Mulled Vine

The blizzard swirled around me, sending icy fingers probing into my clothing. I huddled, shivering, against the old oak tree, seeking some cover against the elements, but I knew it was just a matter of time. Blissful sleep beckoned, promising escape from the dreadful cold, so I closed my eyes and slowly felt a delicious warmth waft over me, until finally, there was darkness; total, utter, darkness.

Then a light appeared, faintly at first, but slowly growing brighter and I could make out an old man holding a candle, walking towards me until he stopped and handed me what looked like a penny.

“For the ferryman,” he rasped and pointed towards a dim jetty where a hooded figure waited.

I am dead. I must be, because life as I know it is missing; nothing remains. Yet, surprisingly, it is not black as you might expect ‘nothing’ to be, but a murky grey misty colour, more like a very low grade ’something’. It is cold, so dreadfully cold, and I long for the warmth of a companion.

Then the grey splits momentarily and a luminous sign flashes by and screams at me, “Drink Coca-Cola!”, before disappearing again into the swirling mist.

The unbearable loneliness returns and soon I long for the next ad break.

A bucket list is a list of 10 things you want to do before you die (”kick the bucket”). What is amazing is that I have had to think about this, thus reflecting the total lack of planning in my life to date.

My list in no particular order:

1. Get published, perhaps even enough to make a living from

2. Play bass guitar at a professional gig

3. Retire happily married to my beautiful wife and see my children start their own lives

4. Go on a sailing cruise

5. Tour the United States

6. Go on a cycling/barge holiday in Europe

7. Start a business with Wendy and give up writing software

8. Sort out the God issue in my life for once and for all

9. Learn to ride a motorbike

10. Love more.

Feel free to create your own bucket list and add a comment linking to it below. Linking back to my blog is optional but you might kick the bucket sooner if you don’t.

Life…

Serious side effects that would require immediate medical attention include:

+ Loss of sense of humour
+ Tendency to lovelessness
+ Excessive self interest
+ Death

Just got back from the doctor’s.
“Bad news, dear. I have terminal cancer; nothing they can do, not long to go, 2 months at best.”
She looked at me sadly, but then suddenly perked up, “It’s not all bad, you know.”
I looked at her quizzically, “It isn’t?”
She beamed, “Well, look at it this way. At least you have decent life insurance!”

Sausages, stuffed with sage and apple, heaps of caramelised onions, gravy made with Bordeaux and fresh parsley. And the mash? To die for: soft and buttered, laced with just a touch of nutmeg.

I polished the lot off, downed the remainder of my pint of fine Old Speckled Hen, and then looked up at my captors.

“Right, let’s do it!”

The last thing I did before the noose snapped my neck was let out a very satisfied fart.

Most of my my friends are dead. It’s not surprising really, because so am I. My friends and I dwell with countless others in a place that is neither life nor oblivion. I don’t know why we didn’t pass through, but there it is.

It is frightfully dull, dead dull you might say, nothing to do all day but hang around, observing the life below, talking. Mostly we talk of regrets, regrets at things we did not do, the way we were in life, the fact that we did not make better use of our time. Perhaps this our hell, who knows? Personally I don’t give a damn. There is no God.

Mostly I spend time with my old friend Joe. He and I grew up together, as best friends I suppose, because we did everything together – even fall in love with the same woman but that’s a long story. Joe died a few years before me and I missed the old fella terribly. I never married, and by then had already lost most of the people I knew to disease and general old age, so I just waited, waited, waited… The old age home staff tried to include me in organised activities, but I declined. What is the point? I said. It is just killing time while we wait to die. I remember the look of sadness on the young nurse’s face I said this to, so young and full of promise, hope and purpose, and here was I: grumpy, cynical, spent.

Then the day came, and I still remember the tremendous sense of relief I felt that finally it would all be over, that oblivion awaited. The irony is not lost on me, and almost makes me believe that there just might be a God, an Almighty Joker who enjoys having a laugh at my expense. But no, I don’t – even in this place, this afterlife, I do not see God.

Joe however is completely different, at least he was. Back amongst the living we used to debate the existence of God quite regularly, and not without some passion, for he believed, in a devout kind of way that make me jealous. So I took special delight in making him squirm with my so very rational arguments. I don’t envy the religious mob in their dry, dusty places of self worship, but when the faith is life changing, that’s something else.

Now however, he is a bit subdued. I suppose he was expecting the after life to be a bit more spectacular than this. He’s no fool, and I’m sure had no illusions about streets of gold and such like, but this grey nothingness? It must be hard for him, and he is my friend, so I don’t taunt him. I did however ask him once if he thought his life had been wasted. He was quiet for a bit then looked at me earnestly. No, he said, not for one minute, that living a life with purpose and meaning, misguided or not, was always better than having nothing. I find it hard to disagree with that.

I’ve not seen him for a while – it’s curious really – I don’t think anyone has. It’s like he just up and left. Maybe he’s finally gone on to a better place, whatever that is. I hope so, but I miss him terribly.

Andy discovered the other day that he could interact with the living world! It caused quite a commotion, I tell you, because this just does not happen. Perhaps the woman he spoke to was psychic or something, but the fact is she turned and looked in his direction when he spoke. I don’t even know what made him do it. So we began to watch her instead of our usual random wandering. I suppose we hoped that through her we might have a more tangible connection with the full, vibrant, sense-filled life we all missed.

Her name it turned out was Anne-Marie, a nice old fashioned name. She was living with a toe rag called Arny, who really should have been called ‘Orny, because he was an almighty philanderer. She didn’t seem to know he was cheating on her and it bothered us something chronic. So we decided to tell her. We didn’t want to freak her out so we got Andy to whisper it to her while she slept. At first nothing happened, but then slowly we noticed a change in her. She began to look through his clothes and even followed him, until one day, she saw him with another woman, snogging in the pub. We expected her to make a scene but she didn’t – she just went home and sat in the kitchen crying. He eventually came home, pissed out his mind, staggered straight past her, upstairs and into bed fully clothed. She waited a while, but then stood up suddenly, opened a drawer, and pulled out a meat cleaver! Oh, how we tried to stop her, but were powerless as she walked quietly upstairs, into the room were he snored loudly, and with one mighty blow, split open his head while we watched on in horror.

I don’t know what happened to him after that – we get millions of new arrivals every day – but she was arrested and locked up. It was all very, very sad. Andy in particular felt wretched and never spoke to anyone again, alive or otherwise.

Amanda disappeared today, right in front of our noses, so we reckon we are in some sort of holding area. But as to what determines if or when we move on, who knows? I don’t care. Since the Anne-Marie incident I’ve not been the same, I don’t know what’s got into me. I just feel that life, pointless or otherwise, is surely better than no life, and I should have made more of it: spent more time on important things like family, and less on myself. Perhaps Joe was right.

God? If you are there, I am sorry.

As usual, deafening silence.

No, wait, something’s happening to m….

She wore black every day, did Rosie Malloy, just in case someone died, she said; for it seemed that an inordinate number of her friends and relatives had already passed away. It was the first thing I noticed about her, before even her refined beauty which was without compare and only slightly marred by the little lines that accompany a certain age.

I liked Rosie, because despite all the sorrow and loss she had a impish twinkle in her eye, as if she and she alone was in on some cosmic joke that was lost on the rest of us. But, life being what it is, our paths separated, through no fault or delibaration of our own, and we lost the touch that once felt so inseparable.

So it was with sadness and not a little regret that I attended her funeral, where as always she was well prepared in suitable attire for death. I paid my respects but it was not the same without her twinkle, at least until they announced the final hymn and the organist started to play Abba’s Dancing Queen.

She danced naked in the rain, whirling round and round with joyous abandon, her long ebony hair releasing a graceful shower of spray as she moved, her pale body a slender lithe lily in the wind. The sniper watched the magical scene through his sights, wondering why she had been chosen, but all he had was a face, time and place, and a brutal order. Yet here she was, beautiful, childlike in her ignorance, and he couldn’t do it. The rain stopped, and out came the sun, transforming the grey scene into a world of a million bedazzling diamonds wrapped in a bow of infinite colours. The sniper surveyed the scene then lowered his rifle – he knew what he had to do. He dialled the prearranged number and made a note of the place where his next and last victim would be.

It came to pass long ago, when the earth was young and the internet a fishing term, that a baby boy was born to the farmer and his wife. The farmer was immensely pleased, as he had worked hard to build up his farm and needed a son to help him at his labours. The boy grew up quickly into a fine, handsome young lad of golden disposition, however it soon became apparent to the farmer and his wife that their son was bone idle. At first his mother attributed it to an artistic strain in their family, but since he did nothing but spend his days dreaming under the apple tree on the hill, they eventually realised that there would be no practical manifestation of his gift. Perhaps this is all a little unfair on the young lad, because whilst he had idle notions, he did sometimes show promise: like the time he thought to weave a 3ft daisy chain for his mother. He was however so immensely proud of this achievement that he kept the floral necklace for himself.

The years went by, and it was not long before his parents had passed away and the lad, now a young man, sat idly under the apple tree, contemplating what to do with his inheritance. The farm he had of course sold immediately as he knew not, and indeed cared not, what to do with it. The bag of gold sat heavily in his lap and he regretted having asked for quite so much.

An apple fell to the ground and rolled down the hill towards the road, and the young man in that instant decided to follow it and see the world that had not bothered him much before. He set off with a jaunty stride, gold in hand, dreams in his head, whistling a little tune his mother had taught him.

Not long after that, perhaps not even an hour, he began to feel hunger pangs and he wondered what he would do for food. It was quite a problem as he was in the middle of nowhere. In the distance however he spied a man sitting next to a cow, seemingly eating his lunch. He smiled, pleased with his good fortune, and ran towards the stranger. On arrival he greeted the man and asked if he could have some of his bread and cheese. The man looked at him with some surprise, no doubt wondering whether an exchange was to be offered, but since none was forthcoming and being a charitable fellow, he shared his lunch with the young man. They fell to talking, or at least the young man talked at length about himself, until he noticed that the cow was a milk cow.

“Sir, I don’t suppose you would give me your cow, so I can have milk the rest of my days and need not go hungry?”
The man replied, “Son, I have just acquired this cow through a trade and am not inclined to give it away.” The young man looked so downcast that the man continued, “However I did exchange some magic beans for it, and if you hurry you might be able to catch up with the youngster I gave them to. Perhaps he would give you one or two.”

The young man cheered up immediately and was about to run off when he thought, “this bag of gold will slow me down, I shall give it to the man.” So he did, and set off at pace. Nightfall fell, as it usually does, and he came to small cottage in which a cosy light shone. He knocked on the door and enquired if he might have lodgings for the night. The owner of the cottage, an elderly woman and her young lad were only too glad to have visitors, for it had not been a good day. Their only cow, Tulip, had been foolishly exchanged by her son that morning for a handful of supposedly magic beans. The young man made himself at home an regaled them during supper with dreamy tales. When they enquired as to his destination he said he was looking for some magic beans he had heard about.

“Magic beans?” cried the woman, “Not you too? How strange Fortune is. We have some beans lying outside our window which you may freely have, but I doubt they are magic. However it is late and I suggest we turn in and attend to this tomorrow.” They bade each other good night and settled down to sleep, the young man sharing a bed with the woman’s son.

Dawn broke, but instead of the radiant morning sunshine, a green hue shone through the cottage windows. At first the occupants thought that the world was about to end and fell to praying, but when nothing happened, decided to go outside instead and investigate. It will no doubt not come as a surprise to you that a gigantic bean stalk had grown overnight from the magic beans and extended many miles up into the sky.

“Let’s climb it!” exclaimed the lad.
“No, it is not safe.” replied the mother.
The young man turned to her, “Do not fret, you have been so kind to me. I will hold it steady while he climbs.” The reality was that he had developed over the years a keen nose for strenuous activity and how to avoid it and this bean stalk had strenuosity written all over it!

The lad clambered quickly, watched anxiously by his mother, and soon disappeared from their sight. They stood a while, but since chores wait for no one, the mother soon went inside to attend to them. The young man settled down for a nap under the leafy shade of the bean stalk. He must have slept for a good few hours because when he awoke the sun was past noon. He wondered what had awoken him, but soon heard frantic rustling as the young lad climbed down with a hen under his arm.

“Quick, quick!” the young lad cried. “Fetch the axe.”
Fortunately his mother heard, because the idle young man knew not what fetch meant, and detecting the urgency in her son’s voice ran out with the axe.
The boy reached the ground, gasping for breath. “Giant… hen… golden eggs… coming … cut it down!”

Seeing that the young man was not hearing him, and indeed had wandered off into the orchard to look for apples, he grabbed the axe from his mother and began to frantically chop at the bast of the bean stalk. A giant roar from on high only served to increase his pace and soon the bean stalk gave a violent creak and tottered mightily. A second roar was heard, this time more like a screech, as the bean stalk began to tumble to the ground, casting its gigantic clamberer to the earth, to his death, into the apple orchard, where a young man of idle notions wondered when his fortune would hit him.

If you are a familiar reader of such fairy stories, you will no doubt be wondering what the moral is. Well fear not, here it is: “Don’t you have anything better to do than read tales of idleness?”