Bingo

You drove your scooter all the way to the Mecca Bingo Hall. You like to travel in style, you said. You had your own dauber that you purchased from Rymans. Your special talisman. When you got home to your pretty big world, you put your pen back in your black, leather pocket. Ready for next week.

You see, you said, I know I’m gonna win some day.

You turned the light off at the end of the evening. Got into bed. The valance is starting to wear thin. You used to walk to Bingo. Your daughter is too busy for a lift. Your pretty small world is wearing thin. Sometimes your rain mac is blue. Sometimes it’s chilly.

You see, you said, I don’t think my name is on the list.

The lady at Tesco knows your name. You have a yellow jumper. It has a stain on it now. You think it’s gravy. In 1964 you heard Bob Dylan play mouth organ. It was sunny and you sat on the grass. It was a great day. You were holding someone’s hand that day. You squeezed and held on hard.

You see, you said, I’m not sure where I can sit.

You caught your hand on the lid of a baked bean tin. You can only eat half a tin. It seems a waste to throw the rest away. Put it in the fridge for tomorrow. Not the same, you don’t have to cook for anyone else now. Once, you baked some cakes and fed them to the birds.

You see, you said, I’m confused. I need a plaster for my cut hand.

Vacant, the place where you used to sit. You used to go out together. You used to hold hands in the sun. You used to be amused by the TV. Sit-Coms. You giggled over cake. You gave your collection of records away to St. Barnabas.

You see, you said, I’m not really a winner.

How I Became a Flute Player

Firstly, it was a slight. It was a moment in a room, which supposedly became something of nothing.
- It was only an hour, you said.
- One hour of my life that changed the course of it forever, I wished I had said, but could not.
- There will be a time again, you said.
- I don’t think there will.
After the slight, there were the tales of madness. You spread them like worms on a table. They jostled and runted their blind way under, over, through, muddy sputum and spittle. Warped, ringed and fleshy they were. Terrible, oozing fields of writhing nature. I was watching as they mumbled and clicked. Movements were afoot –digging. Harsh and metal, my toes were amputated. I was two months older and I had no balance – this had only served to make it worse. In your opinion, I failed to blow my own trumpet. My flute is tiny. It beats to a different drum. Far, far away.

So, after that excitement, more movement. More snakes. I got feedback. I announced that I was going to a different place. I took on the role with gusto. I sorted, faxed, filed, delivered. I was assessed of course. I still failed on the old trumpet business, but my flute was sufficiently quiet as to not disturb anyone.
Other people in the workplace asked if they should be worried. I said that there should be no worry. I could overcome the treatment if I just put my hand in amongst the worms. Sadly, they had dried a little now and become a bit like sweet spaghetti – red and leathery. There was no fluidity at all. The sun had dried up all living things. Only the odd twitch of a flippy head. Writhing in dessication.

Somewhere, a fuzzy brown coating had appeared. It lingered and stuck wherever I went. There was little I could do. A Machiavellian chocolate smearing. It pervaded all things that I touched. Followed me to bus-stops, got wiped onto my legs. Sometimes I trod it into the office, whereupon they all held their noses.

Someone shiny and new came along and cleaned up. They said: ‘There, there,’ and all that kind of soothing thing that soothing things do. I took flowers. I still could not manage that trumpet. My flute was fading. Underneath all of the music, there was a silent drumming. You’re still alive. You’re still alive, it said. Don’t give in. Don’t give up.

Hands came out of the walls, like some Polanski handshake. I was tied up and thrown overboard. I didn’t really have a chance. Even my hands were tied. Really, the masking tape over the mouth was the final straw. It really was. An imposition.

I give permission for you to release the plot.