmed and God! It’s funny to look at so I carry on. “I killed a dog when I was fourteen,” I’m telling him, “I beat the bitch to a pulp with a bit of pipe and then I kicked it a few times too, and then I ran away and laughed.” Well, now 3pm’s looking downright terrified! He’s horrified that his assigned professional is also an animal murderer whose just as fucked up as he is! I wait for him to speak. He looks at me and goes, “But you’re sane.” Turns out people are telling 3pm he’s insane, he’s lost it, he’s hopeless! And this, this really pisses me off so I go, “No! No! Look at me! You’ve got it wrong. See, we live in a world where everyone needs a label on everything. If you take drugs you’re an addict. If you don’t eat you’re anorexic. If you cut yourself you’re insane, but that’s just it! Everyone’s insane. Everyone has their OCD and their aborted kids on their conscience and their skeletons in the basement. Everyone’s just as screwed up in the head as you were when you walked home with blood covering your shoes. But everybody else...they just hide it a bit better. You take your drugs away from the dinner table. You hide your food in a tissue. You wear fucking long-sleeve M&S jumpers. You do whatever the hell you can do to get by without everyone trying to section you for making the wrong choices. This is life, kid. We do what we do to get by. I’m not sane but I teach people how to appear sane! That’s what you have to learn to do.” 3pm looks a bit put-out, like he’s disappointed because I can’t fix him. So I carry on telling him like it is. He needs to forget this, I tell him, he probably shouldn’t kill any more cats but more importantly, not get caught doing it. But he’s still a kid at heart. I’m beginning to feel like I’ve given away too much, like it’s Christmas Eve and I just told him Santa wasn’t real just as he put the biscuit and milk on the mantelpiece. I say to him that I can’t fix him but maybe he’s different. Maybe he’s the exception that proves the rule. Maybe he can be fixed and he can get married and be a CEO of a fancy company, and have kids, and a big house and a Vauxhall. So I gave him your number. I said to him, “Here’s a guy. He can’t sort you out mate, but he’ll bloody well give it a go. I’ve been seeing him for going on fifteen years.”

I know I was supposed to be blogging every week but I'd thought I'd spare the internet the shame of such depressing life stories. And no, I'm not here to share those today. I am here, however, just to say a big FUCK YOU to life. Fuck you, life. Fuck you a thousand times over, you massive tit. Here is a list of Fuck Yous: - Fuck you rent. - Fuck you part-time job. - Fuck you graduation. - Fuck you washing up. - Fuck you council tax. - Fuck you bank account. - Fuck you too-hot weather. - Fuck you Lara. - Fuck life. The End.

And a Happy New Year!

Well guys, it's been a hell of a year and all I can say is THANK CHRIST it's over! The best thing to come out of this year was a shiny new iPhone (thanks Santa) and severe emotional scarring (thanks life). Still, all things must come to an end. Even the bad things.
My plans for New Year - as is fast becoming tradition - are meagre but should be fun. For once in my life I plan to herald in the new year and throw myself at the challenges that face me (passing Uni with a decent grade, getting a job, moving out) as opposed to shrinking away and getting others to fight my battles. As a wise hobbit once sang, 'the road goes ever on and on' so keep calm and carry in.
I think sleep deprivation may have confused me so I'd best retreat to bed where I'll most likely dream of torture and Filofaxes (thanks Santa!)
Have a good one!

Words Have Appeared

Christ, is it possible that I'm actually typing words for FUN?! Good God it's...it has to be a lie! But no, it's not, this is actually happening, I'm actually typing words that you're actually reading. What a world, eh?
It's 8am and I feel like doing something different. I'd like to go out onto the hills and paint a portrait or delve deep into the city with a badass camera and get all snap-happy. I'd like to do something new today. Problem is I don't live near hills and can't paint for shit...also it's kinda cold to be out and about and my camera screen got smashed so taking pictures is a bit hit and miss. Today I'll probably stay in bed all day doing nothing of interest. Oh, I guess I should clean my hamster cage too.
There's something disturbingly beautiful about early mornings. I hate how late the sun rises now, and how the mornings are always a dirty grey colour instead of a fiery red. But mentally, I mean, the morning after the night before is always a good time to get creative. New start new day new weather new people. New opportunites that are always squandered...for me, anyway.
For those of you that have found my through my twitter and wonder about my personal life, I shall provide. With only a few months left of university I've started to develop a soul-crushing fear of the future. Fear is affecting my sleeping, which means I now have an extra 8 hours to write my dissertation. It's going swimmingly before you ask.
Yes it is Christmas soon and no, I'm not interested. Christmas is next week and I'm so far away from jazzed I could play a bad guy in a Disney movie. We'll leave that for another ramble/documentation of my final year of student-hood.
Happy December!

Smoker

I inhale the smoke from a burning cigarette
held between two stained fingers that are not mine.
I am talking to a boy too cheap to offer me more
than just the one toke.
His fingers are not those of a guitarist,
though he tells me otherwise.
He tells other lies, too,
and I pretend to believe him,
ignoring the plump look of youth about him,
and agreeing with every word he says.
He sips vodka from a flask and winces,
trying hard to disguise his distaste for this,
Whilst I suckle at the flask like a child on a breast,
swallowing with the same ease as you might
water from a tap.
I ask him, again, for a smoke
and again, he says no, yet, again, holds out his fingers,
and expects me to toke, dependent on him.
And I do, because it's all I can do.

©LBrown.

Bad Reviews and New Projects

Today I got some so-so reviews for my children's poem which you can read below.
Obviously, it's not perfect. It's a work in progress I scribbled down at 4am one morning and would need a lot of work before I did anything with it. Still, anything less than a stellar review is always a little below the belt for me!
In other news, I finally started working on my first script for production. Yes, it's being produced by me and my best friend, but still that's something! We hope to get some attention from it, and if not it's still something I can boast about on my CV. It's a good thing mimicking natural speech is something I'm capable of.
- L.