Feedback. It’s great to get it. I like getting it and I like giving it. Can I handle it though if its critical, or even critically constructive? Yes. I can…. Yes I can.
Communication? Yes I communicate and will keep on communicating until you get the point!
Attention seeking? Yep, put me down for some attention, but just wee bit more of it than others might be getting.
Friends of mine , Maree and James have a beautiful baby daughter, Erin Louise, and I have had the privilege of being around them in the fist six months of the wee yins life. What has been so wonderful about that, is from day one Maree has been communicating with Erin Louise, by talking, reading, singing to her as much as possible and what I see, is a very happy, smiling, content, communicative child.
I see that there is Government Sponsored Public Information Films advising parents to do more of that kind of thing with young babies, changed days from Joe and Petunia or Charlie the Cat, Incidentally, from carrying out a wee bit of research on those films, it is noticeable that Mummy on hearing of the ‘stranger’ gave her son an apple, and Charlie a fish as a reward for not going with the strange man in the park, but didn’t even phone the police.
So anyway feedback, communication and/or the ability to say something, this is how it happens these days. Blogging, Facebook, Texts and Emails. The story below, Say Something, I wrote a few years ago and sent it to Kevin Williamson of Rebel Inc Magazine. Rebel Inc was not exactly the Peoples Friend. It was rejected on account of it not being suitable content. So 2010 Feedback appreciated.
Breathless, she shut and turned the lock on the bathroom door. Her Grandmother called after her,
“Is that you pet?”
“You OK pet?”
“Not really, Gran” she said, less loudly.
Gran spoke again, but between the sudden vomiting and the sound of the TV coming from the living room, she never heard.
After spewing the remaining wine and lager, she wiped her watering eyes with two leafs of toilet tissue.
She unzipped and dropped her jeans slowly.
She looked at her underwear, an instinctive heave commenced once more but of no substance
She carefully separated her pants from the inside fabric of the denim to see if any of the shit had soaked through.
House breakers were known to shit on the floor, she had heard about that.
But not this.
She removed the boots, denims and underwear, leaving on the white blouse and black leather jerkin.
While the wash hand basin filled with hot water she set about wiping off the muck and placed the soiled knickers to steep in the soap suds. She sat on the WC pan, going through the pockets of her jacket. The knife was there, should she have thrown it away. She held it, replaying the sweeping motion of earlier.
She stood up and looking into the mirror, drew the blade down her cheek, gauging the length to make the cut. A trace of blood on the blade.
Not her blood.
The weight of her grandmother caused the floorboards to creak outside, followed by a light knuckled knock on the door.
“You OK pet?” Gran asked again in her one worded way
“A’m jis t feelin a wee bit sick, Gran, one cider too many A think” she answered, watching the movement of her mouth in the mirror, as she placed the clean knife down.
Unplugging the basin she then rinsed the soiled material under the cold tap and when clean enough she squeezed the sodden pants until the dripping diminished, and finally she dropped them in the bath.
She drew her face closer to the mirror.
She felt good actually. Considering. Considering the shit. She felt good.
What a feeling. She sang it, whispering.
What a feeling.
Her face inches from the glass, her lips almost connecting with her own image.
Then the creak again.
“Any better pet?”
“A’m jist gonni run a bath, Gran”
She turned the taps on, but not fully, letting the water slowly fill the bath and then she heard the creak again of her grandmother going back down. The theme tune from Casualty came from the living room as the door was opened and then shut again. A siren could be heard, but not from the TV …. in the distance….from the park.
She picked up the knife once more, this time pressing it into the flesh on her face, pressing harder as the point of the carpet cutting blade spread the blood beneath her cheek, then disappearing, as soon as she eased the pressure. Again she pressed, more, thinking how delicate the soft barrier was to the flesh that lay beneath.
“Your in big trouble now”, she whispered, taking her thoughts back to the scene, back to the park.
That’s what he said,
“What are you gonni dae fur me?, ….DARLING”
That’s what he said.
“Don’t worry ….DARLING”
“A won’t hurt ye …DARLING”
“Just leave me, put that away, please”
“A’m jist showin’ye it , it’s one of ma tools, that’s aw”
“Please don’t hurt me, “
“Av goat another tool, wait an A’ll show you that tae”
He pressed the knife into her throat and quickly stood up to undo his trousers.
“Don’t fuckin move, don’t fuckin move” he screamed at her, now pinning her down with sole of his shoe on her head.
He struggled to loosen himself, staggering.
She raised her leg and kicked out, the long slender heel of her shoe piercing through his fumbling fingers. He dropped the knife and went onto his knees. She got herself up and kicked him in his face, two or three times, a few times, more than three anyway.
She picked up the knife.
He fell onto his back.
She pulled down his loosened jeans and underwear and gripped the tool by its fleshy shaft and …. He screamed and she held on tight, he wriggled and screamed, she held on tight.
He gripped her arm, tighter, she tried to break free, tighter, he wouldn’t let her go, and she drew the blade down his face, the inner flesh exposing itself like rubber foam breaking free from a cheap cushion
There was little blood.
She ran from the scene, she ran until she got here, in the bathroom, in big trouble.
Again she drew the blade down her cheek, this time lightly slicing
The creak again, it stopped her.
“Maybe a wee plate of soup will settle your stomach, pet “
As quick as she could she rummaged her arm around in the bath water, making out she was in it.
“Aye OK, I’ll be out in a minute”
Gran always agreeing, smiling and agreeing.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the front door.
“Good evening officers” she heard Gran say politely
One of them spoke.
Then the other one
“Good night then , officers.”
She came out from the bathroom, meeting Gran on the landing, which creaked.
“The police were wanting a wee word with you pet, “
“Well, maybe later, your no up to speakin the night, no with that gippy stomach
Gran took her hand
“Now come on, some nice tomato soup will do ye good pet “.