Restarting (again)

For the patient million followers of this blog (well maybe about six, seven or so people – I come from a large family) , there may soon be a new reason to revisit occasionally. Circumstances have conspired to keep me away from the computer recently, but a conversation with a friend about online games (especially of the role-playing type) got the fingers going on the keyboard and the remnants of my thinking focusing on the ever-fascinating dichotomy between reality and whatever its opposite is.

Don’t worry, as those of you who have read some of this blog before know very well, I’m not a philosopher, but, while using fiction to examine a few examples of the processes such speculation  produces reveals little of them in terms of Kantian transcendentalism, it can be relatively entertaining. But then, that’s only my opinion, so please look back now and then to check whether you agree or think it’s crap. (And, if you’re so inclined, let me know.)


Both Eden and I are francophiles, so it being my turn to write the opening, I risked dropping in a tiny bit of French. (The prompt certainly encouraged it.) This is the 11th in our 800 series. If you’re new to it, you’ll find details here. I hope you like it.

Prompt: “Eloïse was my half-sister, but everyone thought she was my cousin.”
Parts 1 and 3 and title: Bill
Parts 2 and 4: Eden


Entente Peu Cordiale

Eloïse was my half-sister, but everyone thought she was my cousin. Not sure why. Mind you, she encouraged it. She wanted to be mysterious or something. Because of her name, I think. You see, our mum, Estelle, was French. We had different dads, both called Bernard. Mine was from Manchester but when he and mum got divorced, she married a French Bernard and his name was pronounced the French way. So when they had a daughter – Eloïse – she was all French.
My name’s Derek, so I’ve got no choice. I suppose I could pretend it was Dirk or something, but I still couldn’t do all the exotic stuff that Eloïse manages. She looked up her name and the only things she found were about some nun way back in the 12th century who wrote sexy stuff but also philosophy stuff, even though women didn’t do that in those days. According to our Eloïse, the stuff the history Eloïse wrote started feminism. Of course, they didn’t call it that back then, but our Eloïse seemed to think it was a pretty big deal. Anyway, none of this was a problem until she started seeing this bloke called Denis with one ‘n’.


It was Tuesday, the one day of the week I got home early enough to shower and nap before dinner. Ten minutes of hard scrubbing with clay soap removed the stench of the shop, clearing my nostrils to enjoy Mum’s home cooking. Tuesday was liver and onions night—my favourite.
When I stepped out of the shower, an unfamiliar voice made me pause. Male, boisterous. Then I heard Eloïse.
“Bro, I want you to meet someone,” she shouted from the bottom of the steps.
Shit. I was looking forward to the nap.
I opened the door. “I’ll be ten minutes.”
By the time I made my way downstairs, I’d already had enough of the stranger. Who was he, and why was he so damn loud?
“Hi,” I said as I entered the kitchen. Mum was standing over the stove, Eloïse and the man seated around the table. Sis stood up; he didn’t.
“This is Denis, my new beau.” She introduced him with a sweep of her hand like showing off a new car.
“You’re the big brother. I gotta be careful!” He stuck out his hand while still seated.
I made up my mind right there I didn’t like him.


++++A gratuitous but beautiful French image.++++

I’m not usually like that. I’m pretty easy-going with most of the guys. Some of them are prats, but I put up with them. But this guy… good-looking, wearing French gear, the sort none of the rest of us could get away with, French name… and yet this weird twang to his booming voice. Too bloody American altogether!
But I saw this sort of anxiety on Eloïse’s face as she looked at me. It was a familiar expression. She’d seen and heard how I’d ‘greeted’ previous boy-friends. I put on a deliberate grin, shook the guy’s hand and said, “Dennis. Good to meet you.”
To his credit, he didn’t correct my pronunciation, but Eloïse noticed. So did Mum.
”Petit salaud,” she said. ”Tu sais bien que c’est Denis.”
”Not in Scotland,” I said.
But even as I spoke the words I wondered what the hell had got into me. I hadn’t dared give Mum any cheek since I was a kid. What the hell was I doing?
Dennis, the bastard, was smiling all over his bloody French face.
”It’s cool, Madame Martin”, he said, the first bit pure American, the second undisguised Daniel Auteuil. ”He’s just protecting sa cousine.”


Eloïse blushed and sat down.
I also took a seat. “Look, Dennis, watch your step, okay? Eloïse has already told you I’m her brother, so don’t confuse the matter further.” My response immediately wiped the smug look off his face. He stood up, and I pushed back my chair too. Luckily for me, I was at least two inches taller than him.
The tension in the room thickened.
Finally, he said, “Look, Derek. I’m sorry. Can we start over … please?”
Eloïse’s eyes pleaded with me. When I nodded, Denis gave me a friendly punch in the arm. After we both sat down again, Mum brought beer to the table.
“I’m sorry too … Denis. Long day at work.”
“No worries, mate. I can come on strong at times.”
Mum opened the fridge, and Eloïse got up to help her.
“You staying for dinner, Denis?” I asked. “Liver and onions night, I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”
This time, it was Mum who spoke, “No liver and onions, dear. Denis is vegan, and Eloïse bought a non-dairy, meatless lasagna for us.” She looked at me sheepishly.
I knew there was a reason I wasn’t going to like this guy.


As usual, comments, suggestions, critiques are all welcome.


After last month’s variation with our solo efforts, Eden Baylee and I get back to normal with the fourth in the series of 800-word collaborative stories. This one has a blunt, uncompromising title but it’s definitely not gratuitously intended. Honestly.  If you’re new to this whole 800 word story idea, the background to it is spelled out here.

Prompt: It wasn’t so much that I’d been blind to the truth. It was just that I’d seen the truth differently.
Parts 1 and 3: Bill
Parts 2 and 4: Eden



Teachers generally don’t get a good press. Oh yes, there are the pious words in the broadsheets about dedication, vocational callings, responsibility for preparing the next generation and the rest, but alongside them are the mutterings from parents who have ‘real’ jobs and envy them their long holidays and 9 to 4 working days in centrally heated classrooms.

But those same parents are glad enough when the school holidays end and they can dump their brats at the school gates and let some other poor sod look after them for the rest of the day.

For me, it all came out when Kenny Briggs told his dad, Big Kenny, a bricklayer, that I’d said in Social Studies that women were second-class citizens.  Well, I had. And it’s true. Most women are still treated like skivvies. But the way Kenny told it, his dad reckoned I’d been slagging off his mum. Well, I had in a way. I’d seen the two of them at a parents’ evening and it was pretty obvious to me that Mrs Briggs was basically bullied by both Kennys.

But then, a couple of days later, Big Kenny turns up and I’m called into the headmaster’s room.


Mr. Wiltshire, our headmaster, is a giant. He stands two metres tall with long limbs and a barrel chest. It’s like the parting of the Red Sea when he walks the hallways; students scurry out of his way. Rumour has it he played basketball in his youth, almost made the pros but for a barroom fight that ended his career. He wears a patch over his left eye after glass flew into his face from a broken beer bottle—so the story goes.

“Have a seat, Mr. Thomas.”

Wiltshire points to a chair when I enter his office. The big man is sitting behind his desk. “This is Mr. Briggs.” He motions to Kenny’s dad who is seated in front of him.

I sit down and swallow hard. My mouth feels dry as sand.

Mr. Wiltshire reads from a paper on his desk. “Mr. Briggs has brought me upsetting news, and I want you to explain yourself.”

I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.”

Big Kenny spews in my direction. “My boy said you called my wife a twat! I should smack you—”

“Quiet!” Wiltshire jumps up, arm extended toward Big Kenny like a policeman stopping traffic. “I’m in charge here.”


He was right, of course. It was his school. He was wearing his gown, but this was macho stuff and they were like a pair of Sumo wrestlers. My chances looked slim. On the other hand, I’d seen through Wiltshire ages ago, knew I had his measure. The gown was a giveaway, too. When he’d first come to the school, he’d used his brawn to disguise his deficiency of brain. Real academics scared him. Most of the staff were intimidated by his bluster, but I didn’t buy it, right from the start. It wasn’t so much that I’d been blind to the truth. It was just that I’d seen the truth differently. It gave me the edge I needed.

“Mr Briggs,” I said, keeping my voice soft but screwing my face into what I hoped looked like shock.

Big Kenny just stared at me, malevolence personified.

“As you’re no doubt aware,” I continued, forcing my shock to dissolve into (I hoped again) concern, “the vulgar derogatory epithet ‘twat’ is the common man’s term for ‘vulva’ or ‘vagina’, i.e. female genitalia. Etymologically, its derivation is uncertain but, conjecturally, it may be from the Old Norse ‘thveit’or ‘thwāt’, meaning a slit.”


Big Kenny’s mouth hangs open. He looks to Wiltshire. “You letting him talk to me like that?”

The headmaster lowers himself back into his chair. “Please, Mr Briggs. I’m trying to get to the bottom of this.” He turns to face me. “What are you talking about?”

“Sir, you asked me to explain, so that’s what I’m doing.”

The large man takes a deep breath and nods for me to continue.

“I’m taking Ms. Jenkin’s Advanced English class this term. One of her assignments is to read up on the history of words and use them intelligently in conversation. I’m starting with words related to the female anatomy.”

Big Kenny tries to chime in but Wiltshire cuts him off. “Get to the point,” he says, curtly.

“Yes, sir.” A part of me feels giddy. “I did not call Mr. Briggs’ wife a twat. I called his son a twat because he was not being very nice to his mum. You see, twat can also mean an obnoxious person.”

Wiltshire leans back in his chair, a look of exasperation on his face. “Get out of here,” he says to me. “And wipe that smirk off your face while you’re at it.”


All comments welcome.