Tribute to the (as yet unknown) suicide victim

..... apparently, somebody chucked themselves under a train between Derby and Long Eaton this afternoon. Rest now, my friend, whoever you were. Rest. I wish you had recognised the one person to talk to, to remind you that the black dog passes, that night is followed by morning. That spring follows winter. Rest in peace, sweet person. No more will you hurt; never again will you smell the dawn of the brand new day that brings hope and, with it, life, in all of its fragrant trauma. For in everything, we learn and grow. Our tears make seedlings of new life and adventure. In life we can neither say never or forever, but in death there is no uncertainty. It is forever. In the certainty of death, there will never be foolish optimism.

Fashion, as I see it

We had to write 400 words in a seminar on the subject of fashion as we see it. I added a bit to it and have published it below.

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Fashion, as I see it, is a casual uniform that binds like minds to one another. It is all about conformity, grasping for identity, whether it be with peers, pop idols or other influential figure.

We all have a 'look'. Mine is scruffy. Just glancing around the seminar room where I currently sit, there are girls in leggings, similar to those I wore in the late 80s and early 90s. In those days, it was popular to wear them with gaudy bat wing sleeve pullovers. Now, they seem to be worn with close fitting, sleeveless tops beneath something that looks like the lovechild of Slashed Vest and Table Cloth. If I wore one of those, I would probably be constantly snared by seat backs or other peoples' luggage on the train. My laptop back pack would shred what was left.

The lads seem to either wear jeans that are too tight and scream infertility treatment ten years hence or, worse, falling down over their arses, showing an expanse of boxer shorts. I'm torn between a furious urge to scream, 'Pull your fucking trousers up!' or dacking the scruffy bastards. If they are so intent on showing their pants have Calvin Klein embroidered in to the elastic, why not go the whole hog? The only name labels we had as kids were the ones from Cash’s. I remind myself of my gran who, back in the 60s, would often go off on a rant when men started growing really long hair and pulling it back into a pony tail. She would end it with,

‘It makes me want to get a big pair of scissors, go behind ‘em, grab hold of it and cut it off,’ she’d say with a fairly frightening sweep of hand with her air cutters.

And what is the matter with good, fresh air? Have these youngsters balded prematurely and feel they need to walk round with their hoods up? Has central heating turned younger generations permanently nesh? How long will it be before stocking masks, once essential accessories for stars of Police 5 are all the go?
'It's stifling,' I want to tell them. 'Liberate your heads and free your minds. Give it freedom to turn around and take in the morning sky, the starry nights, the sights and sounds of the city. Head coverings, from brollies to beanies are bad for the soul. They shut life itself out.'

I look at what I'm wearing: fairly clean jeans and the sleeves of my Sheffield Hallam University sweatshirt rolled to the elbow. It now has a raw edged collar because the hood is in the duster draw at home. My most expensive item is my boots. El Natura Lista. Brown ankle boots bought from Jones the Bootmaker at the beginning of last week for £75 and that was after the '£20 off all boots' discount had been taken into account. Dyed with natural vegetable colouring and with recycled rubber soles. Flatties. Not like the ankle breaking, killer heels that a lot of the young female students wear on a two for one drinks night up West Street.

I've gone through a fashion or two in my 48 years but have always preferred the durable, practical and comfortable as is common among people, like myself, on the autism spectrum. Maybe that look, in itself is a fashion statement.

Photograph copywrite www.orble.com

Clockwork or All Wound Up, by Philip Pullman

If you missed this book the first time around, it is well worth taking a look.

The preface sets a Christmas card like scene of children sitting by Grandfather’s feet, illuminated by the glow of warm log fire-light. He tells the story, one imagines, against the howling wind and lashing rain of a cold winter night. Pullman says of some stories, ‘Once you’ve wound them up, nothing will stop them; they move forwards till they reach their destined end, and no matter how much the characters would like to change their fate, they can’t.’

Ignoring the aimed at children format, this dark fairy tale is filled with suspense and analogy. The Corgi Yearling edition I picked up from Amazon is illustrated by Peter Bailey’s eerie pencil drawings. This is where Oscar Wilde’s Happy Prince meets the Brothers Grimm and Pinocchio, with some Tales of the Unexpected thrown in. The sidelines combine laugh out loud funny with searing wisdom aimed at the adult reading to the child.

This story is one to be read aloud, under blankets, on the sofa, by Grandpa on a cold night. Just not at bedtime.

Streeet Poem for Parents

Wonderful joy!
An hallelujah moment of
definable bliss.
To go to the toilet
for a p**s
and leave the bathroom door open.
It says,
‘In peace you do
your busy-ness.'
No-one else is home.’
Apart from two dogs
And four cats that hiss.