bookmark_borderToo hot, too cold, just right

I plonk myself down on the sofa.

“Nope, not squishy enough”

I plonk myself down on another sofa.

“Ugh, too firm”

I don’t plonk myself down on that sofa.

“What a horrid shade of puce, looks like a Ribena berry has puked all over it”

I plonk myself down on another sofa.

“Ohh this is nice but the padding on the arms is rubbish”

I don’t plonk myself down on another sofa.

“Who the hell would have that in their living room?!”

I don’t plonk myself down on another sofa.

“Or that, has it come from the set of the Sweeney or something?”

I don’t plonk myself down on another sofa.

“Seriously, who designed these? Blind giraffes?”

Several hours and many shops later.

I plonk myself down on another sofa.

“Ohh, this is just right!”

I sit for a while, luxuriating in the perfect harmony of style, comfort and texture. I run my hands over the smooth leather, let my head rest on the cushions and imagine myself at home, cold beer in one hand, a favourite movie on the TV. Oh yes, I think. This will do just fine.

I look at the price*.

I get up and plonk myself down on another sofa.

bookmark_borderChapter 6

He stands back and looks at the scene, a young man surveying the carnage of the broken man seated before him. Something doesn’t fit here, something isn’t quite right, misplaced or forgotten, he’s not sure which and knows that it is too late for such worries.

A dull moan from the chair, scarlet red lines fall from vivid wounds, slashed through flesh. Blood seeps from him in a slow gentle ooze, a dozen or more thin lines adding to the macabre vision. He looks down at the man, tortured and throbbing with dark pain, spent and pleading for his executioner to end it, pleading for release, pleading for his life. He watches as the man makes another exhaused attempt to free himself and once more is met with the same resistance as before, the bloodied ropes cuttnig ever deeper.

He turns to the table behind him, takes a sip of cold water then turns and throws it over the seated man. Another shock of cold, a gasping breath.

He is puzzled now and closes his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. He revisits the plan, the training and a spark of guilt flares within. This isn’t what was meant to happen. This is wrong.

Concentrating hard, he casts his mind back, how did he end up here?

He remembers some details perfectly, breaking into this apartment, waiting quietly, patiently until they came home. It should’ve been the simplest of executions as they sat down to watch TV. Two shots and then he’d turn and leave. Yet, he was still here.

Squeezing his eyes tight he can see arcs of red as she slumps forward, can hear the cries, instant shock and anger, as the man succumbs to fear and rage. He can see his own arm outstretched, can feel the weight of the gun and yet, nothing. That is all he has, until now.

He reaches out to hold the mans face, fingers on slick cheeks, cupping his chin. He looks him straight in the eye.

“Who are you?” he asks. A simple enough question.

The man in the chair looks up, confused, startled at the softness of the voice.

“Who are you?” he asks again, already growing weary of all of this.

The man in the chair starts to speak, his mouth opens but no sound is made.

He is growing tired now, and can feel the light in the room changing. He was told this would happen, but still something isn’t right, this isn’t what was meant to happen.

Slowly he walks behind the man, reaches down and starts to untie him. In a soft quiet voice he starts to mumble.

“I don’t know why I’m here, I’m sorry for what I’ve done, this isn’t right, I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I don’t know why I’m here. You should go now. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I should go now, I should be somewhere else now. You shouldn’t be here. Are you sorry for what you’ve done? I will go. Do you know why I’m here? I’m sorry for what I’ve done. You should go now”.

He stands back and lets the ropes fall, and watches the man rise unsteadily and without looking back, stumble out through the door. He hears him start to scream, a low beastly noise that makes him smile. He can feel the light and warmth in the air on his skin, and turns to the window to bask for a moment in the sunlight.

He steps closer to the window and watches as onlookers turn and stare, their eyes searching for the source of that awful noise.

He smiles. He knows this isn’t the way it should be, knows that something has gone wrong but each passing moment tells him something has changed. He hears the man screaming as he leaves the building, dashing out into the busy street below. And finally he realises what is wrong.

His mind skips back to that building, the long corridor, the cramped office and the young man sitting behind the desk, telling him the stories of the building, telling him that nothing is ever truly right in this world. He can remember the dulling darkness that descended after that day, that he walked in for so long with the sunlight unable to penetrate. He can remember it all.

He looks down again at the street, watching the man stumble onwards, the onlookers starting to point as the man stumbles out into the road. A man still alive.

He smiles.

He closes his eyes and lifts his face to the sun, feeling the warmth spread across his cheeks, he too feels alive, so very alive. His senses reverberate anew, and he wonders what will happen next.

Down in the street the man falters and falls forward. A bus driver slams on his brakes, more screams fill the air.

Stood at the window he looks down, all of this happening in an instant. The bus skids, the brakes fail to hold. The man lies prone, no-one can save him.

And then he remembers the inscription above the door of the office, throws his head back and screams.

In a small cluttered office a young man sits behind a desk. He rarely speaks, for he has no-one to speak to most days, so he just sits there doing his job. His gaze remains flat as he monitors the goings on of the building, the to-ing and fro-ing of his working day, the machinations that play out at his behest.

Suddenly he looks up at the doorframe, and with a contented sigh reads the faded inscription once more.

“Trust in Fate”.

bookmark_borderAnd then… nothing

All quiet on the house front unfortunately.

But I have been able to crack on with some website work and as always it’s great when the client is accomodating, helpful and all round just a nice guy. Say hi to www.davidbelbin.com (then go buy one of his books!).

I’m also adding some functionality for a previous client, so I’ve got plenty to keep me busy AND I’ve found time to gently kick start my reading habit. Tackling the last of the Larsson trilogy which is a fun read in a Dan Brown kinda way. Mind you, I did read half of From Russia With Love before realising I’d already read it, oops.

The only other moment of excitement has been paying £4 for the privilege of receiving 4 rather shady looking photos of my fizzog. I need to renew my driving license and, amazingly, the photos actually look like me! (and no, I’m not showing you them).

Right, time to mark off another day in the “Hurry up I want an iPhone 4!” calendar.

Oh yeah, and football. World Cup and all that. If you need me, I’ll be in front of the TV.

bookmark_borderX marks the spot

Outside there is the most eerie golden glow as the sun sets. Half the sky is light, half the sky is dark as the rain falls from a thick dark cloud.

The weather, it seems, is undecided which, funnily enough was my state of mind a couple of hours ago.

There I stood, pencil in hand, ready to put a cross in a box but… which one?

Sometime in the next few months I’ll be leaving this constituency, so that wasn’t a huge consideration for me and, like many others I’m sure, I know that I didn’t want to vote for the Conservatives.

There is, of course, an odd slant in my ‘online’ life where most of the people I follow have a similar mindset to mine and I’d take a fair guess at many of them voting Lib Dem, some voting Labour and others voting Green. I’m sure one or two of them voted Conservative just as I’m sure one or two of them won’t have voted at all.

All of this didn’t really help me though, looking at names I barely knew, and trying not to associate the leader with the party politics. We don’t elect a Prime Minister, we elect a party so quite why there is such a large fuss about the personalities of the party leaders still puzzles me. Yes, of course one of them will be Prime Minister in the morning but it would’ve been good if the newspapers had focussed on policy rather than the fact that, for example, Gordon Brown called a bigoted old woman a bigot.

I will probably watch a bit of the coverage on TV then retire to bed, knowing that, come what may, someone will be in charge of running the company and I won’t agree with all of their decisions and policies. I will take care of my own affairs as I always have and deal with the consequences.

Others will rant and rave, moan and complain but, ultimately, there will always be politicians and as the type of person who is usually attracted to being a politician typically ends up more interested in power and money than the people they are supposed to be representing (exceptions to every rule granted) it’s safe to say that in a few years time I’ll find myself, once again, standing ready to cast my vote without ever being completely sure if anything really ever changes.

bookmark_border5 am

It’s still dark and somewhere two birds are singing, beautiful trills and chirrups fill the air.

My head is full of other things though, but then it usually is, and right now it seems to be full of random thoughts about work.

Which is why, I think, I’m awake.

I’m a bit pissed off with my brain to be honest, it knows fine well I’m not feeling well yet did everything it could to urge me from my slumber and, despite my best efforts to stay tucked up under the warm sanctuary of the duvet, an hour after wakening I decide to give up and get up.

I’m sure I’ll be fine. You only need 5 hours sleep, right?

Of course getting up at 5am signals to a certain small black cat that perhaps, maybe, there might be the possibility of, if it’s not too much trouble, and if I remind you by nibbling on your leg every 10 seconds, it might just be time to put some cat food into a bowl.

He’s two hours too early though so tough.

Instead I’ll sit here quietly, listening to the dawn symphony and ponder the beautiful things in life.

Because, frankly, TV at 5am is utterly shit.

bookmark_borderWeekender

Ohh not done one of these for ages.

And the thing is, I really don’t want to revisit one part of the weekend as it’s still very painful. Yes, I’m talking about the rugby.

I’m sure if you are a ‘neutral’ it was a thrilling game, but I’m not neutral, I’m Scottish and given how well we played in the first half, well… I guess I should’ve known better. I vented a little on Twitter after the final whistle and even now, many hours later, I’m still a bit wound up and pissed off about the whole thing. Stupid game.

Speaking of games, the Winter Olympics are fun, aren’t they. They feature all sorts of wacky sports like ‘sliding down a huge slope on tiny bits of bendy wood’, ‘hurtling down a frozen ice track with nothing buy lycra to protect you’, and other such nonsense ideas.

I’ve never done any of the sports that are included in the Winter Olympics, and whilst snowboarding looks fun, the whole ‘ice’ thing just isn’t me. It hurts when you fall, why would I want to do that? At least snow is soft.

That said, I have great admiration for anyone who can dedicate themselves to such sports, particularly the dangerous ones.

Elsewhere this weekend I’ve been to the gym, not celebrated that ‘please pay huge amounts more than normal for a card and flowers’ day, and even managed to get some work done on my current client website.

I’ve also cooked a little (ok, maybe stretching a bit there), and caught up with some recorded TV.

Pretty much what a weekend is for, right?

Minus the rugby bit, of course… grrrrrrr