You Had One Job

There’s never a dull day at my job. As a porter at one of Cambridge’s oldest colleges, I’ve just about seen it all: tourists sliding past the “College Closed to Visitors” sign to gawp at our admittedly impressive architecture; non-University townsfolk sneaking into our cellar bar, inebriated students stumbling back at 3am. Just last week I witnessed a student vomit and piss simultaneously. I would have been impressed had it not ruined my uniform. 

I prefer a passive involvement in university life. I’m more than happy to sit in my lodge by the college entrance hearing stories of what has happened here and further afield. However, sometimes I have no option but to get actively involved. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it’s often the talking point of the city. Take yesterday, for example. There I was alone in the porters lodge, halfway through my morning coffee, black, no sugar, when my walkie-talkie crackled into life. 

It’s Brian, the gardener “Mike, are you there? Stella’s just left her hideaway and is heading towards you”

“Oh bollocks. Right, can you just walk behind her while I place some phone calls?

“Roger that. You’d better hurry though, she’s nearly cleared the lawn” 

No sooner had I finished on the blower, Brian approached my window. 

“She’s all yours mate”

I looked down, and sure enough there was Stella, confidently waddling through the entrance arch to the pavement outside, her numerous offspring stumbling behind her. I did a quick count. Nine of them. Bloody hell, there must have been no room to move in the nest. I counted again just to be sure. Nine tiny yellow ducklings followed their mother.

Stella knows the drill. We all do, thanks to our annual training. It’s time for her pilgrimage towards the river, where she will cast her ducklings off into the big wide world. It’s an easy five minute stroll for a human, significantly longer for a duck. Between us and the river are many obstacles for ducklings: two roads, four grassy courtyards and many stone steps. Undeterred, Stella marches on. We’re now out on the street. A crowd has drawn as people stop and watch this mother duck leading her offspring across the road. The busker who infamously plays his banjo from inside an especially commissioned bin shouts out, annoyed to no longer be the centre of attention. 

Despite the shortcuts I’d guaranteed for her earlier, It takes Stella about an hour to reach her destination. She marched up the halfway steps, not even stopping as her chicks fell back over each other in their struggle to climb. As the river came into view, I noticed the reporters gathered on the bank to document her journey for the local paper. Stella ignored them, focussed on one thing only. At long last, Stella reached the waters edge. 

Mission accomplished. I watched with pride as Stella jumped into the water, closely followed by her eight chicks.

Oh shit.

Come Follow The Band

This story was based on an evening I had in Barcelona last summer. We did genuinely end up in the middle of a samba street party. Read and enjoy!

It’s the last day of our trip together. Tomorrow, we get on the return flight that will carry us back to our separate jobs, our separate houses, our separate day-to-day responsibilities. But before then we have one last day to enjoy ourselves. 

We spent the afternoon on the beach, keen to sunbathe before the drizzly English summer takes hold. We sipped ice cold mojitos under the clear blue sky, bought from the vendors that wander up and down the beach shouting ‘Mojito, Mojito’. We swam in the warm Mediterranean sea, going out as far as we could before the Lifeguard’s warned us to head back to shore. We napped together on the sand, recovering from the festival all-nighters. 

But now the temperature has dropped, and the evening is well underway. We pull dresses over our sun dried swimwear, slide our feet into flip flops, and head inland in search of one last tapas bar. 

We head up a narrow side street. That’s when we hear it. A faint fast-tempoed drum beat, from somewhere in the near distance. A nearby live music bar perhaps? Multiple additional drums join the first, building a samba rhythm. A blast of trumpets quickly joins the drums, building layers and layers of noise. All the while, the beats and the brass gets louder and louder, as if it’s moving towards us.

It is moving towards us. We stand transfixed as we finally glimpse the source of the hubbub. There’s drums, ten or so of them each strapped to a man who enthusiastically whacks the instrument with the mallets he holds in each hand. There’s brass, two trumpets, a trombone and even a french horn, which are being played with equal vigour to the drums, creating a cacophony of noise. Their enthusiasm is infectious; we can’t help but move our bodies to the sound, right here in the street. And we’re not the only ones. Surrounding the musicians are a sea of people, men and women, children and parents, teenagers and retirees all dancing along with the band, following the band through the streets, like the Pied Piper. We join them, as they lead us like the Pied Piper to a nearby square. 

There, in the square, as the band takes advantage of their static position. The tempo quickens, the sound of the drums and brass verges on deafening. No-one around us seems to care, becoming more animated with each beat. We are moving with increasing vigour, in our salty swimwear and flimsy footwear with the locals, not caring what the diners at the nearby seafood restaurant think of us. 

We can’t believe how lucky we are. We hopped on the cheap flight that carried us halfway across Europe in just over two hours and spent a long weekend together in our favourite city where we partied in the streets.

Sometimes, we forget just how fucking lucky we really are. 

Blue Monday

I'm not meant to be here. Of course I'm meant to be here.

What if anyone at work finds that I pulled a sickie for this? I would be sacked. Best keep this off Instagram stories.

What would Dad say if he were conscious? He would be telling me to go out and live, rather than watching him slowly fade away.

Well, this one's for you Dad. You always did enjoy the Mancunian acid house movement. I've lost count of the number of times you told me that if you were ten years younger and weren’t raising kids, you would have been there dancing with Barny, Hooky and Bez in the Hacienda. All night, every night, you would say. 

I'm standing in the middle of London's O2 arena. I've been here so many times before, and each time I'm blown away by the sheer scale of the place. The arena floor is packed with a mixture of young people like myself in the prime of their lives and middle aged blokes reliving their glory days. The stands are a similar story, and rise high above us on either side. I wouldn't want to be up there, restricted to a chair, the band mere specks on the stage. No, I'd rather be here, at the centre of the action. 

Around me, the crowd is silent, patiently waiting. We all know what is coming, know which song hasn't yet been played. And we're ready for it. I feel the pill I took earlier kick in.

The drum beat starts, instantly recognisable. This is it. This is what we're here for. The crowd around me roars in approval. My voice gets lost amongst the sea of others.

Dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum dadadadadadada, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dadadadadadada. 

The synth starts, playing the all familiar melody over the drum beat, carefully crafting the layers that make this song a piece of art. Now the crowd starts to stir. Bodies start twisting, arms start pumping, feet start jumping. Slowly, surely the arena becomes a 70,000 strong rave.

The song builds and builds. More drum beats join the first, the bass line blares out the speakers. My body is no longer my own, moving of its own accord to the beat of the music. I savour every moment, barely believing how lucky I am to be dancing along with the artists as they craft their masterpiece.

If only Dad could see this. He would move with as much vigour as the more able bodied in the crowd. As the song builds towards the crescendo, I can't hold it in any more. Tears stream down my cheeks as I release all the emotions I have held in since that night in A&E. I'm not ready to lose him yet. I have to be.

60 miles away in the hospice bed, Dad takes his last breath. 

The Power Within Me

Before you continue reading, I just want to add a couple of quick notes. Firstly, this was my debut flash fiction on the WritersHQ forum (with a different title). Secondly, this is purely fiction and that I am not pregnant (at the time of writing). So please don’t take anything from this Mother!

When a baby girl is born, she holds all the eggs she'll ever need in her lifetime. 

Interesting, huh? There's more to it though. Let's go a bit deeper.

This therefore means that when your grandmother was carrying half of your genetic material whilst she was pregnant with your mother.

Of course, women have to go through puberty and be in the follicular phase of their menstrual cycle before those eggs are ready to be fertilised. But that's not the point I'm trying to make. 

My point is that all pregnant women are currently carrying half the genetic material for their own grandchildren. And a quarter of the genetic material for their great-grandchildren.

Isn't that fascinating?

Isn't that empowering? 

How many women do you know who are currently pregnant, have this life growing inside of them? And how many of these women do you think are aware that they are also carrying part of a human who will be well into their fourth decade at the next turn of the century. 

Probably not many. 

Think back to when your grandmother was your age. What’s the year? 1950? 1960? 1970? Has the Cuban Missile Crisis happened? Has Nelson Mendela been sentenced to prison? Has man walked on the moon?

How different is your world from that of your grandmother?

Now think the same amount of years in the future. What year will it be? 2070? 2080? 2090? What will your grandchild’s world look like? If the human race continues growing at the same rate it’ll look very different, that’s for sure. Will they watch in horror as water sweeps uncontrollably through the country they call home? Will they have to flee as wildfires engulf their home? Will they succumb to the pandemic that arises from the permafrost? 

How different will your grandchildren's world be to yours?

I look down at my stomach, where my unborn daughter is growing inside of me, and I ask myself these questions. I'm not sure I like all the answers. Their child, my grandchild, has to live in this world. The grandchild who will emerge from the eggs that I am currently carrying. They can’t stop the sea, the wildfires, the pathogens, the future that I can’t even begin to imagine. By then, it will be too late.

But I can.