She materialised out of nowhere, catching me entirely off guard. Elderly neighbours are good at that. They spend many hours patiently watching from behind their net curtains, watching and waiting, pausing occasionally to adjust a doily or put the kettle on, but always alert, always listening, always ready to pounce. Just a second love, that chap Mo is busily occupied trying to pack up his car. I’m just popping out to startle him. Maybe I can get him to drop something.

Bejewelled, perfumed, plastered with make-up. Clunking great rings, her skin an unnatural orange. A walking perfumery, swirling clouds of fumes and powder surrounded her. I knew I should have kept that gas mask. With the recent transport disruptions due to volcanic ash she really should be more careful.

“Brother and sister?” she asked with a telling wink, glancing between my sister and I with pride and a sense of achievement. There was no time to respond. “I’ll be sad to see you leave, “ she said, “you and your little family. Your daughter is adorable, a darling. I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself before.”

But this is what terrified me.

“For the last six months I’ve been watching you,” she said. I may never sleep again.

OtherWordlyOne gave me the following prompt:

“Find yourself a young lady that needs $10 or $15
dollars, take her behind a building or to your car, and get you
some.”

It is possibly the most daunting and, um, dubious prompt I’ve ever agreed to. As a background it was part of a radio discussion she was listening to. Anyway, come over here and see what I’ve done with it.

For a bit of fun I gave OtherWordlyOne a prompt (in bold), to see what she could come up with.

When Mr. Condescending and Mo invited me to accompany them to a trailer park party I was surprised, to say the least.

Why would Mo attend a trailer park party at all? He favors blending into the background of pubs rather than socializing with the unwashed masses. I suppose if you figure in his penchant for riding buses…but no, I don’t believe the English attach a certain social standing to public transport as Americans tend to do. Not only that, but buses found in trailer parks don’t move – as they’ve usually been renovated into guest rooms or dining areas. I doubt he’s used to eating atop rusted rims and cinder blocks.

Then there’s Mr. Condescending – does he really think he can blend in wearing a suit and tie? Knowing his habit of taking photos of oblivious trailer residents, I imagine his main motive for attending such a shindig would be the plethora of mullet sightings. I’m afraid the lighting will be a bit rudimentary – fires in barrels and glowing cigarettes mostly. But what the diminished light lacks in photo opportunities, it makes up for in romantic possibilities. Daddy always said that all cats look the same in the dark, and poor Mr. Condescending has been in desperate need of some pu…ahem…cat.

The only sensible conclusion is that they intend to use this party as a means of research. There are no hand written invitations to trailer park parties and I doubt they were specifically invited, so Mr. Condescending must have overheard the where and when in a recent diner encounter. Furthermore, I must assume that the only reason they are both so keen on my attendance is that they think bringing along a southern woman, familiar with the customs, will make them look less like crashers and more like locals.

I didn’t think it was a good idea, but they assured me that with my help they’d blend right in…And so I agreed to go. But being a forgetful sort, I decided to make a list of my considerable insider knowledge on trailer park parties and their participants. If I crammed everything in at the last minute there’s always the chance I could leave off something and then someone could end up making a terrible faux pas, ending up in the hospital, or worse, married.

Decoding Trailer Park Party Etiquette: An Insider’s View

Clothing – I you aren’t comfortable in cut off blue jean shorts that cause a moose knuckle, stick with baggy camouflage pants. T-shirts with the sleeves ripped off depicting famous wrestlers are always a good bet.  Work boots, flip flops, or bedroom shoes and a ball cap should complete your ensemble.

Introductions – The most important things to remember when introducing yourself to the men are to look them in the eye, think manly thoughts, project heterosexualness, and don’t smile. If they shake your hand, squeeze as hard as you can, but try not to your palm slide against his upon release… Immediately gesturing broadly and commenting on the large size of the roasting pig would help with that.

Introducing yourself to the women depends upon age: tip your hat to the young and old, wink at the legal, and pinch the middle aged on the ass. Unless they’re married. You don’t want to touch a married woman’s ass unless the husband tells you to, which happens more than you think.

Communication – Do not, under any circumstances, say the following:

• Is that a man or a woman?
• I’m a vegetarian.
• Your mama…
• Do you have light (or imported) beer?
• Isn’t moonshine illegal?
• I do.

If you hear any of the following you should always reply in the affirmative using either “a’yep”, “yessiree”, or “hell yeah”:

• Dukes of Hazard is the best damn TV show ever made.
• Betty Crocker ain’t got shit on my mama.
• If ya go away clean, ya ain’t eatin’ it right.

When you can’t understand what they said and you aren’t sure how you should reply, never ask them to repeat the question. Fake a coughing fit and excuse yourself.

Food – Eat whatever they give you to avoid being offensive. Vomit later. And don’t ask what it is or who made it. You likely wouldn’t want to know anyway. Desert is usually pretty safe.

Times of Distress – If you find yourself in a difficult situation, the best thing to do is leave. However, at a trailer park party, you might not be immediately aware of the danger. Here are a few signs that it’s time for you to haul ass:

• You’ve just been introduced to someone’s daughter who happens to be wearing a window screen over her face that looks suspiciously like a makeshift veil…and her Uncle Gil, who just happens to be a justice of the peace.
• You hear rifles cocking in more than one place or police sirens.
• A couple of the boys ask you to take a little moonlight stroll to check out the fishin’ hole.

After going over the list with Mo and Mr. C, they seemed relatively confident that they could pull it off. I wasn’t so sure, but I kept it to myself. Daddy always said that you can lead a woman to the kitchen and give her all the ingredients she needs, but you can’t keep the bitch from burnin’ your biscuits.

And before the boys and I walk into that trailer park, just in case, I’ll give them one last piece of advice that daddy said you could take to the bank:

Don’t let your mouth write checks that your ass can’t cash.

She tottered up to the bar with all the deportment of a tap-dancing piglet. Irritation struck me like a baseball, smack on the forehead with venom. I knew what would happen. It felt a bit like when you struggle to open a packet of crisps because your fingers are greasy and an apoplectic ball of fire surges through your brain. Or is that just me?

Flowing purple cardigan, black leggies, glasses so square that for a brief and shameful moment my ordered soul leaped for joy, engulfed in unalloyed celebration, miniature trumpets sounded, tiny feet danced with delight, flags were waved and bunting erected. Then rage set in, an expanding fifthelementesque globe that swallowed all of the things that matter.  Love, reason, logic, life, all disappeared. I looked in vain for a fifth element.

Three of us were already at the bar.  It was one of those moments when we arrived in quick succession, ding ding ding, but the bar staff were fooling around like a troop of circus camelids and didn’t notice. Then she turned up, flitzing about in purple extravagance, a whirlwind of lipsticky urbanity. I KNEW she would be served before the rest of us.  And she was.

I glared, the others glared, she squirmed behind those square frames and looked a tad uncomfortable. She should have said we were first, we let her know that. It was unreasonable behaviour, a flagrant violation of protocol. But as I saw those square frames in their ordered, linear glory I remembered that in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t really matter.

What followed is a bit hazy in my memory. Something or someone had to suffer. So I smote morosely at a fly, or imagined I did. Possibly the fly was imaginary. Conceivably I am imagining that I smote an imaginary fly. Either way the damn thing suffered.

If you missed Tuesday’s post, a riveting tale by TheInfoPreneur (the new McNab), then make sure you check it out. You won’t regret it. Today I have the pleasure of handing my blog over to JenJen, of Jen’s Voices. If you’ve missed me this week (I know Jimmy Bastard has been beside himself) I’ll be back next week. With vengeance. Anyway, JenJen is funny, witty and a classy writer and it’s a real treat to have her. Over to you girl…

I begged them to let me go; it was the first party I was invited to so it was imperative that I be there. More than imperative; it was critical for my success and advancement in the High School Pecking Order. It’s a tough world out there in the halls of secondary education and by God, come hell or high water I wanted my spot.

The approval I got was based on a set of falsehoods I delivered as answers to some tough questions:

“Will there be drinking?”

“bah. Heh. …No…duh? We’re not old enough pfft. meh..I mean..come on mom..”

Even at sixteen I was the picture of calm and cool, much like today really.

“Will her parents be there?”

“Ahem…mom..of course they will be. I mean I’m sure. Like totally sure…”

How this even passed as an valid answer shows that either my parents were setting me up or they were stoned and didn’t realize they were being set up.

When I received the nod, I ran frantically to my closet to try on everything twice and then again with shoes only to find, much like this morning: nothing to wear.

Such is life for a girly girl, I guess.

I decided on something mint green and pink…I remember the outfit. It was my favorite at the time. I called up my friends from my bedroom and we made plans to meet at a house down the street. One can of Aqua Net, a tube of pink shimmery lip gloss and a bazillion plastic bangle bracelets and I was r-e-a-d-y to fly.

Would you believe that there was drinking?

Shocking.

And?

Her parents were actually in Myrtle Beach?

I know. How irresponsible. Of them.

I was offered my first beer. I remember thinking, “well crap this tastes like…well, crap. And dirt. Mixed with soap.”

Totally awesome. So I had another.

And a few more “anothers” after that.

So much more “anothers” that when Brian Korte. knocked over the speaker through the glass door, I didn’t really notice.

So much that when I heard, “the COPS ARE COMING!” it took me a little bit too long to react.

So much that when I tried to scale the tall red fence in my Keds, I laughed because I couldn’t grip the wood to climb over and ended up tush down on the damp grass below.

So much that when I decided to just simply leave via the driveway, in a run, I laughed when I ran into someone.

“oops! Sorry, hey…” I was brushing the grass from my behind, “…the cops are coming, you gotta split.”

And when I look up?

Officer AntiTeenDrinking is standing before me.

Not pleased.

I ran into him.

Totally. Busted.

He was nice enough to drive me home. All four blocks and four blocks of lecture. Did I stop drinking at parties? Heck no.

I learned to wear shoes with better grippy souls.

Today I have the honour of bringing to you a guest post by TheInfoPreneur. I only recently discovered this chap. His site is a hive of activity and as his name suggests, is loaded with tips, tricks and juicy information. What has struck me most about him is his desire to help and inform. Seriously, check this dude out! He’s also ex-military and it is with pleasure I bring you part one of his second novel, No Way Back.

1404hrs and this was the last time I would ever be in Hanover airport waiting for my brush contact. I hated leaving Jenny and the kids behind, I swore to myself that as soon as this job was over I would make a fresh start with her and buy that farm we had been talking about for the past 18 months.

The company always used Terminal 2 for some reason and just as I was thinking how stupid that was from a operational security point of view, the obvious Government suit was walking towards me staring at my face, whilst trying to appear like he was relaxed and not looking at me, ”Jesus, these kids get younger every year.”

The brush contact isn’t like a Hollywood blockbuster film, it’s often very awkward, sometimes really overt, but in most cases the person giving you the envelope in exchange for yours is always mega nervous and usually fucks something up one way or another, this one was no exception.

The Government suit was now about 2 feet away from me when he made an obvious grab for my envelope which I was holding in my left hand down by my thigh, he was approaching way too fast and almost snatched the envelope out of my hand and in the same motion forced his envelope into mine ”Fucking prick, piss off” in the loudest whisper I had ever muttered. The suit’s face, which still had signs of severe teenage acne went red with embarrassment, it was clearly his first time in an operational environment, but his first time could have blown me before I got anyway near the target.

I remained standing in front of the arrivals boards for a few more minutes, if we were being watched hopefully they would be more pre-occupied with the suit who was clearly government rather than the semi-homeless bum who looked like he had given up on life. In fact I was waiting for the mass of people arriving on the Jakarta flight which I estimated would be another 10 minutes, the sudden influx of people would give me enough cover to get to the ‘clean’ car somewhere near by.

Right on time a sea of people burst through the doors and start embracing their loved ones, it was at that point I started making my way out of the Airport, two corners to go to the exit but I knew no foreign surveillance would be with me in the airport, if I was being watched it would be done by the cameras and that was the problem, they knew I was here.

Airport security is broken into two parts, overt (big cameras you can see which way they point etc, guards, checkpoints and police with guns) and the one I was concerned with covert security (black ball dome cameras and plain clothed officers, who by nature are extremely easy to spot). On approach to the exit, no guards and all the cameras where all pointing away from me, in fact no one official was anyway near the exit, almost as if they had been moved to give me a free ride out making me think I was clean.

Time to dry clean, as I exit I don’t bother looking around myself, no point making these guys know I’m onto them, just act normal and they will fuck up before I do, about 400m walk towards the multi-story car park and I use a pedestrian crossing to get to the southern side of the car park, I look back on my route as I wait for the lights to change in my favour, two figures in the distance suddenly take cover in two shops, this was my first clue.

Across the road and into the car park and the ticket machine was perfectly placed, facing back onto my route in front of clear glass, I turn quickly and face the machine looking back onto my route, the figure on the western side of the road again took cover in a shop, the figure who I could now see was a male wearing a dark coat and blue jeans couldn’t take any cover and was forced to keep walking, he couldn’t see me but I could see his lips moving, a male talking to himself now looking over towards the car park with no intention of walking towards it, classic foreign surveillance.

”How the fuck did they pick me up so quickly? Do they know about the hit?” I had to shake this tail and quickly, I had to do something I knew I would regret, I had to call Chris.

Into the car park slinks a dark green car, crawling like an injured dragon or, let’s speculate here, as if the driver has had little sleep, and in the middle of a night-time crisis, is trying to find the correct car park. An impartial observer would have noted it was an old Rover, T-reg, and definitely in need of air in its tires.

The car park was empty, an occasional ambulance but that was it. Dark, eerie, is there anything more terrifying than an empty hospital car park at night? The dragon stops at the barrier and the driver takes a ticket. A heated discussion is taking place, the driver is gesticulating like a petulant child…

“Listen,” I said, “I CANNOT believe that we have to pay to park. It’s 3am, the car park is empty, my daughter is sick and these capitalist opportunists have the audacity to charge us two quid, DESPITE all my taxes and National Insurance contributions.”

“Now is NOT the time,” said my wife, so I shut up.

At the end of the day a couple quid isn’t that bad. There are worse things to worry about. Mortgage negotiations for example, or buying a house off an old lady who is buying off another old lady and the contract exchanges are on hold while the two biddies bicker over who keeps which light fitting. Or getting a bit of chicken stuck between your teeth for three weeks.

So I stopped complaining.

A couple embrace, entangled on a bench. Spring flowers surround them. Clusters of crocuses, snowdrops talking amongst themselves. About what? Fairies, bunnies and the joy of life, I suspect. Or nuclear physics and nematode space travelers. Who knows? I could be overestimating the cognitive prowess of a puny snowdrop. Regardless, the scene is delightful.

I savoured the sweet moment as I approached the zebra crossing. Waiting at the crossing was an Asian chap in a leather jacket and ominous black beanie. Never trust anyone wearing a black beanie. I watched in horror as he shamelessly messed with the entire fabric of life as we know it.

He was waiting at the crossing for cars to stop but instead of crossing, instead of exercising his right of way, he was waving the cars on. For drivers this is about as irritating as it gets. You slow down to let the lunatic cross and he waves you on.

This happened again and again. Driver after driver showed their displeasure. Eyeballs rolled, middle fingers were raised, hands gesticulated wildly. Crossing had become a Sisyphean task. Car slows, you walk, profligate wave, car moves forward, you step back. The whole process repeats itself.

I gave him the evil eye, darted across and away from the chaos. Safely away I turned to watch. He finally crossed and without further ado headed straight across the grass over the snowdrops. I feared for their lives.

Black hat, Fedora, low over his eyes and shadowing his face, its twin peaks framed by the window behind. His attire smacks of an unhealthy Zorro obsession. Coat, trousers, shoes, all are black. A gold watch glints from under a sleeve. His scarf is red, as if to make a point. I may be a suspicious-looking old man all in black but I have a red scarf. Eat that.

Slouching against the bar, ambivalence in a greatcoat, long grey ponytail dangling down his back. He scowls diabolically, glancing about as if he is plotting revenge. Or perhaps he is a man on the run. Killer? Murderer? Charlatan? Jewellery thief? A man whose crimes are catching up with him. I see it all now…

Known in the underworld as ‘Black Hat’, he learned his trade early. As a toddler he stole biscuits from his mother’s shopping trolley. In his teens he pinched fags from the newsagent while preparing his paper round. Bullied at school for his unusually thin face, geeky glasses and irritating habit of twiddling his thumbs, rotating them round each other in some sort of bizarre cycling dance, undetected thieving gave him a sense of self-worth and achievement. It transformed him from a nervous tick into a confident prick. Eventually he kicked the thumb twiddling habit.

But it was his gran who led him down the criminal path, a prolific pick-pocket who practised her trade into her late eighties. A tiny woman, smaller than a mouse. It would have to be an abnormally large mouse. A product of a NASA-sponsored “mouse-enlargement” experiment perhaps.

“Listen,” the old raisin had said, knitted beanie precarious on her head, her piercing little eyes twinkling with craftiness, “the older you get the less they’ll suspect. Who would suspect a sweet old lady like me? Like my Rolex? Here, it’s yours. Silence is golden. I’ve knitted you a scarf, don’t want you to catch a cold sweetheart. Sorry about the colour, I only had red left. Fancy some onion soup? Pilfered the onions from Jim next door. Hah! He’s always coming over, miffed about losing vegetables.”

It all escalated from there. Petty shoplifting at first. Deodorant, hand-cream, gift cards, scented candles. Then on to electronic goods, flogging record players on the black-market. Revelling in small-scale success he moved on to robbing banks, jewellery stores and antique candlesticks from stately homes. He got in with the wrong crowd, formed a gang and with his gran’s guidance, soon became one of the most respected criminal minds in North Yorkshire. With fame and success came paranoia and stress. The Fedora was pulled lower and lower and it was convenient too, hiding a giant mole on his forehead that had unhappily been exposed by his receding hairline.

And here he is, slouching at the bar, filled with fear and the knowledge that his past is catching up with him.

Or maybe he’s just an innocent old chap fed up with the weather. I’ll let you call it.

The surroundings are picturesque, Yorkshire stone is always pretty. Stark at times, but the yellow weathered brick is homely, Novocaine for the soul, lovely when contrasted with the clouded sky.  The memorial is tall, rigid, proud and honouring. A crescent bends away from it. Graceful, elegant, pleasing to the eye. Bollards and lampposts frame the scene perfectly.  Black, functional, doing what they do in quiet, inanimate perfection.

Scuffling, pushing, pecking, crapping, a raucous cacophony. The plague of pigeons surround her. Hundreds of the scum. An old lady feeds them, going out of her way to be a nuisance, every town has one.

It could be worse I suppose. Imagine an alternative universe where a delinquent pigeon feeds scraps to a flock of old ladies.  Now that would be terrifying.