Derek Haines's blog

Cabbie! Taxi Please!

My special guest today is Colette Caddle. Apart from being a well known Irish author, her other talents include drinking excessive amounts of tea and being a professional colour-coder of her larder. She also has a rather odd obsession with taxis. So read on and enjoy.

Cabbie! Taxi Please!

Taxi drivers are the same the world over; I say this from experience. There have been times when I’ve climbed into a cab in good mood to be met with frosty sullenness and, as a result, got out the other end feeling dejected. I have met pessimists with a dark and cynical opinion on almost every topic and tried, in vain, to paint the brighter side of the picture. And on the occasions I don’t want to talk because I’m down or sad or preoccupied, I have usually met the garrulous, cheerful type. I try to discourage conversation by staring out of the window or pretending to read, but the driver carries on regardless. Sometimes they manage to draw me out and I get out of the car feeling better than I did getting in.

Taxi drivers have frequently annoyed me, sometimes made me feel sad and on occasion, even scared. But many times they make laugh and they almost always made me think.

I’ll never forget the Dubliner who told me how he and his girlfriend had got ‘caught out’ at just seventeen and he’d struggled with the whole concept of becoming a father and been tempted to run. Now, twenty-three years later, his son is his best friend and, in his opinion, his children are his greatest achievement.
I met one big and very intimidating guy that boasted about how he’d dealt with difficult clients in the past. I commiserated, smiled nervously and gave him an extra-large tip.
Then there was the quiet but determined Londoner who had decided to change his life and worked gruelling hours so that he could afford to train as a pilot in the US.
The middle-aged cab driver in New York who excitedly told me about the property he was buying in Thailand, planning to relocate as soon as his pocket allowed; he made me smile.
And I still shiver at the memory of the skeletal, vacant-eyed boy who drove in a fast and reckless manner while telling me how his in-laws were trying to press him into the family business of drug-dealing. He ran out of petrol when we were still a mile from home. I helped him push his car off the road, pressed money into his hand and tottered off along the dark country lane feeling lucky to be alive.

I have met drivers who have chosen their occupation because the flexible hours allowed them to care of a child, a sick spouse or an elderly parent. I have met people who have abandoned careers in search of a more independent or less pressured lifestyle. I have met readers and writers, artists and intellects and, most of all I have met a plethora of comedians who study life and then recount their observations with style and humour.

My most recent experience of taxi drivers was on a family holiday in Spain. It hadn’t been our best day as we had gone exploring, hadn’t found what we were looking for and ended up a long way from home, feeling grumpy, hot and tired. When the taxi pulled over and I gave him our address he looked at me with incredulous delight. We had our seat belts on and he was pulling into traffic before I realised there was no air-conditioning. Could our day possibly get worse? Well, yes, as seconds later his hands-free phone rang and despite my limited pigeon Spanish, it was clear from his tone that our driver was telling someone of his good fortune in meeting some lost tourists who were either very rich, very dumb and possibly, both. But when he hung up he turned to us with a disarming smile and filled us in on the conversation. It turned out that his wife was furious as he was late for some important family occasion. When he told her, however, where he was going and how much he would earn, she was delighted and assured him that business came first and they would wait for him. His candour was refreshing and his obvious happiness, infectious. Soon the tension started to ease from my family as he told us about his home, his family, his brother’s taxi firm and his beloved wife. All the while he smiled, occasionally teasing the children and making them laugh - a feat that, given their mood when they got into the car, was nothing short of a miracle. As we neared home I asked this charismatic man if he was a full-time taxi driver.
‘No, no,’ he told us, ‘during the day I work as a clown, visiting children in hospitals and hospices.’

Taxi drivers are the same the world over; I say this from experience. Some are happy, some are sad; some are interesting and some boring; some are angry and pessimistic while others are determined to look on the brighter side of life. And, happily there are those who, like my Spanish friend, make the world a brighter and better place.


Find out more about Colette:

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Kids On Stage

For a complete change of pace today, please welcome Machelle Allman to the Vandal Blog with her thoughts on kids’ theatre. Enjoy!

Kids On Stage
My freelance gig was to review children’s theater for a local print and internet parenting magazine.
There are those who would think that this comprises one of the circles of hell, and there are times that I agree with this assessment. However, I think it’s important to support the arts beyond buying the latest and greatest in whatever pixilated form, and I, like any good parent, want to infect my progeny with my own values. So my son and I go to many plays and puppet shows a year, and I get to write about them. People often ask me about bringing kids to the theater – at what age, what kinds of shows to go to, etc. If your kid can sit still for a half hour to an hour at a time, then the key is what the show is like.

Our first theater experience was an outdoor performance of The Sound of Music, when my son was three years old. We sat on benches cut into the side of a hill, and the lovely Maria entered the space from behind the audience, on top of the hill. She came down the aisle, singing that glorious opening song, carrying her guitar case. My son promptly stood up and shouted, “Oh! Mama, she’s got a piano!” After the laughter died down, I wondered if the poor actress playing Maria had heard him or if she just knew she made her big entrance and everyone broke up. The Sound of Music is not children’s theater, we discovered, but I have seen this mistake made many times in real children’s theater-that is, giving the lead diva a wonderful, lyrical number to show off her coloratura chops, when the kids generally could not care less. She goes on and on, and you have yelps of “What’s she yelling about?” and “I need to go pee!” in the audience.

That said, kids will forgive a lot, and will suspend their disbelief at the drop of a hat. I’ve seen wigs fall off, puppeteers appear at inopportune moments, and technical failures that would make The Wizard of Oz look like Peter Jackson, but the kids just let it go by and let themselves be enthralled with the show. What makes it worthwhile? There are a few things that I’ve identified:

1. There’s a story with a clear conflict and goal. In The Borrowers, they want to get outside without getting eaten. In The Elves and the Shoemaker, they need to pay the evil tax man. In Bunnicula, they want to figure out what’s happening without getting eaten. Hansel and Gretel…Hm. There’s a lot of getting eaten in children’s theater now that I think about it. The last thing you want is 50 kids in one room together with no idea what’s happening. That’s how unauthorized wiggling, shouted interruptions, and impromptu crying jags occur. Although usually sobbing parents can pull themselves together if given a minute.

2. Physical comedy. Falling down is always a winner. So is the old kick in the seat of the pants. Especially if the actor winds up, breaks the fourth wall, and asks the kids, “Should I?” If you ever doubt the power of the coliseum mob mentality, watch a bunch of five year olds screaming for one actor to YES! kick another actor in the pants. Cherubs, indeed.

3. Hope. Kids are sensitive little boogers, and they really need to leave on an up note. Not everybody gets the happy ending all the time, but somebody, preferably the lead, really should. My boy still has a hard time with Charlotte’s Web because sure, Charlotte’s babies make friends with Wilbur, but Charlotte herself dies. Children’s theater is not the time to get all literary and worldly with the script or the direction. Yes, they were just screaming for the kick in the pants, but they need to know that generally the world is an okay place to be.

So if you want to take your kid, your nieces and nephews, or your crazy grandpa to the theater, or if you are the type to try your hand at a script, keep these few things in mind. I’ve made the mistakes so that you don’t have to. Just ask the box office if anybody falls down or gets kicked in the pants during the play, and you’re golden.


Go to Machelle’s Venetian Blond Blog
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The Endless War

My very special guest blogger today is Jack Eason. Author of Onet’s Tale. As fellow antipodeans lost in Europe, we share a special out of place experience. So sit back, read and enjoy a little taste of Jack’s wonderful writing.



The Endless War

No one knew the reason why the ritualistic war had begun. Or indeed, who started it, and even more to the point, why it continued. The endless winter months were spent in brutal and bloody battles between the people of Farren and the Tribes of the River in the wide plains of the valley. During the spring, and summer, right through until the harvest was gathered in the late autumn, peace reigned across the land, and then the completely crazy cycle of destruction began once more.
***
Idrell stood on the smooth ice covered rock, protected from the icy winter winds by his warm bearskin cloak, shielding his eyes with his hand from the reflected sunlight coming from the blanket of virgin snow that covered the wide plain. In the distance, he could see the Tribes of the River as they formed up in their straggling ranks, their weapons glinting in the sunlight. He turned to his companion.
“Gar, why do we do this, what purpose does it serve except to keep our numbers down?” he wondered. Gar looked at Idrell with a puzzled expression on his face, “because the Tribes of the River are our enemy,” Gar replied, “what other reason do you need Idrell?”
Idrell shook his head in disbelief at Gar’s reply as he climbed down from the icy rock and mounted his horse. As the two friends rode back to the head of the Farren army, Idrell’s mind filled with endless questions.
***
Idrell and Gar were lifetime friends. Idrell’s father Briam was the king of Farren, and Gar’s father Drevi was his lieutenant. Both men were now too old to participate in the ritualistic war, so their sons acted as leader and lieutenant in the endless bloody winter battles, while the two old friends remained in the old castle keeping warm by the roaring fire in the great stone hall.
***
Idrell drew his sword from its sheath beneath the warm folds of his cloak and reluctantly signalled the advance, leading the way with his horse slowly trudging through the knee-deep snow. Gar rode along and through the ranks of old and young men and boys, eagerly stirring them forward with the flat of his sword. Idrell wasn’t the only one who often wondered about the war, half of his army felt the same way!
As both sides closed the distance between them, they broke ranks to form smaller fighting units. Soon the sounds of sword, battleaxe, and war hammer striking their deadly blows filled the air. Injured men on both sides were trampled by their comrades as the battle reached its bloody climax.
Both the Farren army and the Tribes of the River were locked in the deadly ritualistic battle, neither side giving an inch in the struggle to dominate the blood soaked snow covered battlefield.
***
Idrell looked across the heads of his troops to where his opposite number, Riana, Queen of the Tribes of the River, sat on her horse. They looked at each other for a moment and then both bowed their heads and saluted each other with their swords. Battle horns blasted the air and both sides withdrew to their own lines to lick their wounds.
Hundreds of men and boys lay mortally wounded or dead in a tangled bloody heap. Their warm breath, mixed with the warmth given off by their sweat-covered bodies formed a low misty cloud that gently spiralled into the crisp air of the cloudless sunny winter’s day.
***
Briam looked up and stared at his old friend Drevi. The cold winter winds howled and made the old stone building creak and groan. Both men nodded in agreement.
“Idrell, Gar, wake up boys, it’s time for bed,” Briam said, as the two men looked at their young sons lying at their feet on the warm bearskin rug in front of the roaring fire.
“Who won father?” Idrell asked, as he yawned.
“Neither of you son, it was a draw,” he said, as he picked up the chessboard and put away the pieces...

You can contact Jack by Email
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Banks!

Banks!

I see the gaunt unsmiling face of my neighbour every night,
Trudging back from his day at work, struggling with all his might.
To make a meek existence, to feed and clothe and house,
His much beloved family, and his ever loving spouse.

But as I gaze at this tired young man, working out his heart,
I wonder what he is slaving for, and will he ever start,
To analyse his life he has, and who he is working for.
And why it is that he will be, forever simply poor.

A glance at his statement, of his mortgage from the bank,
Will show the monthly interest, going to the tank,
Of fat cats in the boardroom, in the city far away,
Nine tenths or more of his hard earned cash, disappears their way.

And even though the taxman, slugs him once a week,
He is glad to see that what is left, will keep him on his feet.
Just topping up a little, with his trusty credit card,
To buy his son a birthday gift, and a lovely little card.

And still he trudges on, with the hope, that one day soon,
He will be approved for another card, as the one he’s got balloons,
Just shy of the limit the bank will bear, and still the bills come in,
He knows but will deny, he is at the moneylender’s whim.

So work each day you tired young man, but one day you may see,
My smiling face next door to you, and maybe just ask me,
Why is it that I’m relaxed, and enjoy my life with thanks,
It’s because I pay no interest to those greedy “bloody” banks.


Derek Haines 14th May 1998

Published in:
Loss, Limbo, Life and Love
Author: Derek Haines
ISBN/EAN13: 1449531261 / 9781449531263

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Like, What Is It With Kids And Ketchup

Please welcome Aisha Saeed to the Vandal Blog today. In keeping with the intellectual standing of this prestigious blog, Aisha brings us today her thoughtful insights into topical subjects including multiculturalism, child rearing, the family and most importantly, exotic cuisines and the pleasures of the taste buds. Read and enjoy.

Like, What Is It With Kids And Ketchup?

A few days ago I noticed that Derek Haines was looking for a guest blogger. Intrigued, I inquired. Given the limited scope of his blog (you know, covering just about everything) I felt a bit confused as to how on earth I’d pick a topic. “You could write about anything,”
he said in his e-mail, “like, what is it with kids and ketchup?” That example struck me since at that moment I was eating hash browns, with ketchup.

I’m not sure what it is about kids and ketchup but it made me wonder as I held a bite full of ketchuped hash browns. What is it with me and ketchup?

Growing up as a Pakistani-American, my parents cooked primarily Pakistani dishes. Chicken Tikka. Seekh Kebobs. Kefta with Naan. You know, boring stuff. I craved the exotic: the meatloaf, burgers, beef tacos. Once in a while my mother would oblige with the occasional “American” entree, of course with a twist of chilli pepper or turmeric dashed in for good measure. The vast majority of our ventures into “American” food involved a side of ketchup. In fact, I doubt there were many non-Pakistani dishes we ate that did not involve ketchup. Ketchup was as essential to these meals as plates and forks. You could try eating without it, but that would just be weird.

Years later when I had my own kitchen, with my own stove to cook as I pleased I certainly made the Pakistani standards, the ho-hum chicken biryani or Haleem, but I enjoyed making American food too. I still remember sitting down with my husband for the first time to eat beef tacos.

"What are you doing?" he asked, staring at me as I held a jar of ketchup in my hand, poised to squeeze some some in after the cheese.

“Um, putting in the ketchup?” I said raising an eyebrow. “Relax I’ll give it to you when I’m done.”

He continued staring at me like I had sprouted a watermelon on my head. “What?!?” I finally asked him.

“No one puts ketchup on their tacos.”

“That’s not true!” I insisted, “Everyone does.”

“Oh yeah? That’s why you see so many ketchup packets at Mexican restaurants?”

I paused. Wait. Salsa. Sour Cream. Guacamole for the cost of a small house. But, no ketchup.

The more I thought about it the more I realized that people didn’t really use ketchup quite as much as I did. Save the toddler who loved ketchup on everything from his burger to his matchbox cars, I was the only one drowning everything in the said condiment.

I don’t quite get my love of ketchup, but just like any good therapist will tell you, most of our unexplained behavior stem from childhood. And its true - my childhood foodings of the American variety did involve vast quantities of ketchup. And despite shedding so many other aspects of my childhood from sippy cups to riding bicycles with training wheels, somehow the ketchup habit? It stuck.

For better or worse I guess its now just a part of who I am. I’ll call it a quirk- and hope people find it endearing.


Aisha’s blog is www.aishaiqbal.blogspot.com
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The Indie Book Collective

I wrote and article recently for The Indie Book Collective about my up and down experiences in book marketing. If you are considering publishing your own book, it may give you a few clues as to the do’s and don’t’s on promoting your own book.


The Indie Writer Route

For those writers who are ready for a challenge, ‘Indie’ or self publishing, is a viable alternative to traditional publishing. For one thing, rejection letters are a thing of the past. Secondly, you get you book published much faster. However, be prepared to work like you have never worked before if you decide the ‘Indie’ route is for you. You will be editor, proofreader, designer and your very own general factotum 24/7. …. Click to the full story....




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The Beach

I am please to introduce Nickie O’Hara as my guest blogger for today. I am sure you will thoroughly enjoy her beautiful post. Read and enjoy.

The Beach
By Nickie O’Hara
October 2010

When I stand on the beach, with the wind nipping at my ears and whipping my hair, I can lose myself in the enormity of it all. I look one way and see nothing but sea, spilling off the edge of the horizon. I look another and see the wrought iron pier with the strange edifice just off the end; the wooden remnants of the fire almost thirty years ago. I can turn three hundred and sixty degrees and not one inch of the landscape appears unchanged. This was my childhood playground and I have made it my children’s playground too.

We drive out here as often as we can and walk for miles. We count the colourful beach huts and run up and down the sand dunes. We dream of living in one of the houses opposite – in a 1950’s carefree style – shorts and sandals, adventures and endless holidays. We prefer this end of the beach because it feels like a local secret. The tourists stay near the shops and the hotels, paddling in the boating lake and digging into their expensive ice creams.

Whilst lost in my daydream there has been a flurry of activity further down the beach. The kite surfers are out, taking advantage of the weather. It’s not too cold but the wind strength is ideal. The surfers head the half mile out to the water’s edge, clinging to their kites so they don’t get dragged along. It must be amazing to be out on the water today, dipping and diving like a bird. Free but with a sense of danger.

As I lick my lips I can taste salt. We haven’t been near the water yet but the wind carries the spray even this far. I breathe in deeply and, for a final time for another few weeks, take in the smell of my childhood and think that we are lucky to have this so close to home.

Images supplied by Nickie O’Hara ©2010

Find out more about Nickie O’Hara here:
email: nickie.ohara@gmail.com
web: http://typecast2000.blogspot.com
twitter: http://twitter.com/nickie72 


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Certified Mail

My guest blogger today is Lauren Orbison. As you will see from her post below, she fits the tone, decorum and intelligence that is in keeping with the high literary quality of the Vandal Blog. Read on and enjoy.



Mr. James Brown
Brown and Fletchter
Suite 777
Fearsville, TN USA 11666
Phone: 1-423-888-9109
E-Mail: jbrown@comcast.net
November 1, 2009
Re: Discrimination Lawsuit


CERTIFIED MAIL

Ms. Karen Wilson
Learning Centers and Opportunities
Human Resources
Suite 2187D
Fearsville, TN USA 11666

Dear Ms. Wilson,

I am writing to you on behalf of my client, Zelda Hatchett. Ms. Hatchett was at your company on Monday October 30, 2009 in response to an office management position listing in your online website. On the alleged date, she filled out the proper forms for employment, took a test, and had an interview with Mr. Douglass Roundoff. During this interview, Mr. Douglass Roundoff asked her to remove the axe from her head because he found it disturbing. My client objected and she was asked to leave, ending the interview and any chance she had of employment with your company.

As you may be aware from her employment application, Ms. Hatchett is a zombie. The axe is attached to her brain and is a permanent and debilitating condition. This interview caused my client a great deal of emotional distress and humiliation.

I have reviewed the job description documentation that Ms. Hatchett provided for me and determined she would have been qualified for the job, were it not for the inappropriate request made by Mr. Roundoff. In response to the inappropriate request, emotional distress, and humiliation my client has suffered, Ms. Hatchett wishes to proceed with a discrimination lawsuit. I am enclosing further documentation for your perusal.

Please respond to this letter as soon as possible.

I can be reached at 1-423-888-9109 or 1-423-888-2468.

Sincerely,


Mr. James Brown
Lawyer

Enclosures: (2)
Job Description; Written statement from Ms. Hatchett


Another little thought from Lauren!

Here and Hair

worry everywhere,
pulling out my hair
whoops!
Now I am all bare!

Find out more about Lauren via these links:
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The Silly Name Game

One of the great passions I have in my writing, apart from childish alliterations, double negatives and avoidance of long complicated sentences, is inventing names for my characters. Especially the ones that pop into the story for only a chapter or two. With my main characters I use a little decorum and give them half sensible names as it makes it easier for me to remember them. And spell them as well.

However, with the extras I can have some fun. Often I just randomly select a letter of the alphabet and see what goes with it. Just yesterday, I introduced a little man servant type character who will only survive a chapter or two. Selecting the letter A, I then went hunting on my keyboard for more letters. A consonant seemed appropriate, followed by a vowel naturally.

I ended up with a lovely little man called Adiddle. It will need to be seen if little Adiddle survives after the first draft, as many of my silly name selections often get chopped in the editing stages. However, I have a little premonition that Adiddle might just survive. He probably stands a better chance than Sergeant Sipply Snikkle, Lieutenant Hibril Likklet and General Durrgan Dirrth.

Others though might make the grade and get their names in print. I think Snurd Humped is a natural as well as Tylonilic Arundaplast. But two maids, Hergla and Migla might get re-baptised.

I love being a writer. What power!

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A Time of Pain

My guest blogger today is Valerie Brooks. Better know to some as Valiant Val. Her writing style has impressed me ever since we crossed each other’s path by some weird but fortunate flash of fate for me. So please read on and ‘feel’ the wonderful hard edge in Valerie’s words.

A Time of Pain

“I am here,” I whisper breathlessly, yearning for you to appear to me. Our secret place, where we used to always meet, where I find myself alone again. The night is still, the air cool against my skin. I shiver, naked and cold. If only I could feel your warmth again, to feel your arms encompass me, pulling me into the safest place I know. Where have you gone, my love? My soul is empty without you, my life a void of bleak existence. Are you punishing me? Oh, what have I done for you to leave me alone and afraid.

I fall to my knees, feeling the rocky surface breaking the flesh on my knees. Yet the only pain I feel is the absence of you. I beg of you, my love, return to me! A gust of wind beats against me, bringing with it a steady chilling rain. My tears mingle with the falling drops, falling over my cheeks, icy freezing slivers left as tracks. “I’m so sorry,” I barely manage as my grief consumes me and I fall on the rocks beneath me. I lie frozen, staring into the dark chasm in front of me, I am empty, I am dead without you. I am frozen. My eyes close against the pain, I am consumed by darkness.

“I am here.”

Could it be?

“I am here, my love.” Your mimicked words pierce my mind as I feel myself being lifted from my frozen sorrow. I surrender to your warmth, your arms holding me against your chest. I press my ear against you, needing to hear your heartbeat. I am calmed. The warmth of you begins to melt away the icy cold. I surrender. I am yours. Please take me with you, I plead in my mind.

Your lips press against mine as you hold me closer. I reach up to your face, I need to feel you. “Look at me,” you demand, but I cannot. I cannot open my eyes. I shake my head no, and feel the darkness reaching out to me from my heart. I want to stay here with you, my love, forever.

You walk, carrying me for what seems like forever. I will not complain, forever, with you is where I want to be. Feeling you next to me, near me, in me. I sleep, comforted by you. Upon waking I feel I am on a soft pile of pillows, I sense you are in the room with me, but I will not open my eyes. You come to me, pressing your body against mine, I am consumed. I can see the emerald blaze of your eyes in my mind as I feel you press your face into my neck, your hands exploring my body. It’s ecstasy, you against me. I wonder if you feel it too? The weight of you pressing down on me arouses my very essence, the stubble of growth on your chin raking across my skin only serves as an aphrodisiac, rocking me to my core. “I love you,” I moan, feeling the heat of your breath against the side of my face.

You pin my arms above me with one of yours, asserting the control you have over me. I will always surrender to you. My love, the man I trust. “Look..at..me,” you command in a whisper against my ear. I slowly open my eyes, tears begin falling, I am unable to stop them. Again, you are gone. Again, the emptiness consumes me as I roll over in bed staring out the window as the sun begins its trudging journey across the sky. Another day I have to survive without you, my love. Come back to me tonight, oh please return to me.


Find more of Valerie’s writing on her blog or follower her on Twitter


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