Travel Writing - A WriteNight Story

Last month, on 27th May 2019, at the monthly WriteNight meeting in MakerSpace, Colchester, I had a delightful experience, which took me completely out of my comfort zone - in a good way. 

Melissa Shales - award winning travel writer and Essex University PHD student led the session. She gave a fascinating talk on travel writing and on her life experiences connected with it. After that, she led us through an interesting exercise, which involved selecting a souvenir, which another member of the group had provided. 

• First of all, we wrote down an imagined travel story, inspired by our own perception of the object.

• Second, we wrote down what our own souvenirs meant to us and what the story behind the object was.

• Third, we shared the real story of our item with the person that had chosen it.

• Finally, we combined our imagined story with the true story behind the object, to create a new piece. 

Travel writing is not something I have tried before but I wanted to give it a go, as I find it very interesting to see what I can write, given a prompt that I might not otherwise have thought of. 

The object I selected was a beautiful oval shaped pebble. It was white with grey and black marks on it and it was remarkably smooth, without being shiny.

Here is the piece I wrote:

Heatwave

I reached into my pocket and held my favourite pebble; felt the smooth surface caressing my fingers. It comforted me: bringing me back to the moment when I first laid eyes on it. 

It was an unusual pebble - at least it was, if you looked closely at it. At a glance, it was a generic grey rock but much more attentive viewing revealed a micro-landscape of white, dappled with grey and interspersed with almost universally sized hair-like, black rock fibres.  The surface had been worn flat by years of bumping and grinding between the waves and the ocean floor. 

Every time I see or pick up the stone, it takes me back - right back to that day on the beach.

Charmouth - Summer of 2006. Hideous heatwave: totally unexpected for a UK Summer. When we booked the beautiful caravan with sea views for a holiday with our three children, we pictured lazy days on the beach and in the caravan park, splashing in the sea, kicking a football about, building sandcastles and searching through the tidal debris to see what treasure we might find. 

That summer was too hot for such energetic pursuits. Picture us - sweating and lobster-tinted, attempting to keep the kids cool in the water of the outer reaches of the English Channel. 

Dave spent most of the holiday, struggling to battle heat and hayfever in equal measure. Little Harry refused to take off his jumper, despite the fact that he has baking hot - Little Jacket Potato Man we called him. Lucy complained that the pebbles hurt her feet and the seaweed was trying to trip her up all the time.

All the while, we tried to escape the scalding furnace above us, until the cool night would ease our pain and suffering and our oven of a caravan would return to temperatures a human could tolerate.

In the midst of all this heat and chaos, I picked up a stone: a little pebble, just large enough to fit in the palm of my hand and just heavy enough to be pleasing to hold. It gleamed at me through the surf and the seaweed and I plucked it from its resting place, not realising, then, the significance it would hold.

Now, I hold it in my hand and I examine it: a dappled grey reminder of the fleeting moments of my children's youth, before adulthood swept them away, to create their own adventures. 
 
WriteNight meet on the 4th Monday of every month, 7:30 - 9:30pm at Colchester MakerSpace. The next meeting is tomorrow, led by the very talented Doug Smith. Please click the link below for more details. 

https://www.facebook.com/events/2369254296730535/ 

© Annie Bell 2019

Bread Tags - a Poetry and WriteNight Story

A few months back, I attended Colchester WriteNight for their session on performance poetry.

Led by Mark Brayley, this was a truly fascinating session. Mark spoke about how it is possible to convey very powerful emotions through the description of objects. He provided us with a selection of objects, including an hourglass, a clockwork robot, a cocktail shaker and others. He then instructed us to select one and write down any ideas, which came into our heads.

Next, we were asked to construct a poem, using some of those ideas.  

Strangely enough, I found myself obsessing on the subject of bread tags - the square plastic things that we used to close bread packets with, back in the 1980s, before we had to put up with the stupid sticky ones, which always seal themselves shut, and how I could use those to write about a memory that was painful for me.

This is what I came up with.

Bread Tags

by Annie Bell

She picks at the glued up tie on the bread,

stubbornly sticking. Her toast dreams are dead.

The past creeps forwards; memory awakes.

An abandoned solution - such a mistake.

An ancient invention of plastic perfection:

Flat, square, with a hole and the corners lopped off.

Every piece of plastic that ever existed, still exists.

David Attenborough drones from the TV.

Her bread liberated;

Her toast duly plated;

Her hunger soon sated.

The flavour of Marmite and toast soothes her soul.

She thinks about bread tags:

His wonderful bread tags: 

The collection of thousands he kept in a drawer.

Each one representing Marmite toast

From that comfortable host,

Who hosts with toast no more.

Every piece of plastic that ever existed, still exists.

David Attenborough drones from the TV.

But he does not

Will not.

Not ever again,

Except in her memory.

 

The event I was writing about was the death of my Grandad, when I was sixteen. He always used to make us - his large collection of grandchildren - round after round of Marmite toast, until the bread ran out.

After his death, we found that he had a box filled with old bread tags in his kitchen drawer, which he had collected over the decades. I've always wondered what he was collecting them for.

It was wonderful to be able to convey my own sadness in a way that is so much more universal than what I might ordinarily have written. The session really opened my eyes to different ways of expressing emotions and I would like to explore this concept much more.

WriteNight meets on the fourth Monday of every month, 7:30pm - 9:30pm at the Maker Space, Trinity Street, Colchester.

For more information, please follow them on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/writenight/ or Twitter: @ColWriteNight 

© Annie Bell, 2019

WriteNight meeting 8th July

On Monday night, WriteNight met for our fortnightly meeting.

As regular readers will know, WriteNight is a group for writers, from the Colchester area, who love writing and want to spend time with like minded, writerly people.

This time, we met at the Castle Pub and we spent about an hour working on a writing exercise.

Using the WriteNight anthology (available in paperback or ebook here), we took 15 of the stories, went to the seventh line and noted down the seventh word. We then shared the list of words with each other and selected an opening and closing line at random. 

The results were interesting! We ended up with a random selection of topics, many of which seemed to focus on the current difficulties people are suffering, under austerity. It was interesting, as always, to see the different ideas everyone came up with.

If you want to have a go at the exercise yourself, here are the words.

sweet, paradox, dicks, riding, rustle, master, look, washing, mumps, instrument, research, general, mind, away, I.

Opening line: "Eventually we went from village to town, throughout our homeland but the war was everywhere."

Closing line: "Death would come quietly."

Below is what I came up with, which links in with the novel I am working on, about my family, during World War II ('Midnight'), which you can find out more about if you look back through this blog.

If you love writing and would like the company of those who love it as well, then come and see us! We meet on the 2nd Monday of the month at the Castle Pub, Colchester and at 15 Queen Street Colchester on the 4th Monday of the month.

Grandad

by Annie Bell

"Eventually, we went from village to town, throughout our homeland but the war was everywhere." Grandad paused for breath, his ruddy cheeks glowing with exertion. "Do you want a cup of tea?" he grinned, shaking my leg brusquely, eager for refreshment.

"Love one, Grandad," I grinned, scribbling notes in my book, along with the date - 3rd February 2013 - and pausing my dictaphone. Grandad groaned, as he hauled his tubby frame from his seat, staggering a little, as he gained his balance, before shuffling off into the kitchen.

I was so loving having the opportunity to research my family's role in World War II. Prior to this, Grandad had never spoken of his role in the war. I had only discovered it, after a chance conversation with Grandad's brother - my Uncle Cecil - had led me to the graveside of my Uncle Ken in Northern Germany. I had decided to write the book and Grandad had suddenly opened up, sharing tales of army cameraderie. No longer remembering the names of the other men, they were all Toms, Dicks and Harries, trying to master bridge building with the complex instruments involved; washing in ditches, whilst thinking back to the sweet ladies that awaited them at home.

I had shared in Grandad's heartbreak, as he revealed the darker side of the war; the bloated corpses of horses, formerly the riding horses of German soldiers, killed and dumped at the roadside, to prevent them becoming the tools of the Nazis. Jerry, he called them. He remembered the rustle of leaves in the bushes, as they broke their cover; the look in the enemy soldiers' eyes, as they breathed their last; the horrible paradox of knowing they were no different really - just pawns of their respective governments. Generals had sent them out to kill indiscriminately. The Germans, fighting in the name of a flawed and dangerous regime; the British in the name of a freedom, which now, in the time in which we now live, is being eroded away by our own representatives.

"Course, I caught mumps, whilst I was out there, Darling," Grandad's voice broke my reverie, as he shuffled in, with two mugs of steaming tea in his hands. 

As he sat, I noticed gravy stains down the front of his shirt - signs of his increasing frailty; he was 92, after all.

*   *   * 

I awoke, tears streaming down my face. It was all too real but it was all in my mind.

Poor Grandad. He never got to tell me his tales, as his brothers did.  Aged 73, on February 3rd 1996, as he carried his laundry through the car park of the Silver Oyster pub, a heart attack had ended his days. For this war hero, there was no Remembrance Day parade and no big commemoration. For him, death would come quietly. 

© Annie Bell 2013

WriteNight the Anthology - The launch

Do you feel the need for an injection of culture in your life?  Then come along to the launch of WriteNight the Anthology - Colchester.

Yesterday, I posted about the WriteNight anthology about Colchester, which is now available to purchase here.

The exciting news is that WriteNight will be launching the anthology, officially, on Friday 28th June 2013 at 15 Queen Street, Colchester from 7.30pm. Come along, to hear extracts from the anthology, read by the authors, who penned them.  You will even be able to get your hands on a copy of the book itself! 

 

We look forward to seeing you there!

Colchester WriteNight - The Anthology

Ever wondered what Colchester might have been like, had Boudicca not attacked? Could there be a secret underground room of treasures still concealed beneath Colchester Castle? Are you intrigued by the ghosts, which haunt the streets of this ancient town? Are you hungry for a slice of everyday life in Colchester?

Whether you want to know more about the Witchfinder General and his victims or explore time travel, 'WriteNight, the Anthology - Colchester' contains something for everyone.

Regular readers will already know that Colchester WriteNight is a group of local writers, who meet twice a month to discuss writing and to write together. I am a member of this amazing group and I love being a part of it.

The brainchild of Emma Kittle, this group began with Colchester people meeting for NaNoWriMo write-ins in November 2011 and we have been meeting regularly for eighteen months now, completing writing exercises; discussing writing; encouraging each other through NaNoWriMo, during the month of November and writing in general the rest of the time. All in all, it is a really supportive and fun group of people to spend time writing with.

Last year, we embarked upon the somewhat daunting task of putting together our first anthology of short stories, on the subject of the town we meet in – Colchester.

The end result is a really interesting and diverse anthology of work by sixteen writers, showcasing the broad range of styles, ideas and imaginations, which make up WriteNight.  To read and enjoy all the stories we had so much fun writing, plese click on the link below.

To purchase a copy of the anthology, 

click here or scan the barcode.

If you love writing and would be interested in coming along to WriteNight, we meet regularly at 15 Queen Street, Colchester.  For more information, click on the links below.  We welcome writers of all abilities ... you just need to enjoy writing!

www.facebook.com/groups/writenight  

Twitter: @ColWriteNight

WriteNight Meeting 27th May 2013

On Monday night, I attended WriteNight at 15 Queen Street. As always, it was a thoroughly enjoyable evening, filled with writing related fun.

We started off the session discussing the launch party for our recently published anthology of short stories, written by members of the group, on the theme of Colchester. It looks likely to happen late in June, so watch this space for more details.

Emma Kittle provided the writing activity this time. She had a set of first lines, which we had to pick from a hat, in order to produce a story. We then shared our work. As always, the exercise produced some diverse and brilliant pieces of writing. I always love the range of work our group produces. Last night, there was a vampire tale, a story of a reformed exhibitionist, a tale of unfaithful love, a fantasy saga and a touching story of some sweary teenagers, amongst others. I loved it.

Below is my offering – a take on the opening line “She'd have to hitch a ride home.”

High Class Hitch-hiker

by Annie Bell

She'd have to hitch a ride home. Hitch a ride home? This was unfathomable for Chardonnay-Rose. People with double barrelled forenames and daddies with fleets of rollers just didn't hitch-hike.

Chardonnay-Rose had always thought of herself as a philanthropic sort of girl. She donated her daddy's tax money to the poor little orphans at Great Ormond Street Hospital. She helped the environment by only using the finest organic, natural peroxides, mixed with juniper and jojoba to bleach her flaxen locks. She also ensured that her food was only purchased from proper fair trade companies so that the poor little African children that harvested the chocolate bars from the chocolate trees would have some pocket money. She was a true activist, no questions asked.

Bearing in mind the evident generosity and self-sacrifice at her moral core, Chardonnay-Rose could not understand why karma (bitch that it was) had done this to her.

The night had started well enough. She had deigned to attend the birthday celebrations of her woefully middle class chum Sarah in her humble five-bedroomed hovel and had been kind enough to be seen with her in public. Mummy had always insisted that Chardonnay-Rose should maintain this friendship, in order that she keep a connection with the “common people”. As if she needed it!

When she had arrived, Chardonnay-Rose had refrained from passing comment at Sarah and her friends' packet-dyed shiny locks or their mere 'Designers at Debenhams' attire.

As the group had sat, in Sarah's parents' Ikea kitchen, drinking sparkling wine – imagine the horror – from ordinary glass flutes, she had physically battled with her own gag reflex. She had even stooped so low as to laugh at Sarah's friends' crude jokes, thrown around in bawdy Essex accents, slathered with cheap slang and plastic fantastic charm. Her fragile tinkle of a chuckle had been scarcely audible, as they belly-laughed their way through their second bottle of fizzy ... urine.

As the night had worn on, a grotty taxi, driven by a Neanderthal named Darren, whose drawl she could scarcely understand, had driven them into town. Her companions had raised unkind eyebrows, as she held the door handle with a tissue. What was wrong with these people?

A short walk later, Chardonnay-Rose and her companions had trudged into a smart wine bar. She had supposed it was smart – or, at least, smart themed. The shiny backlit perspex of the bar was covered in grimy fingerprints and sticky residue from spilled beverages. The vodka was vile, cheap and stored at room temperature. Her gag reflex was being tested again.

As Chardonnay-Rose had looked around, she had noticed that surrounding her were barely clad ladies, streaked with a marbled effect of orange peely, chicken white skin and poorly applied fake tan. Their fleshy folds were virtually exploding from skin tight tubes of denim, which scarcely covered their chubby bottoms. Hadn't they heard of personal trainers and spray tans?

The music had been ok, she supposed but as the group stood up to dance, Chardonnay-Rose had been forced to resist the urge to scream, as her £500 Jimmy Choos had stuck, step by step, to the carpet.

Having gone to all this trouble to please her impoverished friend, Chardonnay-Rose had been astounded, when she noticed Sarah's awful friends hurling disdainful looks at her! Sarah even looked embarrassed. This had been way beyond Chardonnay-Rose's comprehension. They should have been grateful that she had deigned to suffer like this for them. She had made them look good, adding a diamond sparkle to their dull sackcloth and ashes existence.

At that moment, an overweight, sweaty, balding man had put his pudgy arms around her, gripping her hips from behind and pulling them towards his own. She had turned and whacked him across the face with her Gucci purse, before marching for the door. Daddy wouldn't want her molested in this way. She was going home.

Leaving the bar without even bidding her companions farewell, Chardonnay-Rose had pulled her Prada designed Blackberry from her purse and speed-dialled Daddy's chauffeur. Just then, the phone had been wrenched from her hand by a rancid subhuman in a filthy hoody, who had sprinted off, with a spring in his step. Tears rolling down her perfectly sculpted cheeks, reached into her purse for her platinum card and attempted to hail a cab.

Three arguments later, Chardonnay-Rose had been forced to concede that the smelly men, who drove taxis required cash and she just didn't do cash.

At that moment, she had to accept that she was alone, lost and freezing, in Romford. She'd have to hitch a ride home.

 

© Annie Bell 2013

Colchester WriteNight meeting 13th May 2013 - Strange Meeting

Last night, I went to the Castle Pub for the WriteNight meeting. 

I organised an activity for us to do.  We read the poem 'Strange Meeting' by Wilfred Owen, in which Owen describes a ghostly encounter with the ghost of a German soldier he killed.  We discussed it and then I set the task of writing a prose story, with the title 'Strange Meeting'.  

Between us, the stimulus inspired some very different stories, all of which were interesting to listen to.

My contribution is below.  I hope you enjoy it!  

 

Strange Meeting

I gaze down at my blood stained hands. Cracks of crimson gaze through scaly, raw skin, as my body pays the price for my inner demons.

Itching. Awful, insane itching irritates my hands, my mind, my soul.

Is it possible to be physically allergic to mental torment? I very much doubt any physician would define it as such but I definitely believe it.

Clawing at the backs of my hands, I shudder, as my nails graze along elephantine skin. Unwillingly, I restrain a groan of simultaneous relief and agony, as the itching temporarily gives way to the pain of flesh tearing from flesh, It has to end soon. One way or another, it just has to.

Pulling the gloves back down, I look for a distraction – something to break the spell of all consuming misery. I have to go out.

An hour later, attired in my darkest disguise; 'Disco Goth'; I head for the not-so cobbled streets of Colchester. My Doc Martens creak their way up the High Street, as the leather continues to mould itself to the curves of my calves. My lace sleeves dig into my skin; especially on my poor hands. In my disguise, I exude confidence, poise, balls. No-one would guess the truth.

Marching into the pub, I greet my friend. We exchange inane, profane stories for a moment, before acquiring a pint of cider each. Karaoke will be a triumph. I will belt out some depressing, angry man-metal, swing my hair about and go home knackered but full of hilarious, yet terrifying stories of strange meetings with the eclectic mix of drunken freaks that frequent the dark corners of the pub. It will be just the thing to drag me, kicking and screaming, out of my stressy stew.

Then I see her.

What is she doing here? She doesn't even live in Colchester.

Her. Blonde hair, the slim, curvy figure I know all too well. One glimpse of her and I can feel her steely gaze; hear her metallic, insipid voice, bleating out insidious niceties. One glimpse of her and I sense her tightening deathly grip on me heart.

I breathe in. My lungs have no capacity. I breathe out. They contain no air. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out … in an increasingly erratic, violent, pumping rhythm.

My pounding face can scarcely contain the intense heat burning my cheeks.

I slump to the ground; my legs concertinaed up beneath me, as I struggle for breath.

People crowd around me, asking me stupid questions, to which the answer is obvious.

“Are you alright?” a chorus repeats. “What's wrong?”

“Puff … puff ...” is all they hear but inside, I'm screaming at the top of my broken lungs. “Yep! I'm alright. Obviously. People, who are alright always crouch on floors, wheezing, turning purple and then draining to a deathly grey pallor all the time, you STUPID IDIOTS!”

I flick my helpless eyes back in her direction. She smirks, raising a washed out eyebrow. “Failure” her eyes scream. Hopeless drain on our resources, Drain. Drain. Drain. My helpless body, still puffing and panting, as the panic ensues, won't let me tell anyone that my kryptonite is jeering me voicelessly, from the bar.

The crowd fades, as my mental anaphylaxis consumes me. Then all is dark.

© Annie Bell 2013

My Past Existence - Charlotte White nee Smyth - a poem

As regular readers will know, I did a lot of work last year based around the story of Charlotte White (nee Smyth), daughter of Sir George Henry Smyth of Berechurch Hall in Colchester, whose ghost is said to walk the earth in the grounds of the former Berechurch Hall estate.  I wrote a short story about her, which is soon to be published in the first WriteNight anthology.  I spent time working on some art work, with a view to holding an exhibition about her in the future.  In addition to this, I wrote a poem about her, which explores the feelings she might have experienced as a ghost, haunting her former dwelling.  This poem is laid out below.

Charlotte was a well loved lady and researching her life has certainly had an impact on me.  I hope to produce more work about her in the not too distant future.  In the meantime, here is the poem.

My Past Existence
by Annie Bell

Why do you call me the 'Lady in White'?
Why do you act like I give you a fright?
Why do you only see this satin dress?
Can you not see that I look like a mess?

I'm going to tell you - to try to explain
Quite what my dress means: how it speaks of my pain.
This dress - this white dress of satin so fine,
Trimmed with soft swansdown, destined to be mine,
A gift from my husband to forgive me a wrong
But I felt unforgiven, my life and death long.

When I died, trapped right here, it was all I could wear 
My symbolic shackle, far too much to bear.
A symbol of marriage?  Innocense?  Love?
A symbol of purity?  Peace?  Like a dove?
A symbol of betrayal, of evil, of guilt,
Corroding my soul like an acid soaked quilt.

Forgiven, I died in his choice of fine cloth.
Forever I'd wear it - a strange reverse goth.
My hair loose and wild, I felt like a child;
Afraid and alone, unheard and reviled.

Despite his intentions - so sweet and so kind,
Even after so long, it just serves to remind 
Of that grave mistake - my only misdeed
And his well meaning love meant my fate was decreed

Stuck here, alone for all of these years,
The world deaf to me and bound by my fears.
My silvery voice dumb, I walked through the night
And all you could see, was the 'Lady in White'.

Irony, it seems, was my twisted new friend,
As, after my death, my life didn't end.
Trapped in my invisible prison of love;
No way to escape to my place up above.

Despite my good deeds and my Christian faith,
Despite my fine conduct, I'm stuck as a wraith,
Spooking young children and looking a mess,
Defined by this elegant, lead lined dress.

Oh peopleo seek me, who see me, please know;
I'm not what I seem in this ghastly old show.
I am not a scary, wood haunting spook.
I'll never hurt you; if you see me, just look.

You'll just see a lady - a lady who died.
Look closer, you'll see the sadness in my eyes;
The tears held inside me in a chest that can't rise.
Say my name, ask a question and you'll be surprised.

I need you to listen.  I need you to hear.
I need you to help me escape from my fear.
Don't call me that name - the Lady in White.
I'm Charlotte.  I'm Charlotte.  I'm Charlotte White.t

© Annie Bell 2013

For more information on Charlotte, please see my other blog posts about her (below)

Charlotte's Pool 20/09/2012
Charlotte's Pool - Charlotte's Family 19/09/2012
Charlotte Exhibition Preparation - Part 2 29/08/2012
Charlotte Exhibition Preparation - Part 1 16/08/2012
Charlotte's Pool, Colchester 07/08/2012

To purchase a copy of 'Charlotte -The Lady in White' a novel based on the Life of Charlotte White, nee Smyth, please click the link below

https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/704533011/charlotte-the-lady-in-white-by-annie?ref=shop_home_active_1&crt=1

 

The Town Hall Crier - a WriteNight story

Last night, I attended the latest meeting of Colchester WriteNight.

Emma Kittle had come up with an interesting writing task for us all to complete.  It involved comparing notes on our working environments.  Once we had a clear setting in mind, we had to create a story based on a disgruntled employee working in one of those locations.

As always, I was quite inspired by the theme and produced a story, which I will share below.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening and I am already looking forward to the next meeting.

Here is my story.  I must warn you that it is mildly sweary!

The Town Hall Crier

by Annie Bell

“I can't! I just can't!” I bellowed at my poor, long suffering wife.

“What is it now, love?” she asked.

“Bloody work. I'm not going in.”

Her face stared through me. Bloody stupid cow. She had no idea what I was going through. She could never, ever, not in a million years imagine my pain. All she cared about was money – cold, hard cash, strewn into our joint bank account for her own frivolous bloody use.

I gulped down the anaemic, vomit inducing cup of tea she had slopped down in front of me, scowled at her miserable, unsatisfied, indeed unsatisfiable face and marched – well – sloped off to the front door, briefcase in hand and left.

As the door clunked behind me, I blinked back rays of depressing monochrome sunlight, blinding my tired eyes – bastards. Where were the grey clouds when you needed them? As I wandered down the road towards the grotty bus stop, millions of daffodils danced happily in the breeze. Bastards. Bloody piercing cheery yellow breaking my black mood, rubbing it in my face that their happy-go-lucky world was so much richer than my own. Bloody bastards. I kicked one of them over, apologising immediately for my display of gratuitous violence and tried to straighten its bruised and broken stem – like my soul. Battered. Destroyed.

On I marched to catch the bus. A few moments later, I climbed onto the lowered step of false security. I flashed my bus pass at the driver, who growled a vague greeting. My usual seat was free but Mrs Parsley – bloody busybody moved from her seat and sat behind me, breathing down my neck from the moment I sat down. I could feel the warm dampness of her breath chilling my neck, as the draught from the window was cooled by the microscopic droplets of saliva beading in the hairs on the back of my neck. I shivered, pulling my collar up, hoping against unrealistic hope that she had not spotted me.

“My Smith,” her whiny voice scratched at my eardrums, a cloud of parma violet horror clawing at my stomach lining. “What's happening about those 'orrible teenagers who keep frightening Mitzy?” Bloody Mrs Parsley. She could bugger off as well. Seemed to think I was hers to pester 24/7. Can't even catch a sodding bus without them moaning at me about their petty complaints. She made me sick. As if I cared about her stupid chihuahua Mitzy and her ridiculous issues with the youth of her estate. I reckoned the dog wanted skinning and chucking in a lake, if I was honest but apparently, that sort of attitude just doesn't win votes.

Grimacing, I turned around and smiled into her leathery face.

“Mrs Parsley. How delightful of you to distract me from my ruminations. Now I have raised the issue with the council and it will be addressed at today's meeting. Beyond that, there is precious little I can do, beyond offering my sincerest and most profound apologies for any inconvenience caused.” As I heard the insipid, saccharin response fly from my tongue, I snarled at myself.

“Tell her to leave you alone!” my subconscious screamed. “Tell her she's ridiculous. Tell her to get a blinkin' life.”

I shut her profane wittering out, as the bus ground to a shuddering halt in the High Street. I dragged my carcass from the seat tugging my trousers from the chewing gum, which had held me an unwilling captive.

Escaping one Hell, I marched into another. The Town Hall loomed – a deathly mausoleum – scowling at me. I shrugged my coat closer and walked in through the front door.

To my left hung the roll of honour – all the victims of the World Wars. I could no longer look at it. The freedoms those men died for had vanished a long time ago. Only our facade of smoke and mirrors now convinced the people of their false freedoms.

I no longer knew why I was doing this job. My ideals had been lost in a sea of muddy political rubbish, which no longer resembled the original purpose of democracy, which had driven me into this charade.

I would walk, as I did every day, through the corridors, into the chamber. I would take my place, as I did every day, in the leather horseshoe and I would gaze sleepily at the semi clothed ladies painted into the ceiling. They would stare at me, as they did every day – judgement marring their superficial perfection and inside, I would die a little, as I did every day.

© Annie Bell 2013