Hope(c) by Michael Casey

Hope(c)
 By
 Michael Casey

I've just watched Star Trek again, the film version by JJ Abrams. I really enjoyed it, especially the fact that Spock gets the girl. It was an exciting film, and most of all it was about Hope.

Yes HOPE, without hope we are nothing. Without Hope we are no better than animals or insects even. Small and Nothing. Hope is love, it is future, hope is our smile. A man, a great man once said Pray, Hope and Don't worry. His name was Padre Pio, I believe it was him who saved my dad's life back in 1996 you can read Padre Pio and Me on my  timeline.

I hope I pass that exam, I hope that girl notices me, I'm too shy to talk to her. I hope he notices me. Our whole life direction can start or stop, all because of hope.  Or lack of hope, and perhaps courage. It takes courage to take that 1st step, putting yor feeling out there. To be accepted or rejected in an instance.

If accepted you go forward slowly. If rejected you go away and cry maybe. But that's where Hope comes in, without Hope you just want to stay in bed and give up. You have to shake yourself and start again, and again, and again and again. No matter how many times it takes for you to have your confidence back.

Hope should always be in your heart, even if you feel destroyed you have to gather your spirits up and try again. Or if you are very lucky you stand by the fridge after you have got home and look at your dead mother's photo. Then you make a prayer. Always  remember to pray, even when you cannot pray because all Hope seems to have been swept away. You just pray, hope and don't worry. Even if your only prayer is "teach me to pray."

There is always hope, I was talking to somebody recently, and I hope they read this and take it to heart. You may be flat on your back in the gutter, and I've been there too, but you can look up at the stars, misusing Oscar Wilde's quote. All of us can get up off our back and start again. I'm smiling now, why? Because I have a bad back which is a life changing thing for me. My path has to be different from now on.

My path I hope is writing, writing for Radio and Film too, if I'm lucky and if I pray hard enough. Even if it not, I'll still write at www.michaelgcasey.wordpress.com  and even if nobody ever reads my words I'll still write. Because I have Hope. I've had Hope these past 26years. I have a family now, all because of Hope.

So never give up or give in, sometimes you have to give yourself a kick up the backside, just as sportsmen do. Wind yourself up like clockwork and get back on that horse. Get back to that sewing machine, get back to the classroom, or back to driving that taxi. Whatever it is do it, just do it.

Go look at my photos, see how silly I look. If I can talk to you the way I'm talking to you   right now then how much better are your true friends. I'm not here to inspire you, go inspire yourself. Have a rest tonight, and in the morning start over, each day is fresh, straight out the fridge if you like.

So make yourself a fresh new creation, every single day.

Michael

Fences (c) by Michael Casey

Fences ©

By Michael Casey

I was on my way to Mass this morning and I was thinking about what I could write next. I’ve covered a lot of ground already with 500 shorts or blogs. They are on Amazon Kindle, but did you know you can also download to a PC if you don’t have a Kindle.

As I turned the corner I looked at the fence and that was it, I had the idea for the next piece of writing, and so here I am talking to you about Fences. Yes that’s how I get my ideas, I just see or hear something then away I go. An hour or so later you can see what I’ve produce on my www.michaelgcasey.wordpress.comsite. Then I share it with Facebook. When I have 100 or so pieces of writing I copy them off as an ebook, in total I have six books now on Amazon Kindle.

But what about Fences? Well my first memory is the hole in the fence, this allowed a bulldog to get into our back garden from the back streets behind our road. So we all ran and hid in the garden shed, only my brothers would not let me in , so I had to hide in the outside toilet. Nobody had indoor toilets in them days, 50 years ago. I could hear the bulldog barking. When he was gone I went crying back home to our house and the safety of my mum’s arms. She soothed me with fairy cakes, these were the cup cake variety which you make from a packet of ready mix.

Move on a few years and dad could afford to have a new fence built, one with concrete posts and slatted pieces of wood. Now the bulldogs could not come and get us. So piece reigned.

Well almost piece, our neighbour at the bottom of the garden had 3 sons and they loved  football. So my mum’s eternal worry was that they would break the fence. However sometimes they would kick the ball over the fence, so silence reigned. Sometimes me and my brother went to the other garden and had our own game of football with the borrowed ball. Or until Mr Q asked for the ball back.

Innocent pleasures, as was climbing over the fence to Mrs Dixon’s to get the ball when we kicked it over the side fence. She was posh and did not like us smelly boys climbing over the fence. Her son became a Policeman and actually made Sergeant, so he was Sergeant Dixon, as in Dixon of Dock Green the famous UK tv series. I imagine he was teased by his work mates, though I think he may have made inspector later on. He’d be retired now I imagine.

My other memory is the great storm in the 1970s, it really was immense. All our fences came crashing down, apart from the one at the back which was newish, have survived constant football, it stayed standing. The others were a mess, a total mess.

My parents would not let that stand in the way. So together my mum and dad built the 3 fences, we had 2 gardens you see, but that was an accident I’ll talk about another time. My mum went around all the building sites where builders were, and offered a few quid for timber which was going to be burnt. That’s the way builders worked in the old days, 30 years ago. No health and safety and pollution laws. If an Irish lady came with fivers in her hand of course  they’d give her the planks, and deliver too. They got beer money and we got timber, a perfect exchange.

The timber was thrown in a heap in the middle of what was the two gardens, a shipwreck of enormous proportions. A kind of Turner painting in the middle of our back gardens. A war painting that could have been hung in the Tate, made from planks galore, which had in turn had turned into a very good piss up for the builders.

Now how do you build a fence? One plank at a time. Dad got some concrete posts delivered and some supports. Then he dug holes and planted the posts in concrete about 18 inches deep. Once set the supports, the frames were attached to the posts. Then it was a question of nailing the planks to the supports.

I think he measured one plank, and cut it to 5feet, then that was a template for the others. It must have took a couple of weeks to build the fence, dad still had to go to Hell every day. Hell being a steelworks in Smethwick, where 400degrees plus was the norm.

So mum and dad built the fences, one plank at the time. Mum having to go in and start the dinner while dad hammered away. Now theses planks were from old floorboards from demolished houses, so they were ¾ inch thick or 2cms each if you know metric. This means they were as strong as girders.

On one side it was decided to make the fence 6 feet tall, it was only lower in the middle between our two gardens. So away dad hammered. I imagine I was sent around the corner with a jug to get a few pints from the off licence, a reward for all his efforts. I still remember the large lady who used to live there, occasionally we went there for sweets too.

So after a few weeks the fences were built. It was then I was allowed to chip in. I had to creosote the fences. Creosote is a brown thick and foul smelling liquid, it preserves wood. No Tom Sawyer could I be, I had to do it all myself. I stunk of creosote for weeks, or rather my clothes did, no matter how often you wash them. I had a green jumper I remember that, and it stunk.

Now I could talk of fences and walls between us, and so forth, and I did have that idea at the back of my mind as I was talking to you. But having come to the end of this piece, if you think about it, what have I really been talking about? I’ve been talking about love, the family of love I come from. In fact I suppose the first 500 shorts or blogs have been about that too. Now if only I could get them on the Radio, now that could mend fences.

Image Imagination and Ignorance (c) by Michael Casey

Image, Imagination, Ignorance(c) Nov 6, ’09 6:37 AM
By

Michael Casey

I did a quick google of “michaelgcasey” to see who was looking me up. Then I clicked on Image to see the snaps of myself. This morning loads of snaps appeared. This proves several things, my vanity, and who in the whole wide world is clicking on “michaelgcasey” to check me out. There are family snaps plus ones of me in a suit, or me in an Australian rugby shirt holding up the self published version of my book. As you all know I still want a REAL publisher and me holding up the book in a real book store. That’s the image I’d really like to see. As you all also know anybody who has clicked on my stuff or posted stuff in a comment then their connection appears in a Google search. So their image is tied to my image, even if really they have no connection to me at all. Its like a stranger standing in at a wedding photo just for the fun of it. Wedding crashers is the name of the game. This actually happened at one wedding I attended.
My main theme though is Image. At a Wedding we all tend to wear our best suits and polish those black shoes that have been gathering dust at the back of the closet. We make an effort so to please our mum, our friends, our ex lover, boyfriend, girlfriend and so on. We spend 20K or 30K in USD, all so that we look good on the Wedding photos, we have a day to remember. Personally I say its the Marriage that Matters, not the Wedding Day. You can read from the Bible and as you read you wonder, how long will this Marriage last. Everybody looks so good, and they have chosen the best caterers, the cake was made by Aunt Ann and she does it for a living, we saved so much you know. All this is Image. You could have bought a brand new car instead, but the Day in King, So even though we cann’t afford it, we will have our day so that someday in the future somebody somewhere can google and find us all dressed to the nines on our wedding day. Me I just bought a new car, I won’t even bore you with why. I’ll let you all use your imagination. How many different guesses will you all have?
In Shanghai and the East they do a photo shoot with various costumes including the tradional white wedding dress, then they hand out credit card sized photos of the loving couple. The book is as big as a shopping catologue with photos printed on very very thick paper.I ts a nice souvenir, a nice Image.
What of our own individial image. Don’t take a photo my hair’s a mess, say wives and girlfriends and perhaps some TV reporters, male and female. Let me comb my hair first. Tuck in your shirt, wipe the pizza from your face. Change your clothes,and the list goes on. Politicians dress up or dress down, Royalty over here do the same. Why? For the sake of image. Before I change water into wine, I’ll just change my tunic… Sorry I cannot kiss him, he hasn’t changed, he needs a shave, he smells. What if it was your dad lying there, dying there? I’ve been down that road. A kiss, a touch is PRICELESS, never let ignorance and image get in the way of love.

*******

don’t forget my books are on Amazon Kindle just look for my face 6 times.

Hot Weather(c) by Michael Casey

Hot Weather ©

By

Michael Casey

They say that some like it hot, me I like it just right, just as the 3 bears in Goldilocks and the 3 Bears did. My wife does call me a polar bear, I am a large sized person after all, she does call me that too. Though me and the girls do call her the witch, with the hackled voice too, on occasions.

But what about the weather?  We are having a heat wave here in Birmingham and the rest of the country.  Though we did just have thunderstorms and a new Royal baby in the middle of it.

Where I live if there is half a smile from the sun then the legs are out. I mean literally, all the men sport shorts, short fat and hairy legs suddenly appear. And don’t you wish they’d hide those hideous legs. Yuck.

Me I have great legs, but as a public service I hide them, I keep them covered. If I were to reveal   them  old ladies would faint and young ladies would swoon. Sergeant Mulholland from Old Forge and Singing Anvil police station did have a quiet word. He said he’d buy me 17 pints of Stella and a packet of cheese and onion crisps, to soak up the Stella, IF I promised to keep my long trousers on, and never reveal my stout hair legs.

So that’s why when the whole of my area is in shorts I’m still in long trousers, standing at bar of The Trader, trying ever so hard to finish my Walkers cheese and onion crisps.

The girls in my area they too are in shorts, it’s like  being at the beach, but there is no sand. Why should a bit of sunny effect people so much? Well we did all have the worse winter in 50years, I can even remember the snowball fights with my brother. One end of the garden had a carved up snowman, the other end near the hedge had a wall the width of the garden. Yes that was 50years ago.

But what of the sun, well we don’t normally get heat waves over here in England. So everything stops. It’s as if a war time siren sounds and its screamed from the roof tops “SHORTS ON”. Our police don’t wear shorts, it’s their legs you see, policemen’s legs have to be covered, it’s the law in England. If you don’t believe me go write to the Library of Congress and ask to speak to Randy Cheserwich he’s the police attire specialist, world affairs.

People smile more when the sun shines, even burglars, because we leave our doors and windows open. So remember to be sensible. Though in the street next to mine we did have an attempted burglary due to the sunshine and open doors. It could have ended in tragedy.

The burglar sneaked into the home, and was half way up the stairs when he saw a sight to behold. The ugliest and hairiest legged man in the world, no not me.  But this man was too hot so he was wander around his own home, au natural. The burglar screamed and ran off.

That was a mistake, as Gregory the home owner happened to be a sprinter. The burglar was already in shock from the what he had seen, but being chased up the high street, was another shock. When you have the fear of god in you, you can tun fast really fast. But not fast enough, people came out of the butcher, the baker and the undertaker and watched the race. Smiling Paul from the bookies even placed a bet on the result.

Screams and shouts as Gregory caught the man, no he wasn’t Gregory’s girl, he was Gregory’s thief. Gregory also happens to be a Black Belt, though he wasn’t wearing any trousers. So Gregory bounced the thief off a wall, before making a citizen’s arrest.

 It was then that Gregory met his future wife, Amanda from the material shop. She had seen everything, and she thought, that’ll do for me, I can always shave him. So striding out of the material shop she wrapped Gregory in green material. He was all hers now, the urge was upon her, and as Gregory looked in her eyes the urge was upon him.

A normal kind of Summer’s day in Old Forge and Singing Anvil, so ask for The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker at Amazon Kindle.

Bye now I think I’ll put my shorts on. Michael

The Bus Stop

The Bus Stop ©

By

Michael Casey

A bus stop is an ordinary even boring kind of thing, but if you look closely you’ll see the whole world in front of you. My brother gave up using buses when he was 40 something, he was fed up of being wet in the rain, waiting for a bus to come.

I still use buses so I see the whole world and their mother. At the bus stop you still see young mothers, some too young to be mothers, smoking all over the child in the pram. I’ve noticed too that Polish people seem to smoke more, mind you my brother still smokes. One of our lodgers smoked and drank and gambled and he died at 83, the day after his birthday.

At the bus stop you have the clock watcher, somebody who is forever glancing at his watch, eager to get to work, as if he is the CEO. Nowadays some people don’t have watches, they have mobiles, so why have a watch.

The music fan is also to be found at the bus stop, his music blasting from his mp4 player. I’m standing 5 feet away and I can hear the music loud and clear. So is the music fan melting his brain, or is he just DEAF.

The kindle reader is a new thing, but there at the bus stop you can see the reader reading the reader, I’m watching the reader reading his reader. So it goes on, I’m the David Attenborough of the bus stop, watching and observing everything.

There is the new couple, still clinging and groping one another at the bus stop, and it only 8am. She clings to him as he with his gap tooth smile tries to bite her neck again, like some daytime Dracula. To be honest you feel sick, you want to throw a bucket of water over them, they are maybe 19 to 21, they have discovered sex. So they are still sampling one another at the bus stop.

A regular, a little old lady and her Scottie dog walks past, the dog stops to pee at the corner of the shelter, splashing the lovers, there was no bucket of water to hand but the Scottie dog should be applauded.

The bus slows and stops, the lovers exchange a final French kiss, more like a tonsillectomy, but he has to go back to bed while she has to go to work. Luv You they say 15 times over as the queue fills the bus.

An ordinary day at an ordinary bus stop, somewhere in Birmingham. I wonder is it the same where you are?

Pitch Perfect (c) by Michael Casey

Perfect Pitch ©

By

Michael Casey

In music perfect pitch is where you sing really well, hitting the notes exactly as they should be, or if you play an instrument you play perfectly well. I believe John and Yoko’s son has perfect pitch, I heard it said on the radio.

Behind me is the piano where my girls practice and where they have their music lessons. Some of the tunes they play take me back to my childhood, the girls are surprised I know the tune, I even sing the song to them. In our house Music is important.

The girls joined a church choir after their primary school took them to visit the church. So that has been a great thing these past  few years. The lady from the choir is the same lady who comes to our house to teach them piano.

Pianos make a lot of noise, they resonate throughout the house, our piano, an electronic one also has pedals, and the girls know how to use them. One pedal extends the sound, the other pedal cuts it short. If I have explained this wrong, then forgive me.

Piano lessons,  mean practice.  You have to make sure or even force the student to practice. It all depends on your student. For me sitting four feet away from the piano as I talk to you, it can be very noisy with a daughter behind me practicing.  A little boring too as they repeat five times over the practice piece.

Now for me  the best bit is when they improvise after the practice piece. My smallest daughter is very good at improv. This is where the Vangelis in her comes to the fore, and where the electronic sounds can be used on the piano. I have in fact just switched Vangelis on as I talk to you, I hope he doesn’t drown out my words.

Music is freedom, as I’ve said before Jazz is smoke turned into music, so listening to my daughter improvise is a great thing. Finally when they are  finished the house slumbers again. But not for long, as I have my music on the computer, and on a usb  stick in my cheap but great sounding hifi behind me on the bookcase.

So are we noisy neighbours? You’ll have to ask the neighbours, but our neighbour is a musician, and teaches violin, so I think she’ll never complain.

Now Pitch Perfect the title of today’s piece was going to talk about pitching an idea, and  pitch perfect was the title as it could have a double meaning. But I’ve led myself astray a little, just a little.

I had to pitch an idea, a script to be honest, only the other day. It’s a hard thing to do, especially if you have to do it in one page. So what did I do? I cheated,  I chose a small font size so I could fit in more words. Ask a writer to say less is almost impossible, it’s like asking an alcoholic to stop drinking. And I know all about alcoholics, we had lodgers and they were all big drinkers.

So how do you pitch an idea? In the end you cannot, all you can do is be honest and tell the story of your screenplay in as few as words as possible. I imagine the one page pitch is faxed to the backers and if they like it they ask for the full script to be emailed to them.

 Then in a jacuzzi  somewhere a moneyman is reading your script  as he drinks his orange juice or whatever. If he drops it in the water then you have failed, but if he gets out and sits to read your script, then you have a chance. He may even ask his mum or wife or daughter  to have a read too. Then you have a chance.

I am also trying to get my words on the radio, so how do you pitch for that? As I talk to you Vangelis is turning smoke into music, perfect pitch from Vangelis, Love theme from Blade Runner. Music is so great if only I could play or even sing.

Back to pitching for radio, what have I tried? Well I put my best 4 pieces together as well as my poem “Let my Tears be my Words” and with a bit of background and then I’ve sent it off to a radio station. I hope the 4 pieces I’ve pitched touch the radio station’s heart. I’ve also sent some audio and some video, so they can see and hear me as well as my words. It was them who asked for video and audio, so I hope I look and sound ok.

If you go to Amazon Kindle and look  at Michael Casey writer page then you can judge for yourself. 300 and Not OUT is my lead book for radio. The radio idea I’ve called 90 Seconds with Michael, because a short piece can be read in 90seconds. Which may mean I can sneak into radio, because it’s only a short piece. There are longer pieces too, maybe 500 of them.

In a way this pitch perfect piece is two pieces, one about music and one about words. Will my words be music to their ears? I really hope so, this has been 20+25 years in the making. I just hope I’m not tone deaf.

Where am I ?

Where am I ? (c)
By Michael Casey

Do you ever type in where am I. I do just to see how wrong it always is. Right now FB says I'm in Bideford Devon. Doesn't David Cameron go to Devon for his hols? I'll have to check the newspapers to see if he's there. Picture the scene DC is looking at my files on FB, I hope he can find me a bit of writing work. Or after dinner speaking, I mean at least I'd get a free dinner, who said there's no such thing as a free dinner? As well as being in Bideford Devon, and maybe DC is hacking me, I typed in where am I on a google search and it said I was in DC, not David Cameron but in DC, as in Washington DC. Then I zoomed in and it said I was in The White House. So are Obama and the family gathered around the family PC in the President's private living quarters and they are hacking into my PC. Look Mr President my books are only 3 dollars each, apart from the 6th book which is 4 dollars. Anyway you can afford to buy your own copy
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
so get the secret service to download my 6 books to your kindle. I know you are still sore because they beat you at bowling again, on your regular Tuesday bowling night, but they siad sorry and siad they'd get you something to read, even in UK we know you love to read. Or could all this be my imagination? I once did where was I am it said Palo Alto several times, so does Mark Z also like to read my stuff? Even if I said he was a roadie with tattoos on his leg. I'm the least important man in the world, so why is where I'm at so wrong. Not unless Lestrange and Snowden are playing tricks, again why? I'm of no importance whatseoever. I would like a slot on the radio and in print and/or in newspapers. I love the idea of syndiction. It's great because you get paid many times over for writing just one thing. Or is Rupurt Murdoch about to give me a job, with free Sky TV everything package. On balance not, though I did send him my 90 seconds with Michael idea. All this sounds like a conspiracy theory, so perhaps I should be in the Xfiles, I did have 2 Xrays the other week, so I'm half way there, I'm X which as they say is X marks the spot, which goes back to where am I.

Michael's Bathroom

                    Michael's  Bathroom   ©

                      

                                by

                          Michael  Casey

         Six months previously Michael had decorated his living room,  he

had to, the white walls had turned to a nicoteen stained yellow in places

such  was the downside of having a South facing living room.  Now it  was

 

the turn of the bathroom again.  The bathroom was very small,  not  even

 

enough room to swing a cat,  it was about 7 foot by six foot,  which was

 

just big enough for the bath,  the sink and the bog. Why did people want

 

big bathrooms anyway? You weren't going to hold dinner parties in there,

 

or  go  jogging,  yes Michael was used to and by now satisfied  with  his

 

small  bathroom.  However it always seemed to need decorating,  he  just

 

needed to open the window more often and let the steam out.  Michael just

 

loved to wallow in the bath like a Hippopotamous,  he had a radio on  the

 

windowsill  so he could listen to Heart FM while he shaved and bathed  and

 

watched  the spiders.  There were spiders galore in his  bathroom,  his

 

mother  always said spiders brought money with them,  perhaps  snared  in

 

their webs,  Michael even looked under the bath behind the panel just  in

 

case  the spiders had indeed brought gold with them,  sadly all he  found

 

was yet more spiders and their webs.

        Years ago at work the offices were tarted up,  so new carpet  was

 

laid  in  the reception,  so Michael had begged for the off  cuts,  and

 

persuaded Paul Robinson to give him a lift home with it. Once home though

 

it was late Michael got out some very sharp scissors and laid the carpet in

 

the bathroom, he'd have a posh bathroom now, no more cold lino for him.

Actually  he did make a good job of the carpet fitting,  there  was  some

 

left over too. Now the bad thing about ordinary carpet in the bathroom is

 

that it gets manky,  firstly because Michael splashed a lot in the bath,

 

his mother had always told him off for splashing in the bath since he  was

 

a child,  she was afraid the water would leak though the ceiling into the

 

living  room below.  He did not have that problem now in his own house,

 

why, because he had a concrete floor. So the carpet got wet, due to the

 

splashing in the bath. Michael was also a bad shot, so he'd occasionally

 

piss  on  the floor,  when he came rushing home dying for  a  piss  after

 

having too many shandies.  Also if you spill domestos or other bleach  on

 

carpet it changes colour.

         As for the ceiling and walls,  they needed cleaning and painting

 

every  now and then because of all the steam and Michael not  opening  the

 

window  often  enough.  So Michael would go up the road to Fads  and  buy

 

five litres of white emulsion for a fiver, then scattering newspapers all

 

over the bathroom he'd attack the walls and ceiling. He soon got high and

 

had  a headache with all the paint fumes,  even though the window  was

 

wide  open,  the  radio  was blairing too,  he  always  had  music  on

 

constantly,  whether he was painting,  eating, washing shaving  or just

 

picking his nose. Michael's painting had more attack than finesse to it,

 

splash it here, splash it there, quantity more than quality, his father

 

had always told him to use a small amount on the brush,  a tiny amount,

 

but Michael always overloaded his brush,  paint was cheap after all,  a

 

tin  of paint only cost the price of a couple of pints and a bag of  chips

 

after all.     

 

         Once finished Michael was splattered in paint, his grey hair now

 

turned white,  his painting clothes,  now more paint than clothes,  his

 

watch  had a white thumb print on it,  his underpants had paint on too,

 

for  no  matter  what  he  did  he  was  always  hitching  his  jeans  and

 

consequently he had paint everywhere.  Michael stepped back to admire his

handiwork,  but being as the bathroom was so small he bumped into the bog

 

and ending up sitting on it.”It'll do” was his usual comment,  and it

 

would  have too,  he couldn't afford a real decorator.A fiver to do  his

 

bathroom,  but a decorator would charge 100 times that and take days, it

 

took Michael an hour and a half tops,  he'd finish in time for Star  Trek

 

and that was important,  he had his priorities right.  So looking at his

 

splattered  watch,  Michael gathered up the paint  splattered  newspaper

 

which was protecting his fancy carpet.  The only trouble though was  the

 

fact that his shoes were stuck to the newspapers,  so Michael had to  sit

 

on the bog and pull the newpaper off his shoes,  invariably a spot or two

 

of  paint  stayed on the carpet.  So Michael had rub hard  to  clean  the

 

carpet,  and  take his shoes off so that he  wouldn't  leave  footprints

 

everywhere.”Ah it'll do,” repeated Michael as he looked back at  the

 

bathroom from the safety of the kitchen,  he'd then strip off and put all

 

his  painting clothes into the washing machine, invariably the light  was

 

fading now, so Michael had the kitchen light on, so his neighbours would

 

be  treated to the dubious  privilege of seeing Michael naked  and  paint

 

spattered standing in his kitchen.

          Star  Trek  was great as usual,  Michael  only  recognised  the

 

metaphors  after the show,  but he really enjoyed the show,  he'd  been

 

watching it for 30 years now, the original and then the follow on shows.

After  his  dinner Michael ventured back into the bathroom,”Who  needs

 

decorators,  the  theiving bastards".  Michael was satisfied  with  his

 

handiwork,  it'd do till the next time.  The next time came,  when  the

 

carpet was manky,  so Michael threw out the carpet and searched under the

 

bed in the spare room,  that’s where he kept the rest of the carpet.  As

 

luck  would  have  it there was just enough to cover  the  bathroom  floor

 

again.So once more he got out the dangerous sissors and cut the carpet  to

 

shape,  and yes he did do a good job of it, carpet fitting he could do,

 

it was painting he was useless at. Jackson Pollark, the artist who threw

 

paint  at  the canvas would have been impressed by  Michael's  bathroom,

 

anybody else would have said,”was there an explosion?"

        So time passed and the carpet was manky, so Michael threw it out,

so what would he do next?  He hit upon the brilliant idea of painting the

 

concrete floor.  It only took half an hour and then”hey presto" he had a

 

redecorated bathroom,  only he hadn't thought of one thing. What happens

 

when you paint a floor white? It shows all the dirt, and it shows up all

 

the spiders that are not spiders,  if you know what I mean.  So  Michael

 

improvised,  he was good at improvising, 20 years as a computer operator

 

and he'd leant to improvise,  if nothing else.  So he painted the  floor

 

blue,  that colour wouldn't show up spiders that weren't spiders. And he

 

was  right.  He had another problem now,  because  he'd  used  ordinary

 

emulsion,  when it got wet, it came off, so soon the soles of Michael's

 

slippers  went  blue,  and soon the blue was spattered with  white,  as

 

toothpaste and soap suds stained the blue floor. Michael persevered, he

 

painted the floor blue every couple of weeks or so,  blue paint was  more

 

expensive than white,  but the one tin enabled him paint it ten times or

 

so.Eventually the walls needed painting again,  so Michael thought  he'd

 

try blue on the walls,  only it was too dark,  he didn't like it,  and

 

more to the point he ran out of paint halfway through.  So he went up  to

 

Fads again for white,  though he was nearly tempted  into buying a  soft

 

coloured paint as it was half price, but after a bit of soul searching he

 

stuck with white, five litres for a fiver.

         Another  problem reared its head,  if you try  painting  over  a

 

strong colour, the colour underneath shows through. So on Boxing Day 98

Michael spent the day painting, or smearing as his mother used to call it

 

,  he spent the day smearing two coats of white over the blue. And yes it

 

did look dreadful.  New Years Eve came and Michael's bathroom was covered

 

in copies of the Telegraph,  it was a good read with great coverage, why

 

just one copy was enough to cover all Michael's floor, he'd have to write

 

to  the editor to thank him.  So Michael got drunk on New Year's Eve  and

 

ended  up dancing with his friend Dave,  Dave being a Helmult  Khol  look

 

alike.  Once home with a hangover,  Michael realised that in the morning

 

he'd have to give another coat or two to the bathroom.  Michael could see

 

the  light  at the end of the tunnel,  or rather the bottom of  the  five

 

litre tin of paint,  once he finished the tin, the job would be finished

 

whether  it was finished or not,  the job would be finished.  He'd  had

 

enough, and he had a massive headache due to the paint fumes. 

 

       “Finished,  at last,  thank God,” yelled Michael, yes he

 

had come to the bottom of the tin, so finished or not, it was finished.

So Michael went and watched Star Trek on the satellite.  The bathroom took

 

forever to dry as it was Winter and the atmosphere was cold and wet.  So

 

it  was  a  couple  of  days before  Michael  could  finish  the  bathroom

 

transformation.  He found some old curtains he had in his pantry, he had

 

originally  bought them for the kitchen,  but once he got them  home  and

 

tried  hanging them he was annoyed to discover they were too  short,  so

 

they  had  ended up in his pantry on a shelf next to his  iron.  To  his

 

delight the new curtains were just the right length for his bathroom, and

 

they were nice and bright too.  So what to dod next?  Michael pulled the

 

panel out from in front of the bath, as luck would have it he had a spare

 

plastic shower curtain ; so he wrapped the panel in a new shower curtain,

 

a  flowery pattern on it,  and it would match the shower curtain he  had

 

already up. Finally as he had to lay the lino, the lino he swopped a new

 

pair of shoes for. His brother had some spare lino, and Michael as usual

 

had  a  spare  pair of shoes in his shoe mountain at  the  bottom  of  his

 

wardrobe.  So he got the lino,  and his brother got the shoes as a  Xmas

 

present,  they  had both laughed as they struck the  deal  during  their

 

regular  weekly   telephone conversation.  Their dead mother  would  have

 

approved too,”look after each other" was her motto. There was one snag

 

though, Michael couldn't find his sissors, so how could he cut the lino?

So  he improvised with the bread knife,  a flash of the knife  here,  a

 

flash of the knife there, it was hard work, he was soon covered in sweat

 

but after 45 minutes he was finished.  So he just had to slip the freshly

 

covered  bath panel back in position.  So kicking it back in  position,

 

Michael  had finally transformed his bathroom.  Michael stepped  back  to

 

admire his handiwork, accidently knocking the bread knife down the toilet

 

but  he didn't hear the splash,  as the radio was blaring out a Nat  King

 

Cole  song”Let there be Love".  Michael looked at his  freshly  painted

 

bathroom,  walls and ceiling had been painted,  new bright curtains were

 

hanging  down,  and the lino was new and bright too,  he had even put  a

 

layer of plastic and newspapers underneath to act as insulation,  and  he

 

had a little mat too that he could step on when he got out the bath.  Yes

 

it  was an utter transformation,  the best it had looked in the 12  years

 

he'd  lived there.  All this activity had made him really hungry,  he'd

 

bought a loaf from the bakery,  an old fashioned big tasty loaf,  all he

 

had  to do was cut it into big slices,  now where had he left  the  bread

 

knife?

                               End