I know I’ve been slacking…
Been busy moving, job hunting and campaigns last few months. Not left it alone completely so writing snippets on my phone using Evernote. Don’t normally plug software or apps but this has been really useful. Best note taking software I’ve used:
Anyway given myself Xmas/new year holidays to get a decent draft written Things are coming together and the historical stuff meshing in. A few select people in my life will be getting a draft to look at before December 31st
Looking to get it out next year via self publishing route and then I got some plays and other things I need to get published and out there. Who else is bearing witness to the times…?
Anyway here’s another sample:
West Richardson Street: This Place
This place could be any place Asif thought when the night came down and cast it’s pallor on the valley. This place could be anywhere – the orange coloured streetlights bouncing off the cars and puddles on the pavements. This night would bring with it its fair share of lowlifes and street characters, shadows of people that would emerge when most were indoors watching reality TV whilst all the time hiding from it. There would be the crackheads Bash and Mangy on the corners, the four foot gangsters Kas and his crew breaking the windows of the Community Centre and little Marie, the fair skinned black girl selling herself on West Richardson Street. Maybe the people were the same too, different faces and postcodes but the same journeys being made and the same endgame. He’d see people coming out of the Masjid at prayer time and walk past all these characters to get to their cars. The Baptist would finish it’s charity evening to help the poor and it’s congregation would walk nervously to their own vehicles. Maybe they were all oblivious to it – he was sure that he was not the only person who could see what was going on.
It could have been anywhere, any place but it wasn’t – it was his turf/area/alarka and things were screwing up bit by bit like the dripping tap in the toilet that he couldn’t fix ‘cos he was too embarrassed to admit he couldn’t change a washer. The drip drip was getting too regular now and he knew he would have to get mad Waj to come and have a look at their plumbing situation. All the other stuff he had no answers for and he would just have to keep his own shit together. God knows that was hard enough. Bash, Mangy, Kas and Marie could screw themselves for all he cared and I suppose that they wouldn’t need his help to manage that either.
He’d gone to do afsauce for Mangy’s brother Iftikar who’d died from an overdose and been to the funeral in Wycombe’s titchy little Kabristan. Guy had been 21 and the dickhead had been injecting brown. It was only coming back and seeing the faces of the boys that had gone to school with him that the unna had dropped. Peeps were dying, some physically under the soil beneath his feet but some were dead and still walking around, cheating, robbing, fucking up their families and still pretending that ‘tings were safe’. They were dead to the world, of any feeling and he hated them with every cell in his body. They would try and jump into his cab and get lifts through knowing his uncle or stating that they were from the same village back home. But he wasn’t the kind of guy to get played and would take the small mini baseball bat that he kept hidden under his seat and bash a few heads. Next time he saw them they would look down, their yellowing faces hidden by a crusty hoodie. He had no time to feel sorry for them – he had a living to make.
This place was his place and he was tied here by an umbilical cord that no one could ever cut. He had told his Mrs once that he would never end up dying in old age in this town – he’d be in Dubai or some big kotee back home but the truth was that he would. The only reality that he had to manage was the date of his departure.
Kotee Big house
Seasons greetings. Stay wise as always people