The Band

Cheap Shots

My camera was loaded, but I was taking cheap shots, mentally picking off the ebb and flow of a dull holidaying humanity, bland passing bland, soccer shirted and silly shorted, as they made their annual package promenade along destiny seafront.

Stallholders, novelty vendors and shopkeepers peddling their array of kiss me quick baubles, branded by this, that, or any other resort name. Pale northern European skins of pale northern Europeans were undergoing sizzle blister courtesy of an unaccustomed, broiling sun.

Stifling heat accompanied the afternoon’s cookery lesson, instruction that was presently being ignored, but would subsequently be paid for in pounds of peeling flesh, as portions of body attached themselves to monogrammed hotel bed spread, and that flu like nausea crashed in waves over fallen victims, sunstroke stricken.

I lay shaded in waiting, ready to pounce on the jingle announcement of that all important phone call to come, next piece of writing work, or next photo, that might, just might keep the wolf away from my door until at least another day, affording comforts crumb. But the feel of flaccid note, or hard coin currency was currently avoiding any pocket relationship, and no such union was visible on the financial horizon. For sure, grabbing hands were outstretched for their cut of my society debt, clawing at the hoped for alms but remaining emptily un-rewarded with major yet fruitless effort.

That call did not come…the carcass of my expectancy lay slumped in side street opportunity. Oh there was always interest aplenty, but the mention or even thought of euros scared away potential investors in this art.

They all wanted freebies, and how stupid was that?

………Ring – ring……….ring – ring ………….ring – ring…………

Tony's Party

Con La Misma Sangre

She was attractive rather than beautiful, an olive complexion and jet-black hair in keeping with her Latin origins. The merest kiss of polio had visited upon the beginning of a life otherwise blessed.

We meet in my recurring nightmare, a personal and perverse interpretation of La Guernica, where I am the unfortunate centre of attention in the bullring, a picador has just probed his lance between the shoulders of my unwitting and unwilling adversary and the blood is running.

The fight it is not a vocation, for it was not my choice of work, but rather, under peer pressure, I was invited to enter the ranks of brutality and bullying, under the thin veil of glamour and bravery.

The sun is in it’s zenith, seemingly contributing to expectation, and she is there again, as always, up in the stands, waving her white handkerchief, signifying dis-satisfaction at the below par performance of her torero, for I belong to her.

But, am I a coward, or simply tired of this cruel spectacle? My pink cape, a tool of the trade to attract the wrath of an injury-weakened bull, is unfurled as I begin the last tango in this dance of death. The animal advances as anticipated, in a choreographed shamble, breathing heavily, snorting confusion…. I haughtily simper forward, only to slip on the bloody sand. As I go down, the animal seizes the surprise opportunity and I am gored just above the spleen…………

It is at that point sleep, hand in hand with nightmare, trip over conscious horizon, leaving me wreathed in perspiration, and an ache in my gut. There is no girl, although the smear and smell of blood is in the air, and a white handkerchief lies at the foot of an untidy bed.

The battle has been lost, and will be lost again during tonight’s return, when she will again be in the stands, handkerchief in hand.

Jive Bunny

Old Harbour at Night

Waiting for her fisher man