Spill.

A note lies on a counter, it's laid there for a couple of days

Hasty words of beauty scrawled across it's blue lined page

The edge is tattered, having been torn

From a notebook in which had been scribbled and drawn

'Twas written at speed and torn free in haste

Then into a sugar bowl carefully placed

The leaf's now stained and the ink's now blurred

You'd struggle to distinguish a single word

But he'd not, the one who'd watched those words fade

And now reads instead from the impression they've made

Words never spoken but imparted still

Thirteen of them offering a bittersweet pill

He'd tried hard to cry whenever he'd brewed up

Rereading those words as he'd filled his best cup

Those words, as they'd ebbed and they'd flowed 'cross that page

Those words that once sated his deep, savage rage

Drew him in tight while they pushed all else out

And shone a small light on where once there'd lived doubt

The walls we erect and the fences we build

Are the barriers behind which our futures are killed

Speak and speak and speak some more

Talk, impart, confess, adore

Speak of all things, both the great and the small

Those things that you feel, tell others them all

Open your gob and let the words spill

Don't think, just be honest and keep speaking 'til

The ears of the other, the brother or lover

Or sister or father or offspring or mother

The one to whom all of these words really matter

Hears the truth that dwells deep beneath idle chatter

One day soon he'll tidy up

Maybe even wash his favourite cup

He'll smile one last time as he reads what she wrote

Sigh a deep sigh and crumple the note

That day won't be long, already he's calm

But it can stay there for now, it's doing no harm

J2H.

Mrs. Bird mustn't have made it.

For a rather large portion of my life I was able to say I hated no one and nothing and it was perfectly true. Then, along came two that I was justified in hating and hate I did, even though I had no idea who it was I was entitled to hate.

Those first two hated will remain faceless, their faces only having been known by the woman they murdered. My Grandmother. She'd disturbed them whilst they were emptying the safe in my mother's pub and they'd attacked her before fleeing, never to be brought to justice. The last words anyone (that anyone being her daughter) heard my Grandmother say were "I don't feel well, Sheila", then she was gone.

I can't remember if the two I hate got away with any money, I genuinely couldn't have cared less and doubt that I bothered asking.

It was an alien emotion, hatred. I'd said I'd hated this and I'd hated that, hated her and hated him, many times but with as much sincerity as on those occasions when I'd told one of my sons I was going to kill him if I got my hands on him. Hatred is something that we imagine is easy to imagine until we've experienced it and I can understand how some are sent insane by it's constant throttling of one's stream of thoughts. It takes quite some burying and, no matter how deeply interred, still it will drag itself from it's grave and come to find you. What's more, every time it pays you a visit it's macabre appearance will have become ever more gruesome due to the effects of the increasingly advanced decomposition taking place and the gradual replacement of fingers and nails with bloodied, ragged stumps.

The two have remained the only two. There are many others that I feel anyone would be perfectly entitled to place on their own list of 'hatees' but they don't make the grade for mine, the initial incumbents having set such a high benchmark. 

In fact, my list doesn't actually hold a name at all since, as with their faces, I've never known their names. Nor do I know if they care about what they did or if they've led lives good or bad since the events of that afternoon. It's all so out of my control, I can in no way affect what has happened or any aspect of the killers' existences but I think I've gotten it under control. They've taken on a kind of Schrodinger's murderers' mantle somewhere in my head.

Maybe they both died of cancer?

My mum moved out of the pub, it having also been the very dwelling in which my father had recently died she now found it too painful to return. I'm not superstitious, but I can see why people believe in maledictions and why they'd not want to tempt providence too far. So, after a lifetime as a landlord's daughter then a landlord's wife, she became a receptionist. It was a shame, she'd been quite literally born into the licensed trade and it had suited her right down to the ground.

Even that which is right, it seems, won't last forever.

Eventually, she began to suit that which she became. She worked hard, had a full social life on the other side of the bar and kept a beautiful home, later retiring and moving to a patch of ground beneath sunnier skies. I'm sure that, in an instant, she'd swap everything she's achieved since my Grandmother's death just to have had more time with those by whose sides she'd flourished beside still beside her side, even if that meant being stuck running a pub in a rainy, northern town while her now-ancient mother complained about how steep the bloody stairs were and admonished her for leaving the bloody keys in the bloody safe again as she descended those aforementioned overly-steep stairs noisily (and sideways, so she could keep a good grip on the banister) before finally taking her place at the end of the bar and wondering where her bloody son-in-law was.

But all of that is out of anyone's control. My mother can't affect the outcome of the action's of others and to focus on such impotency would add the fuel of frustration to the already burning embers of loss.

Longing, not loss, can bring the greatest pain. Ultimately, the pain of loss fades, whereas longing can only be sated or suffered.

My father would often say "you can't miss what you've never had", explaining the kindness he was performing in not letting me have whichever new toy I felt I just had to have. One day, he'd tell me, whichever useless, lead-coated, 1970's gizmo it was I was mithering him for would be broken, in the bin, gone and, he further explained, that loss would make me sad.

My dad was a right twat at times.

So I'd be left with longing and an endless list of things to save up for. Top of the list for a while was a tiny, furry, Paddington Bear toy. I loved it, longed for it, would whisper to it through the shop window whenever I stood waiting outside the newsagent's I'd seen it in, reassuring the little bear that, one day, we'd be together.

Eventually, an opportunity to get my hands on the funds to purchase Paddington presented itself. Excitedly, I set off for Swinton shopping precinct to finally sate my longing with two inches of duffel coated, Peruvian perfection.

Who ever needed more?

The shopkeeper had placed him into a little, blue striped, paper bag which was now stuffed into the pocket of my duffel coat alongside my fruit Polos and my tissue. My hand remained in the pocket alongside the toy, fingers probing the bag. I toyed with it all the way home, my fingers stroking Paddington's short, coarse fur, shiny nose and felt hat.

The Peruvian bear came everywhere I went and would spend his nights standing on my bedside cabinet to watch over me. I built him a little house out of a crisp box, painting roses around the front door, and spent many a happy hour ignoring all of my other toys while our relationship blossomed.

One day, I realised that I'd never checked beneath Paddington's hat to see the marmalade sandwich that surely lay there. I tugged at the brim, gently peeling it from the scalp.

It was fucking horrific.

The manufacturers had saved themselves money by not extending the fur to cover the top of his head, that being covered by the hat anyway. The once hot glue that had held the red hat in place formed wrinkles on the exposed plastic scalp, tufts of felt remaining fastened there and giving my favourite toy the macabre appearance of a man scalped by savages in one of the Westerns my father and I regularly enjoyed.

And there was no marmalade sandwich.

I attempted repairs. The first method not to make matters better was Pritt Stick which, although in no way effective, did give the patient shiny patches where it matted the once fine fur. Plan B, Superglue, burnt the plastic beneath the fur and caused several patches of alopecia, further adding to his macabre appearance. Plan three, a staple, shattered much of his skull and destroyed an eye, the process completing my duffel coated friend's transition from Grizzly to grisly.

What was worse was that I'd bought the bear with my own bloody money, mostly. The final portion had been provided by Broken-Legged Bri, my chubbiest and clumsiest chum. He had purchased from me my sister's Cindy doll, laughing gleefully as he immediately stripped her naked and used a felt tip pen to adorn her with nipples and  a pubis before (thankfully) fucking off.

The mind boggles.

My dad had indeed been a 'right twat', that's to say he was a twat but a twat who was right. Losing my furry friend had hurt greatly, especially given the horrific circumstances. I'd have given anything to turn the clock back and allow the marmalade sandwich to await those murderers in the realm of all things Shrodinger.

We know what we know. We'd always like to know more, it's human nature, part of the condition. But maybe we shouldn't peel back the felt cap of curiosity for fear of what lies beneath? Curiosity, after all, killed the cat and killing small animals, well, that's indicative of a psychopath. Curiosity is a psychopath. It doesn't give two shits one way or the other about you, only about truth, but an unnecessary truth can be very painful. We're drawn to it like a cat to the other side of a busy main road at rush hour, it causes us to destroy our favourite toy or to walk into a room to see who those unfamiliar men's voices belong too and it will almost always hurt.

What lay beneath the hat or who those men were hadn't mattered until curiosity had decided to stick it's fat nose in. We know good things rarely come from curiosity and we know we never overhear anything nice about ourselves but we still eavesdrop whenever the chance arises, whether walking past a door that someone has left slightly ajar or when queuing up for a pint at the bar of a busy, northern pub.

Some stuff just doesn't matter. Most stuff, in fact, just doesn't matter. Not really. More importantly, though, if your daughter keeps leaving the keys in the safe, be more Paddington...

...keep it under your hat.

J2H.

Look all around, there's nothing but blue skies.

Mouldy and draughty, my house is a pit

And even the dogs think the place shit

But it's all that I've got and I can't afford better

So when the boiler breaks I just put on a sweater

I'm grateful for whatever food's in my belly

And until recently had a thirty year old telly

It worked well enough and gave me the impression

Of action and drama in soap operas and Westerns

But then one night during a show with Stephen Fry in

That crackling, old box gave up even trying

It popped and sent smoke that was thick, pungent and white

Drifting up high while I sat and said "Shite!"

So off I went to Tesco to get myself

A deal on a telly that came straight from the shelf

I carried it home, these new one's are light

And looked forward to my usual Saturday night

I settled down deep in my favourite chair

One foot on a dog that snoozed and snored there

Lay on the floor halfway in between

The chair I had chosen and the flat, shiny screen

Looking so lost, sitting dwarfed in betwix

A vase with a flower and a set of six pics

I squinted at the remote clasped, tight, in my hand

Then turned on a film about a brass band

The picture was crisp and the speakers were sound

Then flicking through menus I suddenly found

All of those channels that, until recently

Had been unavailable for me to see

Those familiar shows watched without ever

Seeing a spot on a famous presenter

Or straggly hairs on the side of a beard

Or how that bloke off the weather looks a bit weird

All these now clearly presented in glorious HD

Even the wrinkles beneath Rachel Riley's knee

Spoiling my long held, low-def delusion

Of perfection whenever I'd put local news on

The novelty of the benefit hi-def had brung

Didn't linger around for very long

I longed for the time of blurry ignorance

I'd had and enjoyed while celebrities danced

Then, as ever when Monday morn' came around

Sat eating toast was where I could be found

Staring through eyes that longed for the gloom

At the flat, wicked window in the corner of the room

But what was that, sitting on that settee?

Glimpsed through the steam from my hot cup of tea

Was a woman who looked even better today

And sent all the grey clouds drifting away

Now she's the reason I tune in each morning

Scratching my arse as the new day is dawning

Munching on toast and loading a pipe to

Enjoy on my dog walk while cleaning up dog poo

A Cupid's bow and eyes dark and bright

A smile that'd make all wrong things right

I hang upon every word that she breathes

And won't start my day 'til she finally leaves

No matter the matter she's having to cover

Her words mesmerise like a whispering lover

Naga Munchetty, she's always enough

To brighten the day of an old bloke with a cough.

Enjoy the little things.

J2H.

The murder of the tree.

There once was an unremarkable tree.

The unremarkable tree nestled between a small block of flats, a wall and a ginnel. It towered above the flats, it's canopy spreading wide and the tips of it's wooden fingers reaching for the windows and roof tiles, scratching at them whenever the westerly wind blew.

My house is a shit hole. Mismatched brickwork, a rotting gate and a yard filled with builder's detritus as a result of the stunted reparations to the crumbling residence taking place within our walls but it did have, until recently, a remarkably good view of the unremarkable tree.

I smoke a pipe and, most mornings and every evening, I'll spend half an hour or so tucked between the bins at the back gate taking shelter from the wind, rain and snow as best I can whilst enjoying a bowlful of Steeplechase, Avro or Kentucky Nougat. There is little of beauty to look at around my shit hole (ooh, matron!) so I tend to lose myself in my thoughts as I puff away.

Over time and without noticing, I became familiar with the unremarkable tree. It had a rhythm in it's wafting and the tree would entertain me as it tirelessly performed a swirling, whirling jig. In the evening bats would join the ballet and perform complex acrobatics in the air around and through it's branches, occasionally buzzing me as I puffed away. In the morning, a crow would land on the very highest branch and caw his appreciation of the brand new day.

The crow was, for a time, the only bird brave enough to alight on the tree. At some point in the past so long ago that it now seems it was always there, a plastic bag from a supermarket became entangled in the tree's spindly canopy and would flap in the blustery winds, sounding a little like a hundred wings taking to the air all at once. The noise had become part of the soundtrack to my pipe-times, eventually going mainly unnoticed by either the bird or me. Over recent weeks my friend the crow had been joined by his brethren. First, a second crow appeared, followed by a third until a whole flock would arrive each morning.

I'm given to flights of fancy, spending much of my time lost in bizarre imaginings, and I started to name the crows, even giving some of them back stories. They would sit in approximately the same place each time, spread throughout the branches in a pattern that resembled a living family tree.

There was Tarquin, the original crow who took the highest position. Big and good looking, the oiliest of his clan, Tarquin was my favourite. Finbar was a bit of a clown, Tinny Lynnette loved a drink and Dave the Beak was a ladies man.

The motley crew were made complete by the addition of the final three, Twitchy Pete, 'Arry the Bastard and Carl Sagar.

A couple of weeks ago a man with a chain-saw arrived. He spent some considerable time attached to the thicker branches by a loop of old rope as he removed the less thick branches higher up. I watched him, all the while hoping that each time he loosened the rope and began to descend that his job was complete and that what remained would remain. But he didn't.

Once he'd reduced the crow's roost to a stump, the man with the chainsaw used a vicious machine to transform the woody perennial's dismembered cadaver into wood chippings and departed. The following day, someone set fire to the stump and, like a man pissing into an open grave, threw a stained mattress and some bags of rubbish on top of it.

The bats will find another hunting ground while Tarquin et al will find another tree to colonise. The new mattress that necessitated the burning of the old mattress will become stained and flattened with time. The wood chips will be spread over flower beds or treated and used to cushion the fall of children falling from swings and slides and I'll will still smoke my pipe in my grotty back yard. Life goes on.

But the family tree's gone.

A week or so ago, my uncle Jack shuffled off this mortal coil. I'd not seen him in donkeys' year, not since we buried his mother, the inimitable Granny Annie. His departure has resulted in my elevation to oldest Spacey, a status my uncle's younger brother, the bloke I called Dad, never achieved. My mother's still around, but she wasn't born a Spacey.

Yes, I'm aware that I'm displaying terrible sexism in discounting her but, in my defence, that's only because I'm terribly sexist.

I discovered he'd died when someone left me a message, in the form of a comment on a blog post. The Twitter-age version of slipping a note under a door, it was quite the shocker. The comment further broke two other pieces of sad news to me, in a sort of rip-the-plaster-off-quickly fashion, and was signed with a couple of kisses.

To be fair, it's so long ago now that I can no longer remember the last time I spoke to any member of my family, so I suppose that even bothering to let me know was a kindness I couldn't have expected. Of course, given my state of familial estrangement, it would have been possible that I go to my grave without ever having heard the news, creating a sort of Schrodinger's Uncle and keeping his jolly face and dry wit alive within me, but that wasn't the case.

I cried. Alone. The dogs were with me, staring at me and wondering if I had any food (Mercenary bastards, dogs are) but no one else who'd known him now knows me.

A family tree, gone.

What happens when Tarquin finally mistimes his escape whilst feasting on the remains of a cat on a dual carraigeway? Without the family tree he'll not be missed. Even if one of the other crows witnesses his cold, flat corpse how will they let the others know?

It'll probably be through an online comment section, but only because crows can't tweet.

J2H.

If stretched, your bowels are as large as one hundred acres of woodland.*

I've had some shit holidays in my time.

What's worse, I forced many of those shit holidays on my children. Some of the holidays were so shit, I doubt they even realised we were on holiday.

Generally slightly out of season (my times of austerity existed long before the advent of crooked bankers and guerilla class warfare) and involving a tent, caravan or canal boat, I'd drag them away for a few days of walking around, clambering over fences, climbing trees, exploring rivers and trying to light fires.

One year, I dragged the poor buggers to my mother and father's new static caravan on the outskirts of a quaint, little fishing village.

Blackpool.

Once we'd finished setting up whichever game system was en vogue at that time we went to explore the site. It didn't take much time.

As the sky began to turn from blue to magenta we headed back. Close to the caravan there was a small clump of pretty trees and the boys decided they'd like to round off an eventful day by acting like baboons. I left them to it and went inside, leaving the door open so I'd be able to hear the screams when the inevitable, easily avoidable, simply horrendous accident, that must surely take place, took place.

I sat with my feet on the little coffee table that would later provide support for a double bed and watched the television. Before long, the five year old came crashing through the little, rattly door.

My youngest was going through a phase that caused him to be referred to as "the fridge magnet", given his propensity for hanging off the door of the fridge and staring at the food inside whilst eating a bag of crisps and wondering "what next?" He went straight to the fridge and made himself a jam sandwich before flopping onto the seat next to me and taking the remote control from my lap as I took a twig from his hair.

"Dad, where does poo come from?"

I shook my head and smiled that smile that every father smiles whenever asked a question by a son still more stupid than he.

"From your tummy, son."

"What, MY tummy?" He furrowed his brow.

"Yes, well, anyone's tummy."

"But, how does poo get there?"

"Erm, well, your food gets digested and the stuff your body doesn't need turns into poo."

He mused over the information for a while whilst trying, unsuccessfully, to lick a blob of strawberry preserve from his own chin.

"And then what?"

"It comes out of your bottom."

The five year old wrinkled his nose.

"Eww, that's disgus... oh, Gladiators!" He exclaimed as he flicked through the few channels available on the little portable telly with the pound shop aerial.

We sat and watched Wolf and his colleagues batter people with giant cotton buds and kick them whilst dangling from hoops for half an hour or so when Jet, my personal favourite, appeared.

The twelve year old who wasn't there was almost as big a fan of the physically fantastic Ms. Youdale as his father was. I turned to my youngest prodigy...

"Where's your brother?" I asked the little, ginger, bundle of joy by my side.

He looked pensive for a moment, then his eyebrows arched and his mouth dropped open.

"Awww, I forgot..."

He rose to his feet, scattering crumbs of the light, curly, potato snacks that he'd had to follow the sandwich, the apple and the half a packet of Malted Milk biscuits he'd devoured onto the floor,

"...he's stuck up a tree and he can't get down and he said for me to come and get you."

I scrambled to my feet. By my reckoning, we'd been sat watching crap on telly while we spoke about crap and ate Quavers for  good thirty minutes, during which time it had gone dark.

"Quickly!" The absent minded child yelled as he leapt through the still open door, as if my tardiness was what had led to whatever terrible fate his brother had succumbed.

He'd done well, the twelve year old.

He'd successfully scaled the tallest of the trees to it's very top, though his forward planning had left much to be desired.

During his ascent he'd snapped off many of the smaller branches and used them as foliage-to-earth missiles to launch at his brother below. After a rousing chorus of "I'm the King of the swingers", complete with monkey noises and a shimmy that had nearly dislodged him, he'd found himself unable to come back down, there being few hand or foot holds left beneath him.

I got him down easily enough, using the same technique my own father had perfected on many of the shit holidays of my youth. He was cold, bored and his pride had been dented.

Also, his brother was "an idiot" and had "better not have eaten my Quavers".

Eventually, once he'd finished complaining about his arduous ordeal and had pestered me until I went to the co-op down the road for more Quavers, all was once again well with the world and I got to enjoy what was my favourite part of the day on a family holiday, putting the kids to bed.

The boys shared the bedroom with two single bunks and, after much giggling, flatulence and screams of "stop it Jamie, I can't breath" I went in to say goodnight and tuck them in.

"Dad, tell him, I've got Asthma you know? His arse might kill me." Never one to be overly-dramatic, my youngest did his best to get his brother in trouble, achieving a bollocking of his own for his use of "arse".

To be fair, trouble was always something my eldest was able to get into without the help of his wheezy sibling.

"Can I read my book?" The five year old asked.

"Of course," I replied, "where is it?"

He pointed to his little holdall and I rummaged around inside, retrieving his book and passing it to him. He inspected the cover, wrinkled his nose and tossed the tome onto the floor.

"I've changed my mind." He curled up with a sulky pout and a Gameboy, "I've gone off it now, it's disgusting."

I picked up the book, along with the underwear and inside out tracksuits that lay scattered around, and smiled.

With arms full I navigated my way backwards through the narrow door and out into the equally narrow hallway.

"G'night, kids." I called over my shoulder as I dumped the dirty clothing on the floor of the kitchenette and grabbed a can of Guinness from the cupboard.

I took a seat at the little bistro set outside, smoking a cigarette under the stars. The set sat upon the dozen or so concrete flags that my father had laid and that constituted a patio, it's uneven surface turning the seats into rocking chairs. My son's book was face down on the table as I enjoyed the peace and quiet and shortened my lifespan for no good reason. I considered my day, as I do when each day draws to a close, making sure I'd learnt the lessons life had delivered. That day, I'd learnt that trying to climb to the top is fine, just make sure you've a way back down if you need one and, a bonus life lesson learnt late in the evening, the importance of ensuring no ambiguity in one's questions.

I stubbed my cigarette out on the saucer I used as an ashtray and picked up my five year old's book, smiling as I read the opening lines...

"Here is Edward Bear, coming down the stairs now, bump bump bump,

 on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin"

J2H.

* Absolute nonsense. 

I've never suited plaid.

Aren't there a lot of crows about?

Sorry, I was miles away.

It's been an eventful couple of months since last I addressed you. A major upheaval at home, a downturn in fortunes of a fiscal nature, a shitload of DIY and, to cap it all, I lost my funky Zippo lighter in the long grass on the field.

I chose a camouflage design Zippo. It looked lovely, but with hindsight the drawbacks should have been obvious.

Despite all the rigmarole, I've also managed to squeeze in one of what I have come to fondly call my "little heart tickles". Imagine having your chest stamped on just once, but by an enormous ape's foot that immediately finds its peak pressure and keeps it applied.

Now, I'm not the world's most ticklish guy, but even I find these tickles debilitating.

This most recent tickle wasn't as bad as last. This time I was fit enough to sign a form saying I didn't want to be taken to hospital. Amidst the current turmoil a break would've been nice, but the closest hospital is many miles away and I knew that I didn't have the cash for extravagances such as bus fare home should I have been unfortunate enough to survive.

Last time, scrawling my moniker on a disclaimer wasn't an option. As I was being driven away in the ambulance I was panicking and worrying about the post-me world. How would people cope?

Ha.

The day after that tickle, once back home and alone but for my faithful hounds, I thought some more about the painful experiences of the previous evening. What if? I gave it some serious consideration.

Would anyone miss me? Would the world be a better or a worse place for my departure, or even for my having arrived in the first place? I drew deeply on the pipe my doctor has said I shouldn't draw on and gave the matter ever more consideration, eventually coming up with the answer.

I don't care.

Or, at least, I won't care. I'll be dead. Balls to 'em all.

I have, over a number of years, developed for myself a memory palace. Initially just a technique to remember passwords, phone numbers and to-do lists (a now redundant technique given my over-reliance on the almighty Apple) it has evolved into something of great beauty that I can never share.

In my mind's eye, doors from various locations in my past open up into others. If I imagine opening the gas cupboard in the council flat that I once loved and crawling through it I emerge from the cash-box door on the front of one of the fruit machines in the pub in which I grew up. The cellar door in that pub leads to a dark and familiarly scented staircase which, in turn, leads to my 'happy place', a garden by a brook with a bench beneath which my best dog snoozes.

If I follow the brook upstream, my footsteps echoing as I pass underneath the hump backed bridge that forms part of the garden's boundary, the brook becomes a river and, when I emerge from the cool, moist air of the little tunnel I find myself walking along beside an enormous field, the sky above lilac and the wind rustling through and bending the long grass.

In the centre of that field looms a giant version of the doll's house I bought for my granddaughter back in those long ago days when I was still the kind of man that did that kind of thing. Dark and forbidding beneath the heavy, stormy clouds that constantly roll overhead, tattered curtains flap from within the glassless windows while the flimsy plastic door swings open before slamming shut with a regularity that's almost rhythmical.

It looks dark in the doll's house. 

I don't know what possessed me to add this last feature, let alone the scarecrow in yellow sou'wester that stares at me as I walk by the gate-less gate posts. I've remained too scared to investigate further, only ever seeing the house from the distance. Maybe one day I'll take a look.

Past the diabolical doll's house and around the bend, where the river magically morphs into a canal, I arrive at a barge. 

My barge, in which I can travel to the pub for lunch or smoke a pipe and listen to the little clockwork radio (with integrated LED torch) I used to have in my camper van dwelling days and that now sits by the pot-bellied stove in the corner. When it rains in the real world and creates that familiar and soothing pitter-patter soundtrack on the windows I close my eyes and imagine they're beating their tattoo on the roof of the little, red barge. I like my barge.

The barge is moored at the bottom of my garden. A beautiful garden that leads up to the beautiful house that is my dream home. A fantasy dwelling into which I've put an enormous amount of work and detail and in which pipe smoking is never allowed.

(Unless I'm in the high backed, green, leather armchair that sits by the crackling fire in my dusty, musty, study.)

There's a tree house in the front garden. As with the doll's house, I've never visited it, though it looks far less intimidating.

Scattered throughout these locations are my memories and the equipment I need for the myriad of coping strategies I find necessary. In my beloved council flat the lists and phone numbers I need to remember are kept, usually short term. The pub I grew up in contains the things I loved. The meetings and partings, cherished memories and the things I mustn't forget.

My garden is where I leave the things I don't want to remember, that I want to be free of. I sit on the bench and take the wooden cigar box that my father brought back from Portugal from beneath my seat. (Every time I visit, the box has been replaced) After slowly opening the heavy lid and breathing deep the exotic aroma I place whatever pain I've brought with me inside, clicking shut the lid and engaging the tiny, brass hook and eye. When I'm ready, I place the box in the clear, shallow water as it babbles by. I sit by my best dog, light my pipe and watch as the box floats away, ever faster around the bend and down the weir, taking my pain with it.

As for the doll's house, fuck knows what's in there.

The barge is my thinking place, the dream house my safety. I spend a lot of my time in the house, usually either cooking or watching a film in the jacuzzi.

I've spent many years creating this micro-verse inside my head. I know every detail. I can't change anything for want of ruining it all. Laws of physics are observed. If I dream, I now dream of that life, not this.

This time, with my heart tickly and with the sure and certain knowledge that I'd not give a shit about the outcome of this situation that was clearly out of my control, I went there. I heard the words of Patty, of the paramedic that was treating me and, I seem to remember, of a cat that happened on by (He seemed perturbed to find me lying on the pavement and wasn't particularly sympathetic to my situation) before I tuned into the other world and, safely ensconced in my own imagination, began tapping out my pipe bowl against the garishly painted watering can that sits on the stern of my barge. I wandered slowly up the garden path and said good afternoon to the tramp that I found breaking into my shed last winter and who I've agreed can now live there.

I feel like I should be more in control of my fantasies.

I went indoors and made beef stew and dumplings as some of those I've lost milled around. It was very pleasant, once I'd finally managed to disregard the sensation of that giant shoe threatening to invert my ribcage from another reality.

It was an odd experience set amid an already tempestuous period and one that I didn't have much time to consider. Once back in this greyer reality I share with you, once my hands had stopped shaking enough to be able to pack a pipe with my granddad's favourite tobacco and once I could stand at the back door unaided by anything other than the door frame I set about trying to forget what had come earlier. It wasn't so difficult. Other matters of far greater importance than a dicky ticker were easily focussed upon at that time but now, during this relatively pain free period of calm I find myself enjoying, I've begun to wonder.

Why didn't I struggle? Why did I actively try to control what might have been my last thoughts in such a way? Was I trying to construct my own afterlife? One's last moment on earth would seem as an eternity once passed. I'd have given myself that eternity in my own, personalised, perfect world had the tickle become something more.

It's not that I have nothing to lose, (Have you seen my dogs? And I've got half a Twix in the fridge.) it's just the realisation that we can only lose anything whilst alive. You can lose nothing when you die, all you could have lost is already gone. It's those unfortunate folk that stay behind that lose something, but they get over it. Or they don't.

Either way, it'll not bother us if we're dead.

This week has provided me with a brace of epiphanies. The first being that a man with nothing to lose can't be hurt nor made less happy. This epiphany has caused me to snarl a lot more than before and to give fewer shits.

And the second has been that Codeine is BRILLIANT. This epiphany has caused me to snigger a lot more than before and to take fewer shits.

It is also responsible for the disjointed blog entry you've just endured. Sorry about that.

I think I'm almost ready to make a detour through that long grass and pay a visit to the doll's house. It'll be okay, there's a torch on the barge, I'll take that with me.

Maybe I'll find my lighter.

Enjoy the little things.


J2H.

The black heart of Jimmy Greenteeth.

Taken from the upcoming children's book, Jimmy Greenteeth and the Magic Kettle, by John Spacey.

If walking through the woods that lie
Beside the stinking river
You feel a wind upon your neck
That makes you gasp and shiver
Run and run and run straight home
And never look behind
For if you pause to take a glance
Pure evil you will find

That breeze you feel, that's not the wind
But the breath of something wicked
An evil looking, crooked toothed fiend
Watching from the thicket
Dressed in clothes once fine but that
Had now seen better days
Hunting for his supper
Of unloved waifs and strays

He'll start by tearing out your tongue
So you can scream no more
Then drag you to his evil lair
And fling you to the floor
He'll feast upon your flesh and bones
One piece at a time
And laugh and sing and taunt you with
His wicked, scary rhyme

So, parents, if you value them
Keep your sons and daughters
Safe and sound and well away
From those oily, stinking waters
For evil like you've never known
Dwells in the dark beneath
The silvery light of the moon at night
In the heart of Jimmy Greenteeth

Author unknown.