Activity 7.5

Begin a story with the line:

     I thought I would always remember this, but over time it has become blurred.

Use a narrator who struggles to piece a memory together. The memory can be triggered by a chance meeting or the discovery of an old letter or photograph. Write up to 500 words.

Activity 7.5

 I thought I would always remember this, but over time it has become blurred. I know what happened of course, some things you never forget, but had we really been so young? The strange thing about youth is that every event is important; every year, season, defined by milestones in one’s life, friends we have, parties we attend and love we lose. After the age of about twenty the years just seem to blend together. But youth is also deceptive. At sixteen I believed I possessed the experience and looks of a woman of twenty-one. Perhaps this is why I am so confused about that period of my life. We spend our childhoods training our minds to think they are older than they are until, somewhere around the late twenties, they are thrown into harsh reverse and told that we are actually only babies, no grey hairs yet, thank you very much!

     But this photograph has spoiled a lifetime of contented deceit by exposing the truth. It couldn’t be much clearer. It was taken by Joe Mailer with his first camera, in colour too. There were ten of us in all and I remember thinking that the shot had to be just right. Camera films were expensive in those days and Joe had set a timer so he would be in it himself. I had snuggled deep into the arms of John Vickers, my sweetheart at the time. He had felt so strong and warm and this photo was going to last forever, proof that I was his girl. Looking at it now all I see is a boy – skinny and freckled, a child compared to Ally. It’s funny but she looks just the same here as I remember her. Blonde hair in pigtails, her arms folded like a boy, shiny lips twisted to one side in a devious smirk that Jane Russell would kill for. Then there were the blue jeans. Ally was American and the only person we knew who wore denim and chewed gum. She was confident and tomboyish but lusciously feminine in a way that I, with my pleated skirt and tight sweater, would not understand for another ten years.

     In the picture, I’m smiling like Vera-Ellen – all cheeks and teeth – but my stomach was doing somersaults. John’s chin rested on my head but all I could taste was Ally. I had been sure he would smell her on me but I needn’t have worried. I realise now that he would never have recognised the scent of a woman. The affair, I suppose you would call it, must have gone on for some months but for the life of me I can’t remember it ending. Did she move back to America? Was there a tearful farewell? Or did we silently go our separate ways?

     I never told anyone the truth about Ally and me; perhaps that’s why it is so hard to recall clearly. Until now, it has only existed in my old, unreliable memory. But now I have proof. Proof that I was her girl.

Activity 5.5

Here's a stab at one of the activities for my OU course.

Activity 5.5

Choose two characters from the following list and develop their voices: a fitness fanatic; a disillusioned nurse; a bored, gifted student; a jovial social climber; a music-loving dentist. Make the voices different in rhythm, sentence length, vocabulary, and degrees of eloquence. Write two monologues of up to 300 words each.

A DISILLUSIONED NURSE

Did you administer the patient’s medication? Yes. Tick. Did the patient accept them freely? No. Tick. What approach did you employ to ensure the patient received their medication? I kneeled on his testicles and told him I’d flush his mobile phone down the toilet if he didn’t eat the bloody pills. Tick. I wish. That’d teach the little sod not to drink and drive. I wish I’d seen his face when the police turned up (three hours later). Just one more night in A&E. Just tonight, then four days off. Let’s see what little toe rags they bring in tonight. Girls with black eyes and skinny legs and lads covered in blood they refuse to wash off. Pikey-chav-scum, Ruby would call them. Thank Christ she never became a nurse. Three minutes left. Tea’s cold. No time for another. Sheila says they want anyone working the night shift to start wearing stab vests. Probably just a rumour. Should have stayed at The Lodge. Jean said Mary’s retiring, maybe I could get a transfer. I wonder if poor Mrs Richards died. All those little grandchildren. All that love. It makes no difference in the end. One minute. I wonder what Mick’s doing. I hope charlotte’s in bed. She was still angry when I left. No way am I letting her out ‘til ten when there are pissed kids driving around in cars. If something happened to her they’d bring her here. Charlotte on a stretcher with black eyes and skinny legs. I’ll give Mick a quick ring just to check.

A MUSIC-LOVING DENTIST

Just shut your mouth, how can you say I go about things the wrong way? I wish he’d shut his mouth, he stinks of vodka. Good night was it, mate? I bet you didn’t wanna come here today. I see you’re looking at the Ramones poster on the ceiling, mate. I knew that was a good move. He’s old enough to remember The Ramones. Upper second molar. Gotcha. Hey Ho Let’s Go! We should cover that in the band. Millie’s broken up with her boyfriend again. I’ll see if she fancies coming to the gig tonight, cheer her up. She needs some Rock n Roll in her life…maybe she wouldn’t be late to work then. I’ll ask her when Stinky Pete’s gone. He’s a man who’s got too much Rock n Roll in his life. Mate? I don’t believe it. He’s fucking asleep! Never mind, we’ll soon sort that out. Sorry mate, did that hurt? You might wanna stay conscious for this next bit, then it won’t come as such a shock when I do this- doh! Ha. He really hates me now. Better end with The Kaiser Chiefs tonight. Ruby Ruby Ruby Ruby! I can’t believe she’s twenty-one already. I can’t believe she wants to spend her birthday down the Lion watching her old man’s band. God, I hope Gary doesn’t get too pissed. Jan’ll floor him if he tries it on with Ruby again. So’ll I if I have to listen to another version of Shiggy Shtardusht. Nearly done, mate. You’ll be tucked up back in bed within the hour. Sho where were the shpiders? Niow, niow niow niow niow niow niow, niowwww. Thank you very much.

TMA01 - PART 2

This is a short piece I submitted for my OU course and was quite pleased with the grade.

When You’ve Got To Choose

In a hotel room in Covent Garden, a drama was unfolding for Max Kessler. It was a symmetrical room, decorated in beige and yellow tones and dominated by a king-size bed. This was where Max perched, the television and minibar to his left and a couple of arm-chairs and a table to his right. In front of him, a vast mirror reflected the whole scene back. He was a handsome man of twenty-nine, although he was often told he looked younger. Tonight, his body was rigid with adrenalin that would frequently reach the point of panic. Looking into the glass, Max was sure this showed on his face. He took a long draught from the miniature bottle of wine. ‘Follow your heart’, his mother had always said, but Max suspected she would feel differently if she found out his heart had led him to this expensive hotel room.

     He tried to relax and watch the news for a bit but the headline had not changed all afternoon – ‘MARGARET THATCHER DEAD’. A statement from her daughter was being played for the fifteenth time and then was replaced by footage of a crowd gathering in celebration at Trafalgar Square. Alone, in the privacy of his room, he allowed himself a small smile and then reminded himself not to think ill of the dead.

     Max stood up, took a 10p coin from his trouser pocket and flipped it clumsily. Heads cancel, tails do nothing, he had decided. It landed on the floor. He peered down at it – heads for the third time in a row. He was starting to feel light-headed and wondered if he should take the coin’s advice and cancel the appointment. After all, he had done nothing wrong yet. His wife knew where he was; she even knew his room number and every theatre performance he would be reviewing that week. One phone call and the guilt would be gone. He could order some dinner from room-service and watch a film. Iris would understand. His train of thought had followed this same pattern all day but whenever it came back to Iris, he knew that he would never call her. He had come too far.

     Returning to the bed, Max allowed himself to think about her. Iris. Mrs Randall. Actually, he had no idea if she was a Mrs but with a little embarrassment he realised he liked the way it sounded. They had met the previous day at a party after the opening night of The Graduate. The irony was not lost on Max, of course. In fact, he wondered if it might be a sign that their meeting was meant to be. He had been struck by ‘Mrs Randall’ the moment she made her entrance. She was a small, curvy, woman of about fifty with warm, freckled skin and black hair laced with rich iron streaks. She excited Max like no other woman ever had. He felt hot and furious when he observed Richard Collins from The Times trying to lay his hand on her waist - the clown – and uncharacteristically nervous when she chose instead to join Max’s own table.

     ‘I am in politics because of the conflict between good and evil…’

     The voice of Thatcher from the television interrupted Max’s thoughts about ‘Mrs Randall’ and yanked him back to reality. As a boy growing up in the Eighties, he had known that voice as well as his own mother’s. In some of his earliest memories, he could not even tell which was which. Strangely, it was his mother’s voice that had inspired the guilt that had visited him so much in the last twenty four hours, not that of his wife. He supposed it was because, after two years of marriage, he hardly knew Karen. He was very fond of her but there was no passion. Their union and her devotion to him had been causing Max guilt and resentment every day since his mum had introduced them. He owed it to Karen to free her from the farce their relationship was.

     ‘She’s old enough to be your mother!’ Max’s mum would say about Iris, ‘she won’t want children at her age.’

     There was a knock at the door. Max’s heart jolted. He pointed the remote at Maggie with her ‘Victorian values’ and she disappeared with a flash. There was no place for her in this room tonight. For the first time in his life, Max was going to allow himself to be happy. He opened the door and Iris stood perfect as ever, smiling. She placed a hand on his cheek and kissed him firmly on the lips. There would certainly be guilt but it would wait until the morning.