Every scar has a story.
Some scars are disfiguring, some may be unobtrusive, and some may be
hidden, but they all tell a story. There
are those scars that are perceived to enhance the wearer, but that is usually
because those observing them want to know the story.
Anyone who knows me will know that I have a scar that runs for about 3 inches down the left side of my face from the top of my cheekbone towards the corner of my mouth. My friends have often speculated about how I came to get this facial feature, but I have never told them the true story. My late wife knew the truth as she was there when I got it,
For a mere second the soldier closed his eyes
and succumbed to sleep’s black embrace. It was long enough for him to shuffle
off the rain-slicked duckboards; off that narrow avenue between places of
He landed on his back on the thick, bomb
Staring wide-eyed at the grey, rain-filled sky, he screamed a muffled cry of commingled anger and terror at his fatal mistake.
I can’t remember exactly how we four lads from Sheffield decided that a cruise down the Chesterfield Canal might be a good idea, but for me at least it became one of the most memorable trips I have ever taken. The boat was called the Brindley after the man who kicked off the building of this waterway in the late 18th Century and was a four-berth boat based in West Stockwith.
Ladies and Gentlemen,
members of this awesome dissembly,
It is my privilege to
shriek to you today through the medium of space, without rinsing my worms; to
look back to our future; to explore how we may embrace a sea change in our shrinking,
free from excessive red tape, pies in the sky or other porkies and assorted
paper tigers; to discover, here and now, where we need to stand firm, but also,
to find those moments when we need to move on to better timing. And above all,
I urge you, with all my sinews, to hold up your palms, especially to this sea
of bubbles (and its associated cant and froth), and by opposing, see it off.
For, when all else fails, we need to stand above the crowd, cut through this
jungle and tangle: all those lies embedded in convention, to reach an avon of
peace and contention.
“It’s just a scratch” said my wife
Of course, when they say that in the movies, they have endured
a barrage of bullets from any number of generally incompetent antagonists and
at least one of them will have penetrated a useful limb. Having been thus injured, hero would reach
for his rolled up newspaper and put them off their already poor aim by using it
as a blowpipe to blast the nearest gunman with peanuts from a handy nearby
bowl. Having dispatched all his enemies
with deadly peanuts and newsprint jabs, he uses his newspaper to bind up the
flesh wound that has rendered his left arm useless, and coolly makes his way
out of the building and into the crowded streets.
It felt incongruous sitting
there on the bandstand steps in the sunny park, half a dozen of their friends
messing about around them, oblivious. Drew was holding her hand the
big faux gold chain on his wrist digging into her arm, replicating the
pain. He was sucking on a roll-up and the smoke blew towards her making
‘For god’s sake Mel, stop
makin’ a fuss. I ain’t gonna stop spliffin’ just fer you, so yer can give that
up right now.’
Acrotiri, Cyprus, August 1976.
Captain Manders had tucked up five year old Janine after his wife had read her story.
Jackie now stood biting her thumb watching her husband carrying out his nightly routine of fine-tuning his tiny moustache, before leaving her for the Officers’ Mess.
He felt her presence and gave her a glance. He finished the right side with a flourish and turned to her, seemingly for approval. Continue reading