Suddenly

25.02.12 (Day 429)

10.42

Suddenly, things change.

Suddenly, my youngest daughter – the biological one – is eight years old today. Suddenly, my second youngest daughter- and the youngest of the three adopted girls – was fifteen, two days ago.

Suddenly, time flies and you realise what you’ve missed.

Time hasn’t flown over the last fourteen months. It has dragged. It’s been like wading through an ocean of treacle, picked up by the occasional lifeboat and carried for a while. It’s all documented in this blog, where it will remain as a reminder of what has been probably the biggest single transitional phase of my life. Now the opposite shore is in sight.

I’m finally moving on. Not far geographically: to the pub across the road in fact. But I’m moving on to start a new life with a literal blank canvas to make my own. I’ve been frequenting the pub for a few weeks now, since it’s come under new management. I’ve been playing for the pool team, getting to know the regulars and the family who run the place. I’ve been honest with them all and everyone over there knows about my past: where I’ve come from, what I did to lose everything I once had, what I’ve been through and how I’ve ended up where I am. They appreciate me being so candid and in me they don’t see what others saw over a year ago and chose to abandon. They see someone who’s made mistakes, paid the price and who is looking to start again.

So in the first instance, they’ve offered me somewhere to live. Nothing fancy; a flat comprising two rooms, which itself is within a flat on the upper floors of the building. My two rooms are of sufficient size to serve as a living room and a bedroom / office respectively. There is much work to be done as the place is in a state of disrepair but once the place is renovated, it will be mine for as long as I want it. I have a vision of how it will look and it is so “me” that it could actually have been designed for me, even before I’ve done it up. Although both rooms are pretty decent sizes, they’re cosy. The windows are small and there’s not much natural light. The views from the windows are onto the part of town just beyond the high street and of course, above a pub. It has a lot of character.

The first job to do with the part that I’m taking over is the knock an arch or a doorway into the dividing wall between the two rooms. Then I need to paint the walls and lay new carpets. I’m toying with ideas for colour schemes and I’m not restricted to neutral colours as there are no plans to rent this place out to anyone after me, as there will most likely be no-one after me. This is my little place for as long as I want it and I envisage that being a very long time indeed because I will feel at home there, especially as I’m creating the thing. I don’t plan to remarry or have more kids, so I don’t see the need to move on to somewhere bigger. The landlords are friends so I’m not at the whim of a corporate letting agent. Few people would likely go for the place in its current condition anyway but I’m prepared to put the work in and make it my own.

Most of my gear is still in Sidcup in the flat I shared with my ex-fiance Danielle. I’m meeting her for lunch on Tuesday to finalise plans for getting my things moved out. I’m very much looking forward to seeing her as we’ve been getting on famously of late. With what I have in mind regarding furniture and other things to bring down – mainly books, CDs and DVDs – I can imagine what the new place will look like: cosy and stuffed full of things of interest. I yearn for only simple pleasures, such as reclining on my own sofa, with a good book and no-one else around to distract me. I’ll be getting my hi-fi separates back and my TV, so I’ll have plenty to listen to and to watch. The most important thing is that it is MINE.

Outside my two rooms, or flat within a flat, I have the use of a shared living room, kitchen and bathroom. These are also in need of attention but I have plenty of time to work on the larger flat, which I will be sharing with the son of the landlords. He himself is due to take over the pub in the not too distant future and I will eventually be working there, initially for the restricted hours permitted by my being in the ESA Support Group because of my illness. The flat and any work are completely separate and the former does not come as compensation for the latter. Therefore I can claim the maximum amount of housing benefit, which will cover the cost of my rent. If I do end up working – most likely in the kitchen – this will be declared permitted work and pay, with the flat not attached to any job. And if I am working but decide to leave, the flat is not at risk.

There are still hurdles to overcome, housing benefit being the main one and I am only grateful that my future landlord is as understanding as he is because housing benefit is paid in lieu. Therefore I will have been resident for four weeks before back paying rent for that period. Normally rent is payable in advance and a deposit is required. So I have been very fortunate to have a landlord who recognises my situation and who is willing to help and know that I will help him in return when I am able and permitted to do so.

So the next thing to do is actually move into the new place once I’ve done it up. Then I’m there to stay, possibly for as long as whatever years I may have left in me. In time it may be that my health improves and I might come off of benefits and go back to working. But not back to running businesses like I used to; rather, doing something I enjoy, like running a commercial kitchen. To start with I’m looking forward to having my own place which in itself will help me to get better. I have a permanent personal base from which to write and hopefully publish another novel. I still need sales of the debut one to take off and must admit to disappointment at the current uptake, given that it really is a very good book. One day I shall be recognised further for what I am: a talented writer.

Ultimately, also a chance to show off my skills as a chef. Working during the day in the pub kitchen downstairs, cooking and serving people; doing what I love. Then when not working, engaging my other passion of writing. And the other: playing pool downstairs in the pub. And the last: playing poker online in my den. That’s the future and one I’m very much looking forward to.

I’m also looking forward to seeing my son on Saturday. No doubt someone else present will frown at the prospect of me moving into a pub but that person is one of the many who knew me a year ago and all but abandoned me. That same person will probably also disapprove of my new facial furniture: currently a scaffold in my left ear, a bar in my right eyebrow and a helix in the cartilage of my right ear. These as well as the three piercings I already had in my earlobes. But they’re self-expression, just like my writing and my cooking. And my new home: they’re what makes me, me.  

Suddenly, time taps you on the shoulder and asks you if you’d like some more; if you want to try again. 

The Boy Who Didn’t Cry Wolf

Some things are confidential for a reason and should be kept that way. Those who know me, know that I wear my heart on my sleeve and I have no secrets. They also know that even though I may have lied in the past, I do so no longer.

Others who don’t know me as well as they think they do, still question me, doubt me and accuse me of making things up. This then is for them:

This is my brief medical history, which I have to take with me for my council housing meeting tomorrow, along with my current medication.

The plastic police and defective detectives know who they are and they read this. Well, read below. You’ll see that I didn’t lie about the testicular lump. I didn’t lie about the internal bleeding. I didn’t lie about the drugs overdoses. I didn’t lie about being diagnosed with Alcohol Dependence Syndrome. I didn’t lie about the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I didn’t lie about the depression, nor the depressive episodes. I didn’t lie about the rape. I didn’t lie about the injuries, broken bones and hospital admissions. And I didn’t lie about everything else which isn’t on here as this is just a brief medical history.

Happy reading…

Enjoy your humble pie and careful you don’t choke on it.

If Your Name’s Not Down

19.02.15 (Day 423)

07.42

What’s the story, morning glory? Something I ask myself every morning. Then the story is told as the day progresses. There could be plenty to tell after today as it’s a rather busy one.

I’ve been up for an hour already and am writing this while I wake up with the aid of breakfast: Marmite on burnt toast, cappuccino and three cigarettes. Once I’ve got that lot inside me and I’ve jotted my thoughts down here, I’m good to go.

The first thing to do today is try to write some more of the new book whilst avoiding the temptation to play online poker. I hit a snag with the story yesterday, so I took time out to play a few hands of cards. A few became many and the session lasted for the remainder of the working day. I’m up though and my bankroll is still looking good.

After poker I went to the pub, as I will again today. I shall play some pool and talk business, as I did yesterday. Myself and another customer have volunteered our services as chefs to re-open the pub kitchen so that they can start to serve food. The kitchen has been closed for as long as anyone can remember and it’s a wasted resource. Food is where the margins are in the pub business and this particular pub needs more custom. I’m qualified, I have a business brain and the landlord is on board. Simple English pub fayre at first, with maybe the odd theme night and then we shall see. To be discussed further today over a few games of pool. The pub pool team played last night and although we lost the match, I won my singles game.

I’m meeting my kid sister, The Courts in the pub, probably my fold-up daughter and possibly one or two others. That said, it has been decreed by management that only a finite number of youngsters may be with this pied piper at a time and there are named individuals who are allowed in with me. We had an incident yesterday where a few youngsters went to the pub to wait for me, knowing I was due. Excuse me? This is not the old place. It is a pub. You can’t just go in there when I’m not there, not buy a drink and simply wait for me. I have to limit the number of people I can be with because there are only a certain number that I can deal with at any one time and only a finite number of youngsters that the pub will allow in together. So there are names down who are pre-approved by the landlord. Anyone is welcome to come and find me but preferably by appointment and not too many at a time. And if I don’t know you, you’re probably not getting in. Those who know me have my number. If you don’t have my number, you can’t arrange to meet me. If you don’t have my number, chances are you don’t know me. By extension, I don’t know you or your name.

So if your name’s not down, you’re not getting into my little court.

Captain’s Log, Supplemental:

I should point out to the plastic police who read this – and they do – that the work which I may be undertaking is permitted work whilst claiming ESA. ESA is Earnings Support Allowance: it’s what it says on the tin. I’m allowed to earn up to a certain amount per week, working less than sixteen hours per week. I am not fit for full time work but I am able to prepare myself for an eventual return to full time employment. It’s working with food and people, so it’s doing something I enjoy; voluntarily at first to build up business, then paid. I have to inform DWP of both the voluntary and paid work, which I will do. I don’t need anyone else to do it for me. Neither do I need a defective detective to contact my employer to point out that I have alcohol issues, as has happened in the past and which intervention lost me a job. My drinking is under control and my potential employer knows this as I drink in his pub.

Captain’s Log, supplemental supplemental:

Well, don’t you know, don’t you know, fer fucksake…

The day’s plans have changed already as I’m not now seeing my kid sister. The Courts has to see her social worker and social services apparently want to speak to me because they believe that me and The Courts are “Up to something”. Typical of the other set of plastic police to assume that because a young girl has a close relationship with someone of my age, there’s something going on. Or someone spiteful has told them lies. It’s happened before. I’m a surrogate parent and big brother to this girl, who came to me when she had no-one else. I used to have to speak to her foster carer every evening when The Courts stayed with me for five weeks because she refused to go anywhere other than somewhere I was. The foster carer then had to report back to social services to let them know that the girl was safe. I’ve spoken to both her real mum and step dad and they’re okay with the situation, confident that there is nothing inappropriate going on. Even the proper police were confident in this knowledge, as The Courts and myself are both known to them. Given this, it is most likely therefore that some do-gooder defective detective has been at work and reported us to the plastic brigade. Reported nothing as there’s nothing to report. Get a life, like I’m trying to. 

It’s Been a While…

18.02.15 (Day 422)

08.42

“…since I gone and fucked things up, just like I always do…”

Everything seems to be starting to go right and I can’t help but wonder when to expect a curve ball.

I’ve been quiet on the blogging front because so many things are going right and I’ve been busy dealing with those very things.

I “passed” my ESA assessment and am now in the Support Group: roughly translated, I am genuinely unfit for work and am signed off almost indefinitely, or at least until the rules change or someone changes their mind. I no longer have to get monthly sick notes from the doctor as I am long term ill. As a result my ESA payment has increased and was back dated, so I got a fairly nice lump sum award. The next assessment is for PIP and if I “pass” that as well, there’ll be more money and my priority for local authority housing will increase.

Local authority housing is my preference over private renting as with the latter, I’d be at the whim of a private landlord. I’d have to fork out for a deposit and most private landlords won’t accept housing benefit tenants. Ahead of the PIP assessment I have a meeting with the council housing office this Friday, during which I will lay it on thick. Whatever situation I find myself in will be preferable to the one I currently occupy.

The safe house has many benefits and wonderful hosts but after fourteen months of being homeless, I really want a place of my own. I’m not picky. I can’t afford to be. Just a modest bedsit in an undesirable area which few on the housing list are likely to bid on would suffice. I just want somewhere I can call my own and which will allow me the freedom to do as I please when I want. Luxuries I’m looking forward to are being able to lie in some mornings – when my body clock allows – and not have to worry about clamouring for the bathroom with three others. Being able to buy my own food, cooking it and eating it without feeling guilty about taking something which isn’t mine. Having people round. Ultimately, my kids.

There is movement in a positive direction on the children front but I shan’t speak in detail of that here for legal reasons. I’ve not seen much of my adopted children as it’s half term, one has a boyfriend, another might and two are forbidden from seeing me. It’s something to do with me and kids.

So I’ve been keeping myself busy with my four pass times, one of which I’m making money from, another which is costing me money and the other two are jobs with little or no reward. Since finding myself on more of an even keel over the last week or so, social practical engagements aside, I’ve been dividing my day up into working for little reward, then working for even less reward, followed by spending money on one pursuit before finally making money on the other.

Once official appointments are out of the way, my day is spent mainly writing. Having suffered a severe case of writer’s block for the bet part of the last week, my second novel is back on track and has direction. The first is still being well received by the readers I gave free copies to but sales are modest at best. If only people would take a leap of faith – one of the subjects dealt with in The Paradoxicon – and spend two quid, they’d get a good read. And if only my free readers would put their positive comments into writing, maybe more people would buy the book.

After a roughly nine to five working day of writing, I’ll do some cooking if it’s my turn in the kitchen. There is no financial gain from this at the moment, only the knowledge that I’ve fed people. Last night there was not only no financial gain but no food for me either. I’d cooked pancakes for the host family and ran out of batter mix when I got to mine as they had three each. So I simply didn’t eat. There’s a potential opening on the catering front in the local pub but I obviously have to check things out with DWP now that I’m in the Support Group for ESA. I believe I’m permitted to work up to a certain number of hours per week but I fear that running a pub kitchen may entail working more than those permitted hours. So there’s talk of a job share with another chef.

It’s a fledgling enterprise as the pub is under new management and lost a lot of custom to the previous incumbents. But there’s potential: there’s a huge kitchen there, sitting unused. I’m in negotiations with the landlord. Simple fayre at first but once word starts to be spread by happy diners, business could increase; a bit like sales of my book. I just need those reviews from readers who have finished it.

After cooking I’ve been playing a bit of pool, practising for the Wednesday night matches with the pub team. We have a game tonight and I’m beating all comers in the local, so hopefully that will transfer to the away venue. Then back to the safe house to finish the day with a bit of poker online. I’m winning and my bankroll is headed in the right direction as a result.

I’ve had a bit of a financial splurge with my increased bankroll. I’ve not treated myself for over a year, so I’m trying not to feel too guilty. As well as the pool cue and the watch, I’ve acquired some other things, including a Bad Mother Fucker wallet and four holes in my face. I decided to have some piercings and am now sporting a scaffold in my left ear and a bar in my right eyebrow.

So things are going well. It’s about time I had a change of fortune. If everything continues along this route, I should be moving on and out in around a month. I had a very pleasant conversation with my ex-fiance yesterday. She’s been looking after my things for the last year and we did have a bit of a bad patch but yesterday we spoke like old friends. I’m looking forward to seeing her when I move my stuff out of our old flat but it will be a metaphorical end of chapter. It will be with mixed emotions that I leave here, possibly for somewhere local but in all likelihood some distance away. I shall miss my hosts and many of the friends I’ve made around here.

There’s one in particular whose been keeping me sane lately and I shall miss that one more than most others.

“…But all that shit seems to disappear when I’m with you…”

On the Wings of a Hand in Glove

10.02.15 (Day 414)

11.42

It’s good to talk and a lot of people like talking to me and gaining my advice.

Another one of my teenage friends and adopted children has been grounded because of her association with me. She’s had her wings clipped. Adopted because like so many others, she adopted me and not the other way around. That’s how it’s always been.

I don’t go looking for these kids, nor hang out with them any more than I would prey on them. I don’t habitually hang out with the kids because of the false assumptions that the plastic police make as that’s the way society has conditioned them. I have my own life and there’s always plenty to do but I make time to help people when they need me.

Sometimes I go to pubs. Pubs are public houses. That means that they are open to the public. Sometimes teenagers associate with me in pubs; in a public place where there are other adults. And when the teenagers are in the same place as me, invariably they are good company. Many of them are wise beyond their years, sometimes because of their upbringing.

Sometimes these young adults come to me because they need to speak to someone and they’re afraid to talk to their own parents. I’m not a replacement, I don’t tread on toes. I have my own kids and I look forward to their teenage years with trepidation. They’ll grow up and it’ll be as though I’m gradually losing them as they gain independence from me. But I won’t stifle them by grounding them. Start treating your kids like the young adults they are, like I do. Don’t clip their wings, allow them to spread. They’ll make mistakes but you’re there to pick up the pieces. You can’t wrap them up in cotton wool. They come to me for sage advice because they trust me. That advice is sometimes brutally honest: I’m not afraid.

I don’t have any qualifications other than what life has taught me. I fell by the wayside, which is what some of your kids might do if you make them rebel. I have experience of life, which I share as I don’t want them to make the same mistakes I did and for you to suffer as parents like mine have.

Did you know that I stopped one of your daughters killing herself? Probably not because she was too scared to come to you so she came to me instead.

I have a lot of time and love for those kids, just as I do my own. The terms of endearment are just that: affectionate ways of addressing people, as I do my own kids and as we do in London, where I come from: Bermondsey to be precise. Up there we know how things work the old fashioned way and we look after family, both biological and adopted.

I’ll probably receive threats now. It happened before. I’ve been reported to the real police by the plastic brigade because of my associations with young people. Nothing happened because there was no wrongdoing. If I do receive threats, then I won’t deal with them the Bermondsey way but I’ll reciprocate by going to the police myself. I have nothing to hide as I have done nothing wrong. I have character witnesses ranging in age from teenagers whom I’ve helped to people my age, some of whom are the parents of the very kids I’ve helped alongside them as parents.

I’m staying with one of the kids and her family while I wait for a place of my own. Look at yourself before you look at me and ask who’s doing the better job. My job is just being me: writing, cooking and dispensing the occasional piece of advice. I can provide references.

By grounding your kid, you’re just going to make her kick back and rebel. By clipping her wings, you will only encourage her to fly the nest at the earliest opportunity.

I have done nothing wrong and therefore have nothing to apologise for.

Maybe it’s time the groundings and the threats stopped. Maybe it’s time to talk. Then you might realise that when your children are with me and other adults, they are safe.

I Can Hardly Maintain Myself

09.02.15 (Day 413)

14.42

That’s the conclusion from DWP following my recent assessment for eligibility for ESA. I am entitled to Earnings Support Allowance because I am recognised by those in authority as being long term unfit for work.

It wasn’t a scam, there was no bullshit; I am at last able to prove and produce a piece of paper to confirm that I am genuinely unwell. Yes, I still have a drinking problem, which is recognised as an addiction. Those of us with addictive personalities don’t do it for the fun of it: it is recognised as a mental health problem. More importantly though, my chronic depression is now recognised as being long term. There is no root cause any more than there is a cure. I am simply unwell, like so many others. Like so many others, I am avoided because of this label I bear. It’s not a badge of honour but my manic depression to some extent is what makes me what I am. So live with it. I have to.

So the conclusion of the assessment is that I’m incapable of looking after myself. This is subject to debate, depending who you talk to. The main thing for me is the final recognition. The stigma will continue among the uneducated who are afraid to talk to me but that’s their problem and not mine. For my part, I’m pleased to be able to prove my doubters wrong.

As a result of the assessment, my ESA payment has been increased. I’ve also got back pay for the considerable amount of time I’ve been waiting for recognition. I’m now in what’s called Support Group. This means that I am highly dependent on external assistance, or some such shit. I am unable to help myself, which is subject to debate although I haven’t nicked anything – nor been nicked – since February last year. I did not bullshit in the interview and am merely receiving money to survive for as long as I am unfit for work. I paid my taxes when I was working and writing is not work, before anyone thinks otherwise.

I no longer need monthly sick notes from a doctor: I am long term ill. My priority for local authority housing has been increased. All I have to do now is pass the next assessment, due one month today, for PIP: another benefit I’ve been waiting an age from and the one which replaced DLA. I am officially disabled. I can get a free bus pass and everything. Like I said, I paid my takes when I was earning and make no apologies for taking something back. So shoot me. Once that PIP assessment is out of the way, my housing priority will increase still further. With the back pay I’m due though, I’ll be able to afford a deposit on a private rented property. I’ll get my own pad again. Then there are the small matters to attend to: getting my worldly belongings from my ex-fiance in Sidcup and starting mediation with my ex-wife to gain access to my kids.

So in a vain attempt to contain my excitement, I’m having a little day of self-congratulatory celebration. I left the safe house at 11 this morning and don’t plan to return until sometime this evening. For me it’s a day out and for them it’s a day off. Call the plastic police because I’m sitting in a pub. Drinking a pint of cider.

Earlier I met the mother ship and treated her to lunch. She’s been reading my first book and liking it very much she says. Then we went on a shopping spree, during which I acquired a new watch: a rather natty black number with an orange face, for now. The straps, faces and face dials are available in a variety of mix-and-match colours, so I may buy more parts to reflect my changeable moods. And a pool cue. I’ve been asked to play for the local pub’s pool team and always had my own cue when I used to play years ago, so it seemed rude not to get a new one. There ends the splurge as the money has a home: a home for me.

In about an hour, the eldest of my daughter-types is meeting me for a review of my new book, or what I’ve written to date; which is not a lot. This is the foldy one, who’s sixteen. I was hoping to see the middle one yesterday but aren’t allowed and the youngest one – aged fourteen – remains wayward. My clingy thingy has un-clung and is on the runaround. Tomorrow I’m meeting my kid sister, The Courts – aged seventeen – in this very same pub: so arrest me. Then on Wednesday – in this pub – I’m meeting a very dear friend nearer my own age. I’m very much looking forward to catching up with her as it’s been far too long since we drifted apart.

For now my writing arms are loosened up, so I’d better get on with the second book before my fold-up reviewer arrives.

The Fold-up One With a Folded Arm

05.02.15 (Day 409)

08.42

One of my little girls is hurt: the fold-up one has her arm in a sling after being bitten by something. Sweetie, if I find out what it was, I will shoot it, fuck its corpse and eat it. I will too. After watching Watership Down for the first time, I went out and shot a rabbit, fucked its dead body, then ate it to exact my revenge on the animals which had been so cruel to me and made me cry.

I’m limbering up and exercising my fingers on the keyboard to get them ready for a day of writing, seeing as that’s pretty much my job now. Writing this blog, getting everything off of my chest and out of my mind is good preparation. I have some catching up to do on the writing front: Tuesday was lost to engagements which kept cropping up and yesterday turned into only half a day as I had my other hat on; my chef’s hat. In the half day remaining though, I managed to knock out a chapter of the new book:

_______

Chapter Two

The City Without History

The city was different now. Jess knew, yet she hadn’t seen the metamorphosis. She had no memory of how things used to be; only the photographs her parents had left behind. They were gone: her parents and their city.

There used to be public squares, parks and recreation areas. Now the city was just a square, with groups of buildings on each corner separated by wasteland.

Every morning, Jess takes the same route to work, leaving her apartment in the residential quarter and walking counter clockwise around the square city, past the police station and jail to her office in the commercial quarter. Every evening, she walks clockwise past the hospital and back to her home.

She could take a bus. Buses run in both directions around the square. She could use The Loop; an elevated railway around the city. She chooses to walk because in doing so, she takes personal charge of her destiny without entrusting it to public transport and the passengers thereon. And every Wednesday evening, a hand-written note protrudes from the same storm drain cover. Usually it’s just requests for food and water; pens and paper. On this particular Wednesday, the note has gone far further; far deeper.

The first time it happened, all that Jess saw was a rolled up sheet of paper, protruding only slightly from the metal grille as rain water flowed around it, like a periscope tentatively looking for something above an ocean. The river of water flowing into the drain was as grey as the drain cover itself, broken only by white bubbles and carrying debris from the curbside. Bus and train tickets; cigarette ends and spent matches; lottery tickets and receipts; all carried like white water rafters on the river downstream.

On that first occasion, the rolled up sheet was just a protrusion into Jess’s space. White against grey, it was out of place. Jess had stepped into the road and into the riders, as though into enemy territory and pushed the tube of paper into the drain: a discarded sheet, carelessly dropped and washed by rain water into the drain cover but with it’s progress impeded by the iron portcullis which guarded the watery world below.

The riders were demons on wheels, risking their own lives and those of others, riding their cannibalised machines at far in excess of what used to be a speed limit on the roads. Now there were no limits, not even physical ones that the riders observed between road and kerb. Mostly they would growl and roar along the edge of the road but occasionally they would violently mount the kerb, screaming like human sirens at anyone in their way. Jess had seen walkers knocked down, the riders having no concern other than being paid for each delivery of human blood, organs and body parts. They were couriers; messengers to the devil.

If they had time, the riders would stop and pick up their fresh kills to be harvested for spare parts. Far easier were the jumpers: people made redundant, who had hurled themselves from buildings, rather than be dissected while still alive and without anaesthetic, to provide organs and limbs to the needy classes. The riders would collect the roadkill and carrion, then ride pillion on their bikes with their cargo slumped over the handlebars.

A job in the city was something you held onto for life, in more ways than one. Once a job was lost, invariably so too was a life. Jobs were never advertised.

Jess arrives at the building which houses her office and nineteen others: law firms, accountants and the offices of various trades, mainly allied to the construction industry. As the door onto the street closes behind her, the relative quiet in the building is somehow louder than the noise outside as the inside provides room for thought. The riders on the street and the pavement still growl, roar and scream. The other traffic provides a background hum, broken only by the air brakes of a bus travelling either clockwise or counter clockwise around the square city and letting out a mechanical sigh of relief as it disgorges its passengers. The screech of metal on metal from The Loop railway, which runs in both directions around the city subdues as though being shut in a box as the door to Jess’s daytime concentration camp settles in its frame.

The elevator reluctantly collects Jess from the entrance hall, it’s doors opening slowly, like a vertical metal mouth yawning. Then like a piston, the elevator quickly takes Jess to the fourteenth floor and yawns again as she steps out. Before entering her office, she takes in the view outside.

The city looks so different from up here: The Loop a model railway and below it, toy cars, buses, taxis and motorbikes; model people too. Where once stood high rise office towers, now hastily constructed concrete monolithic syringes pierce the clouds of dust which hang overhead, their rooftop communication antennae injecting propaganda into the ether for distant extraterrestrial civilisations to pick up, long after humanity destroyed itself. Welcome to our world. Put another way, this is our world and you are welcome to it.

_______

Paul Auster, eat your heart out. My literary hero considers it a personal achievement if he’s written one page after a long day working. He is a perfectionist and every word must have it’s place, with no redundant words. His writing flows and when you read it, it’s like the author himself is reading it to you.

That’s the last preview I’m posting here. The next anyone sees of the book will be the completed first draft when it goes to my test readers.

Bloodstained Knaves is going to be a longer book than The Paradoxicon. With that book, the subject matter was so huge that if I’d explored it in much greater detail, I’d have ended up with a novel running to 1500-2000 pages. Therefore it paid to write it in the way I did and leave a lot of suggestions for the reader to contemplate. The new book doesn’t have such broad scope but almost perversely, that demands more description; more intimacy between the narrator, the characters and the reader. So Bloodstained Knaves will be bigger and will take longer to write than The Paradoxicon, not just because of its length but because of the descriptive narrative required. I shall continue with the writing process as soon as I’ve got this blog out of my head and attended to a few other things. Then my decks are clear.

There’s not a lot to do as it happens: a couple of emails to send; one to my daughter The Ninja and one to my friend Niki, who’s reading The Paradoxicon. Niki is a teeny bit famous, having featured in Service with Michel Roux a few years back. Look at me rubbing shoulders with the famous, not.

If I can finish up a bit early today, I may meet up with my fold-up girl – also a test reader – to go through whatever I managed to write today.

Quote of the day from yesterday, not from the book and not from my foldy one: “You need to write poetry which appeals to the female vagina.”

When it’s all Worthwhile

04.02.15 (Day 408)

15.42

Just lately I’ve been deriding my doubters and those who just can’t find it within themselves to recognise that I’ve changed from the person they hated, for whatever personal reasons; people who can’t even be bothered to meet me to give me the opportunity to prove myself. Blinkered people, too proud perhaps to admit that even if they weren’t wrong back then, they are now.

These are people who seem to be of the attitude that if you can’t say anything nasty, say nothing at all. I have many examples of the poison I’ve been sent by people whom I once considered friends. I chose not to post their comments here and conducted many debates in private with them. I further chose to never be friends with them again.

But there are people with nice things to say; lots in fact. I’m not gloating but in case any of my haters are reading, I thought I’d share. Like London buses, three came along at once. The first two were messages posted to my timeline on facebook, so anyone who doubts their authenticity can be the defective detectives they always were, trot along and check. Then keep trotting. On the subject of my writing and me in general, having watched me over time:

“You always were a deep person… I want to see you. I think of you every day…”

“Have you ever met a person once and they made an impression you know will last a lifetime? Steve Laker you probably don’t even remember meeting me at Tonbridge station that one time but you made your mark, I’ve still got the poem you knocked up there and then for my little girl, thank you for that and seeing how well things seem to be going for you now, I’d just like to say well done, you deserve to be a published author because quite frankly, you’re awesome.”

And I get lots more verbal positive comments and gratitude from those around me. Emails too:

“Hey, I have my college interview today at 2. I’m so nervous. I hope it goes well because I want to make you proud. I have lost all trust in the man I should call dad, but I put all my trust in a man I’ve known for six months maybe. You gained my trust within a day. One sentence and I was sold. I gained a best friend, a counsellor and most importantly a DAD.

I love you…..dad xxxxxx”

That’s from one of my teens; the teens who some sneer at me for being with. But as I’ve said before, I don’t hang around with them. I don’t go to them. They come to me. Judge if you wish but I have done good out here. The people who think there might be something odd about being close to some teenagers think so because they themselves think it inappropriate and assume there might be something sexual going on. The problem is not in my mind; it’s theirs.

And never forgetting one of my other favourite teens, who I’m spending a lot of time with and with whom I am very close: my fold-up clingy, stick-on thing. Love you little person.

You lot are what makes it all worthwhile. I can take the judging and laugh at it, as long as I know I’m doing right and you keep telling me I am. Those of you I’ve helped out though, you did it yourselves. I just happened to be there and maybe lent a helping hand. I did persuade one of you not to end your life, so perhaps I’ll take the credit for that one. I could never lose any of my kids and one day I’ll get my biological ones back too.

Can I Have Some Zs Please Bob?

03.02.15 – Day 307

14.42

I am tired. This morning it was a big issue but I’ve had the day to place things into perspective. This morning I was angry but the person who caused me a sleepless night didn’t do so intentionally, so there’s no point giving off. And the person concerned gives me so much that I was actually finding it difficult to be angry with them. So, I’m just tired.

I had – at best – an hour of sleep last night. The reason was a misunderstanding right in the middle of my Goldilocks sleep zone. As soon as everyone else in the house has retired to bed, I spend an hour winding down. It’s the hour after I’ve taken my sedative pill. I can’t sleep without that drug as my mind is so active. When I take it, I have a window of around an hour in which to get to sleep. If I go much beyond that, or if that period is interrupted, my sleep suffers. I’m a bad sleeper anyway, suffering as I do from the unholy trinity of insomnia, alcohol – although that is consumed in moderation lately – and depression. Beyond that magic hour, or if that hour is too disturbed, my brain fires up again. It’s just the way I work.

Working: something I’m doing right now. Because right now, writing is working. It’s hard to get certain people to realise that this is what I do now; that while I’m sat tapping away at a keyboard, that is my working day using the main tool of my trade.

I certainly wouldn’t hang my hat on any of the writing I do for this blog. This is me taking a break and expelling my thoughts. My work – for which I’m starting to earn miniscule amounts of revenue – is in writing books and short fiction. I may branch out but I’m busy on the latest novel and that will keep me going for a while.  The Paradoxicon is selling and Travels to The Paradoxicon is now online. The novel has received a positive review:

“This book was different to most books I have read, the style was unique and one which I have not come across. As you read the book you get to really feel for the main character. The book keeps you wanting to read on and not put it down. I was so hooked on The Paradoxicon that I read it in five hours flat out. Definitely a book to read if you like dark stories.”

It’s comments like that which keep a writer going, as it can be a very lonely job. But it’s the one I’ve chosen – along with cooking – and the one I’ll stick with as I enjoy it. I just need more people to buy the book – it’s only two quid for fuck sake – and for word to spread.

I’ve started on the next book, Bloodstained Knaves. Have a first page:

_______

You’ve heard of underground publications, right? Why is it that everything “underground” is considered bad? Just because the very word suggests subterranean? Well it not only does but it is. What you’re reading came from underground, quite literally. It is the very definition of an underground publication. I wrote it, therefore it is published, albeit self-published. I wrote it underground; beneath your feet quite probably. The fact that you’re reading it means that it made its way out. You are reading an underground publication.

Beneath your feet: I’m lower than the shit on your shoes. If I were above ground, you’d probably look down on me, if you noticed me at all. But you don’t notice me because I’m underground; deliberately, where you can’t see me. But you wouldn’t want to, so I’m doing you a favour by staying down here.

We may be below your feet but if you ever took the time, you might realise that there’s more to us than meets the eye. But you can’t see us. Whether that’s by choice or circumstance is irrelevant.

You see, since we’ve been down here we’ve learned a lot. That’s partly why we’re down here. And there is so much down here you don’t know about, or probably wouldn’t want to know about. If you chose to seek us out, you would judge us. Among many delusions, you would probably assume that we can neither read nor write. But you’re reading this: I wrote it.

You’re probably wondering who I am. Well, ask yourself another question: why are you reading this? Because you want to. You have the freedom of choice. Well so do we. We’ve chosen to stay down here and if you really want to keep on reading, you’ll find out why.

_______

Once I’ve finished farting around with this blog, I’ll get back to the book. Just so long as I feel I’ve produced something in a day; a page, a chapter, something, I feel I’ve done a day’s work.

This afternoon will be spent writing in the pub. Yes, I have an alcoholic drink next to me: so shoot me. I’m not kidding myself and my daily consumption has reduced drastically but once I get a couple of drinks inside me and a few cigarettes as well, I’m limbered up.

I’m sort of living the classic struggling writer’s life: living out of a suitcase, staying with friends, smoking, drinking and suffering insomnia and depression. And no, I don’t think it’s glamorous but I do have a tiny bit of self pride for having written my first book, sold it and got good feedback. I can confidently refer to myself as a writer. I wonder how many of my detractors would actually b able to write a book. It certainly takes some commitment.

So I’m in a pub. And I’m waiting for a teenage girl to finish school: so shoot me again. The girl in question is very close to me; one of my adopted daughters. We are friends and friends only; very good friends at that though. This is my fold-up one. She’s a lovely little thing and has helped me as I have helped her. We talk a lot and we spend a lot of time together. We’re very close. But the reason she got her nickname is she can just be folded up and put in a corner while I get on with my work. For my part, I get the best of both worlds: sitting in a pub with one of my favourite girls and writing, while she’s just there. With the other clingy thingy gone, the fold-up one is becoming the new clinger. And I don’t mind in the slightest as I enjoy her company very much. She’s one of those people who you can be with and there are no uncomfortable silences, or ginger kids born. She’s just there. And I’m always there for her. I would both kill and die for that little thing. Love you small person.

Back to the book, which is what I should be doing. And back to the top. I’m not angry at having been denied sleep last night and lately I’ve been denying myself sleep as I’ve burned the midnight oil whilst I’ve been writing. I’m just frustrated. Very frustrated. Not with the person who denied me sleep but at the simple fact that I find it hard to switch off and rest. That’s the manic side of my condition. But as I’ve said before, if I had a big red button which would switch it off, I wouldn’t press it. What’s in my head, however it may misbehave, is what makes me, me. And there are many who wouldn’t have me any other way.

I shall remain frustrated for the remainder of my days most likely. Lack of sleep quite literally drives you crazy. It’s as frustrating as the situation faced by the infinite monkey keeper nearing the end of his project: give an infinite number of monkeys an infinite number of typewriters and eventually they will produce the complete works of Shakespeare. At some point the works will be complete, pending just one letter: the monkey needs to hit the letter D to spell THE END but the little cunt hits Z instead.

Just what I need.

Can I Have That in Writing?

02.02.15 – Day 406

11.42

Yes you can, because I’m now a published author.

I have my supporters but I know I have far more doubters and dissenters: when will these people give me a break? I’ve done wrong in the past. I accept that. I’ve made my apologies and surely 406 days out on the road is sentence enough? Read this blog and you’ll see what has happened over that time: it’s been fucking rough and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. So I deserved it. Fine. Get off my fucking back and let me get on with my life.

I wrote an open letter to my mum. I wrote a heartfelt poem to my parents. I acknowledged them and my sister, along with many others in my book. Maybe no-one passed the messages on. All I know is that the acknowledgements have not been reciprocated.

No doubt the thinking is that I’ve been sitting on my arse, doing nothing other than writing. Well that’s right but I’ve been doing plenty more besides, like bidding on every local authority property which I’m eligible for to try to get a home. I’ve been assessed for my eligibility for benefits and I’m awaiting the opinion of some self-serving bureaucrat as to whether I deserve to remain on the little money I currently receive.

So the thinking continues among my dissenters, why can’t I get a job, when I’m obviously well enough to write? Well, I’m ill. I genuinely fucking am. Yes, I’m still drinking but as my hosts will confirm, I have it under control. Yesterday I had six pints. Of coffee. That’s what I do all day most days: sit at the kitchen table, writing and drinking coffee. There’s the odd fag break about forty times a day but for the most part, I’m almost full-time writing. My mood swings are mere tremors compared to the explosive, irrational ones I used to have when I was pissed. My main medical reason for being signed off from work is chronic depression. There is no cure, only pills to keep the worst at bay.

I’m unemployable. I can’t tolerate being told what to do in any case, which is why I ran my own businesses for three years. So they went tits up because of my drinking. I paid the price and I still do. I punish myself enough without needing anyone else to pile it on. What do I have to do to gain forgiveness from certain quarters? I’m playing devil’s advocate here and I have my own demons but others are demons toward me as well.

I’ve always wrote as a hobby and as prescribed therapy. While I’ve had time on my hands, rather than rant and rave about the ills of the world as I see them, I’ve concentrated on channelling my writing more constructively. That’s why this blog has been sparse recently and that’s how comes I’ve produced these:

The Paradoxicon is my debut novel. It’s published and available on Amazon for Kindle here. There are apps available for other readers and phones enabling them to read Kindle content. I’ve been working on the book for around six weeks, averaging six hours a day. It’s gone through numerous drafts and I’ve had many meetings with my test readers to polish it up to its final form. The feedback from readers and buyers is good and even though I say so myself, it is a good book. It addresses religion, science and life itself. As one reader commented, “You may look at life differently after reading this book.”

Travels to The Paradoxicon, as the name suggests, is what led up to the writing of the book: thirteen short stories, including the three which formed the basis of the novel. At the time of writing this, Amazon isn’t playing ball with uploads but the book will be available to buy for Kindle soon. My Amazon author page is here.

Bloodstained Knaves is the novel I’m working on now: it’s set in a post-apocalyptic world where law and order has broken down and anarchy rules in the underworld. Above ground, social class stands for everything, as what little infrastructure remains is the reserve of the privileged. A fractured government is still in place, seeking to rebuild a country and legislation is laid down which dictates that those able to rebuild and run a new country are given priority over others. Doctors are needed, as are those able to govern and police. Those who are able to rebuild are also spared: builders, carpenters, electricians… Everyone else is a disposable person. Involuntary euthenasia is employed so that the organs of the lower classes may be used to save those who are able to rebuild. It’s pretty bleak.

Okay, so I’m self-publishing but it’s the easiest route to market and the reader and buyer feedback, as well as my own humble opinion, is that my writing has definite artistic merit. Mainstream publishers don’t work like they used to when I first started writing. No longer are there teams of sub-editors with huge piles of manuscripts on their desks. Instead, the publishing houses scour the self-published markets for talent. I undertook a lot of research before going down this route and discovered that 15 per cent of Kindle sales are self-published work. Many successful authors started by self-publishing to get themselves noticed. It’s no longer vanity publishing; rather it’s a declaration of confidence in oneself. And what better marketing support than having the largest book seller on the planet behind you?

It’s a tough and very competitive industry and only a very few will go on to be successful and make a decent living out of writing. For me it remains something which I enjoy doing and if I can make a little money, then so be it. I’m allowed to earn up to a certain sum before any benefits might be affected. If and when that situation arises, it will be a nice problem to have.

Many successful writers write because they are unable to work, like me. They get paid very little and they give so much back with what they do. It’s a selfless job for the most part. I do enjoy it though and it is a job. I have written a novel which is published and I’m receiving royalties, albeit pennies for now. I’m a professional writer. I’ve written several short stories which are soon to be published. Six of them have already appeared in magazines. I’m writing a second novel. This is my job now. I grew up to be a writer. I love what I do, even though the pay is very poor. For now. But I’ve always gone with my heart and taken risks, even though some thought me foolhardy. What do I have to lose though, when I’ve lost everything anyway?

Likewise my other passion: cooking. I’ve had a few gigs now, cooking community lunches and family dinners. I’ve been paid too. Just like writers though, only a very few elite chefs will get rich on what they do. I have nothing to lose: little or no money but I have an ability to write and to cook. Since I lost everything, I’m not motivated by money or possessions. It’s about quality of life and at the moment my life is a notepad, a pen, a computer and internet access. A physical home of my own would be nice eventually but for now, I’m quite content.

The one thing I crave though is recognition from those whom I’ve perhaps wronged in moments of blurred logic but who I’ve apologised to. An apology is nothing if made and not accepted.

Yes, there’s a lot about me in The Paradoxicon and people who know me will see that. I only hope those same people do me the courtesy of reading the whole book though and seeing exactly why I form part of the basis of it. It’s about so much more.

Time and time again I’ve admitted that I’ve made mistakes: don’t we all from time to time? I still feel guilt, yet those who have kicked me out and about only seem to sneer and show no remorse. If it wasn’t for the kindness of others, I’m pretty sure I’d have died out here, like at least six of my friends have. By writing the book, I thought perhaps that I might make some people proud and not ashamed, yet all I seem to get is a brush off. Oh, he wrote a story. It’s a bit about him. It’s quite a fucking story, if you just take the time to read it. It’s not all about me. I’m one of the least self-centred people I know nowadays. For the most part, my hosts say I’m a pleasure to have around. There are dozens of people out there who will testify that I have helped them. I’ve even saved at least two lives in the last fourteen months. One of them was a teenage girl. She has parents. They still have her.

Read my book, get some character references and take me back.

The book is priced very competitively at under three US Dollars: that’s less than two quid in English money. It’s the price point recommended by Amazon for a debut Kindle novel. I don’t ask for much and I’m not begging but I’ve spent a lot of time and love crafting something full of messages. It’s not like I’m asking for something for nothing. I’m just trying to make some money from something I’m good at. And I won’t spend it on booze. It’s been far too long since I sent anything to my kids. Even though I may not see them, I’d like to put something aside for them. If you read the book, you’ll see the dedication at the front: For my kids.

So for less that it costs to buy a cup of coffee, you want it in writing? Please buy my book.