Author: jim clayton

patrick’s fracture

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Okay. It’s true. I towed Patrick into a ditch and he broke his arm.

Forty years ago, actually. But some things take a long time to heal.

I suppose, the thing is, if you tow someone into a ditch, and you stand at the top looking down at them, all tangled in their bike, and they’re complaining about how they’ve broken their arm, and you say mate – are you crazy? you can’t have broken your arm, if you’d broken your arm you’d know about it, and they say well I do know about it, thank you, and you say c’mon, stop making such a fuss, and you climb down to grab their hand, and they yelp, and you grab their other hand, and you drag them out, and you walk the rest of the way making awkward conversation, and they spend the rest of the afternoon moaning about how they’ve broken their arm, and shouldn’t they go to hospital and everything, and everyone says honestly, it’s not broken mate, and then they turn up to school the next day wearing a cast – well – you might feel bad about it, too.

The thing was, we were skipping school. Triple PE. Patrick had gone on ahead, because I had a moped and he was on his bike, and anyway, he was used to skipping school and didn’t worry too much about the When and the Where of it. We were aiming to meet at Gavin’s place to drink beer, smoke fags and listen to Bowie. Gavin lived in a bungalow out on the Fens. His dad ran a ditching company (had probably excavated the ditch I towed Patrick into, come to think of it). I was terrified of Gavin’s dad. He was like a bear. Made of granite. Without the humanity. But the good news was that Gavin’s dad was out for a few days on a contract, and it was only Gavin’s mum and sister in the house, and I got on with them fine. His parents were an odd couple. As if the bear had suddenly woken up married to a social worker, who always spoke in the kind of voice that made it sound like she was perpetually in another room. I was always glad to see his mum, because she had obviously formed the impression years ago that I was oddly hilarious, and she’d laugh at the slightest thing. For example, if she asked if I was hungry and wanted anything to eat, and I said no I’m fine I had some toast before I came out, she’d squeeze her eyes shut and shake her head and say toast! helplessly, because it was the most bizarre thing she’d ever heard. But it was gratifying, nonetheless, because I never felt like I had to think what to say, and maybe that was the idea. Gavin’s sister was great, too, funny and smart, and her boyfriend was the most glamorous rocker in town. He had long black hair and a pointy beard like a musketeer or Charles II or someone, except in a leather jacket  riding a Norton Commando. It was disconcerting when he smiled, though, because his teeth were completely fucked, blackened stumps, all-angles. But as long as he just nodded and sneered, he was immaculate.

We had the house to ourselves that particular afternoon, though, the afternoon that Patrick broke his arm.

I’d been racing over the Fens to get there, tucked into the handlebars, making myself as aerodynamic as possible, throttle wrapped back, making about thirty miles an hour and two hundred decibels. And then I saw Patrick up ahead, doing that emphatic bobbing motion with his head, backwards and forwards as he pedalled, his sports bag balanced on the crossbar between the saddle and the handlebar.
I drew level.
‘Want a tow?’
He shook his head.
‘You go on ahead,’ he said.
‘Seriously! We’ll get there a lot quicker.’
‘No I’m fine. You go. Go on. Go.’
‘Grab hold of my arm!’
‘Seriously?’
‘C’mon, Patrick! Let’s do it…’
So reluctantly he grabbed hold of my arm, and I built up speed again. But then a slow, oscillating wobble of his front wheel grew wilder and more alarming, his bag dropped off the crossbar, snagged the pedals, the bike flipped, Patrick screamed and went cartwheeling into the ditch.

Luckily it wasn’t filled with water. Although, if it had have been, maybe he wouldn’t have broken his arm.

Not that I thought he had.

 

sig

little my and the bear

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Minton Green is a blandly perfect, municipal kind of heaven. A development for supported living so new and pristine it’s like I’ve been miniaturised and placed in an architect’s model. I wouldn’t be surprised to see the top of the building lift away and a cluster of gigantic faces peer down to see how I interact with the lobby; instead, what happens is an elderly woman wanders over and asks what I’m doing. She’s wearing a black and yellow square pattern dress that flares at the hips like a bell, her silver hair is swept up into a top-knot, and her face is so pale the intricate threads of her veins run in clear blue patterns across her temple like satellite shots of river courses from space. She has a serious expression, but there’s something hazily sweet about her, too, more a girl of five than a woman of eighty. She reminds me of someone, a fictional character, Little My from the Moomin books.
‘I’m waiting for my colleague’ I tell her. ‘She said she’d be about ten minutes.’
‘Well sit down and talk to me instead,’ she says, and without waiting to see what I think about that, marches off into a wide, communal lounge. There’s no-one else there, except for a large, caramel coloured teddy bear in one of the bucket seats in the window.
‘Come on’ says the woman, and she goes and sits next to the bear.
‘I had a lovely day today,’ she says, as I put my bag down and sit with her. ‘Me and my friends went out to lunch.’
‘Well it’s a nice, sunny day for lunch!’ I say. ‘Where did you go?’
‘The high street,’ she says. ‘Near the old pet shop.’
‘Famous’ I tell her. ‘Lovely.’
‘I want to get a parakeet,’ she says.
‘A parakeet! Wow! That’s exotic!’
‘Or maybe the other one. You know. Smaller.’
‘Budgerigar?’
‘Hamster’
I can’t help laughing.
‘What’s funny about hamsters?’ she says.
‘No, no. Nothing. It’s just – I can never see the point of them. They only come out at night. And then they run round in a squeaky wheel and drive you nuts.’
‘Oh – I wouldn’t mind that. I’m a good sleeper. What do you think of my bear?’
She reaches across and grabs the teddy, squeezing it to her. It’s so big she has to lean round to the side to look at me. The bear has an alarmed expression, its arms up left and right and its eyes bulging, as if she’s squeezing too hard.
‘I bought him in a charity shop. I’m going to give him a wash later, as a treat.’
‘He’ll love that. Just don’t put him in the washing machine,’ I say. ‘He’ll come out a cub’
‘Is that your friend?’ she says, suddenly tossing the bear to the side and leaning forwards to get a better view through the window.
‘No. I think that’s a postman.’
‘Oh. Where are they, then?’
‘I don’t know. She said ten minutes.’
‘It’s been longer than ten minutes, hasn’t it? Well – hasn’t it?’
‘Yes. I suppose it has.’
We sit there, staring through the window.
Two carers come into the lounge, each pushing a resident in a wheelchair. I half expect them to say something about me sitting there in the window with Little My and a giant bear, but they just nod and smile as if I’m a resident, too. And for one, dizzying moment I wonder if I am.

over the top

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I volunteer to sing in a choir / a commissioned piece / about the first world war / we meet for practice in the church / I sit at the end of the row / next to a plaque on the wall / a memorial to someone or other / supported by two marble skulls / the conductor talks about the score / it makes me think of dad’s dad / Edward / shot in the stomach / addicted to chlorodyne / Achille, mum’s dad / who fought in the ruins of the house / his mother eloped from in France / I didn’t know either of them / they died before I was born / Edward from the booze / Achille from angina / the director raises her arms / I don’t read music / and struggle to make sense of the score / so when she points in my direction / I pretty much just follow the guy next to me / and do what I can to keep up

locked away

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

It’s like the motorboat was dragged ashore some time ago to avoid a hurricane, and then forgotten.

The whole thing sits on two substantial wooden structures like trestle table legs. The deck is covered by a sagging, blue nylon tarpaulin secured by a single length of rope that crisscrosses from cleat to cleat like the threadbare lace of a giant boot, and the propeller is fixed in the up position, spotted, corroded. And if by some catastrophic tidal anomaly the boat suddenly found itself in the water again – and you found yourself in the water, too – and you tried to get on board using that aluminium ladder at the stern – well, who knows? You’ll try anything when you’re desperate. Scattered around the boat in the long grass are several heavy iron wrenches, lengths of rusting chain, and standing guard over the whole collection, a massive cylinder of pressurised gas the birds at least feel safe enough to use as a perch.

Judging by his beard, cable sweater and tan, I’m guessing it’s Henry who owns the boat. He’s so vague and repetitive, though, I have no doubt it wasn’t a hurricane that saw the boat laid up all those years ago, but a disturbance of a subtler though no less damaging kind.

‘Thank you so much for coming,’ he says. ‘It’s so kind of you to bother.’ He shows me inside to a wooden rocking chair, and then immediately asks again who I am and why I’ve come. Luckily, Henry’s wife, Jean hurries in, wiping her hands on her apron, her smile as taut as the tarpaulin on the boat.
‘Don’t you remember, darling? I told you. This is Jim, from the hospital. Come to see if we need any help.’
‘Well that’s so kind! Help, d’you say? I don’t think we do, though, do we Jean? I think we run a pretty tidy ship.’

Jean talks me through the key points of the referral. The long stay in hospital, the memory loss and other problems, the struggles of the last few years. And at every point in the story, she carefully includes her husband, who receives the information with a wistful expression, as if he’s hearing it all for the first time, the sad decline of a well-meaning but doomed mutual friend of theirs, someone he’d love to help if he could, but doesn’t know where to start.

One of my jobs today is to run a dementia blood screen. I chat to Henry as I locate the vein, taking his mind off the needle. He tells me he used to be a locksmith.
‘You’ll like this story then,’ I say. ‘Sharp scratch.’
‘Oh yes?’ he says.
‘I was brought up in a little market town called Wisbech. Out in the Fens.’
‘Yes?’ he says, as if it’s the most extraordinary thing he’s ever heard. ‘My goodness!’
‘I remember – years ago – there’s was a big fuss. They were renovating an old shop or something, and they found an old safe in the basement. Hadn’t been opened in years. So they got the local locksmith in, and HE couldn’t open it, because it was so old and fancy…’
‘Open what?’
‘This safe they found. In the basement.’
‘Goodness!’ says Henry. ‘Go on.’
‘But the locksmith knew this other locksmith who was an expert in old safes. And he came to have a look. And by this time it was quite an event. The local paper was there. Police. You name it. Because everyone wanted to know what they’d find when they finally managed to get it open.’
‘Well – fancy that!’ says Henry, flashing a look at Jean, standing in the kitchen doorway overseeing the whole thing.
‘So finally, after a lot of drilling and cutting and banging, they finally managed to crack the door and open it up. And you’ll never guess what they found inside.’
‘What?’ says Henry – commenting more on the fact I’ve stopped talking rather than anything to do with the safe.
‘Green shield stamps! Books and books of them!’
Jean laughs.
‘I remember them,’ she says. ‘You’d save forever and end up with a clothes brush.’
‘I suppose they were an early form of reward card,’ I say, withdrawing the needle from Henry’s arm and pressing down on the gauze for a minute or two. ‘There! All done!’
‘They used to have pink stamps, too,’ says Jean, taking her apron off and hanging it behind the door.
‘Did they? I don’t remember that!’
‘I do,’ says Henry.

Travesia de los Espinos

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I was walking in the west of the city
taking grainy, black & white shots
shapes and shadows and cute graffiti
development work around the docks

I ended up by some derelict apartments
fucked stucco and hanging balconies
nothing around them but construction equipment
and a single, dust covered palm tree

as I was trying to capture the drama
a man emerged from a hole in the wall
hola I said lowering the camera
the man walked past and said nothing at all

travesia de los espinos was the street sign
fixed to a concrete pole of power cables
I think it meant the crossing of spines
because cactus once grew there as well

Bilbao, 2018

 

a picture of aileen

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

‘I used to like doing puzzles until my hands got too bad and I couldn’t manage the pieces. Now I have to make do with giant sudoku.’
Aileen is sitting beneath a large colour studio photo of herself and husband Ian taken taken fifty years ago. Maybe Aileen is sitting there because of the light, or maybe it’s because she likes being as close as possible to an image of her life as it used to be. Whatever the reason, it would be difficult to imagine a harsher illustration of the effects of ageing. Portrait Aileen has a pile of golden hair banded at the cloudy peak with a tiara. She’s wearing a tartan skirt and sash, a silken blouse with ruffles, sparkling earrings and a pearl necklace. There’s a radiance to her that the blurry lens and the fancy drapes translates into something soapy but brilliant. Her husband Ian is just as enhanced, plump and red faced as a russet potato, packed into a kilt, waistcoat and bolero-jacket combination, medals and ribbons and pins, and one hand resting on Aileen’s shoulder, maintaining the transfer of power, one to the other. Real-time Aileen is somewhat reduced, of course. She’s sitting in a similarly demure posture, except now she’s in a fluffy blue dressing gown, the bouffant hair has collapsed into sparse threads of grey, and the rings on her fleshless hands hang loose.
‘We ran a restaurant together. For years – oh, way back,’ she says. ‘I loved it. Ian ran the kitchen side of things, I did the books. We both liked to entertain. Burns night we’d have the haggis piped in. You couldn’t wish for a better life. We had all kinds of celebrities. You wouldn’t have heard of them, of course. Then the lease got bought up by a city type, the rent doubled and we had to move on. Still – things change. No-one can help that.’
She coughs a few times. It sounds like someone shovelling rocks. When it passes, she settles herself again.
‘I get so terribly bored,’ she says. ‘Bored. Bored. Bored. Just sitting here.’
‘I bet. What about your family, though? Are they nearby?’
‘Not really,’ she says. ‘They’re spread about the place. They’ve got lives of their own.’
‘Here’s an idea,’ I tell her, warming to the theme. ‘Have you ever thought about putting your memories down? Writing about your grandparents, your mum and dad, that kind of thing? Not just the war – I mean how you and Ian met, all about the restaurant, who came in and out, what you got up to.’
‘I can’t hold a pen, love.’
‘You could get some kind of recording device. They’re pretty cheap these days. The thing is, I bet your grandchildren and great-grandchildren would love to read about these things, in a kind of family history way, with photos and everything. It’d be like one of your puzzles, only you’d be in all the pieces. It’s nice to know where you come from, how it all fits together. What do you think?’
Aileen is silent for a while.
‘No,’ she says at last. ‘Boring.’

the spider factor

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I mean – this was some special spider, right? / tap dancing round the bath last night / slick as a mini-beast Fred Astaire / smart black thorax & spiny hair / spats and spinneret / the fastest taps on the moth-in-a-basket circuit / I’m … puttin’ on my web hat, Tyin’ up my white flies, Brushin’ off my fangs / an old school song & dance man / well / normally, as you know, I cannot abide a / spider / but this one kinda had talent / so I put down the mallet / and gingerly scooped him up / with a letter from the IRS and a cup / (the spider was ashamed / but when I explained / and showed him the lovely box I’d made / that he could live in from day to day / with a tarantula-sized bed, a cup holder / an Xbox with eight controllers / he was one very interested beast / as far as I could tell, at least) / so I took him to my agent, Clyde Haughtim / who looked in the box to see what I’d brought him / and was just as overwhelmed as me / to see / a specimen of such artistry / But Jim – this is STUPENDOUS! said Clyde / slapping his sides / his flowery waistcoat straining / to contain him / Together we’ll CONQUER THE WORLD! he said / waving his finger over his head / in that irrepressible Haughtim-style / I’ve come to expect after knowing him a while / And y’know – he wasn’t wrong / Samson (as we decided his stage name should be / because it went with ‘spider’ alliteratively / and also rhymed with Handsome / although that was stretching it some) / anyway / what can I say? / Clyde was right / Samson smashed it on opening night / red carpets and laser lights / a giant mechanical version of the star performer / waggling his hairy legs over the foyer / (myself? I thought that was a little bit fey / but Clyde, as always, had the last say) / motorcycle cops, the TV press / screaming crowds, selfie requests / while inside the stage was set / with a monitor the size of the hadron collider / so everyone could see the dancing spider / the chorus giving it glamour & glitz / the orchestra fiddling away in the pits / then a sudden thunder of applause / enthusiastic roars / as Samson came tip-tapping down the stairs / with his cane and cape and diamante flares / but suddenly – disaster! / the stage manager was quick but the cat was faster / (you see – the theatre had a cat called Macavity / naturally / a creature well-known for its feline depravity) / Macavity sprang (is that the right tense? I’m not certain) / from its hiding place behind the curtain / flattened poor Samson with its two front paws / then snapped him down with depravitous jaws / the audience screamed / chaotic scenes / a vet ran through / to see what he could do / experienced in arachnids and exotic amphibia / but all he could find was half a tibia …

so now – whenever there’s a spider in the bath / that sings or dances or makes me laugh / I can’t be arsed to take it to Clyde / I just pick it up and sling it outside

an appointment with death

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Well

There I was, waiting at the railway station / swiping my phone for information / when suddenly Death showed up / scattering people and coffee cups / tables collapsing, chairs upended / as the dreadful figure of Death descended / riding on a stormy cloud / that blew away the commuter crowd / and left me standing alone and shaking / (quite an entrance he was undertaking) / And Death slowly turned to me, and pointed, and said / Vincente Lorenzo Fettuccine – You…are…DEAD!

A long and slightly embarrassed pause

What was he waiting for? Applause?

So I tiptoed over to the apparition / hovering in front of the EAT concession / and as bravely and discreetly as I could / whispered nervously into his hood / My name’s not Vincente, it’s Jim / I think you might have confused me with him

Oh God! said Death, rubbing his temple / How could I screw up something so simple? / And the Dark Lord blushed deep in his sockets / handed me his sickle, turned out his pockets / looking for a delivery docket / parchment blowing up & down the concourse / ECGs, doctors’ reports / You sure you’re not supposed to be dead? / Sure I’m sure, I said / Don’t go putting that shit in my head / Sorry he shrugged I’m having a moment / Maybe there’s been some weird postponement / He sighed, took back the sickle / I’m certain I had you down for the hospickle / Hospickle? I said, what are you – three? / Death wagged a phalange at me / Listen! I speak six thousand languages! / Do you know what the Hindi for strangle is? / No? What about the Xhosa for lion? / or the Ayapaneco for Watch out Brian? / I bet all you did was French at school, eh? / Well translate this: Va te faire enculer! / I’m sorry, I said. I take your point! / I’m sorry I got you bent out of joint / You could try, he said, swirling his cape / I think you’ll find I’m in awesome shape

What would you say in that situation? / Mistaken by Death at the railway station?
I didn’t know what else to do / so I thought I’d put my point of view

You gotta admit it’s not everyday / Death comes calling in this hideous way / Don’t say hideous, he said. It’s upsetting / I’m sorry, I said, but I think you’re forgetting / just how bad you look, you’re Top of the Shocks / with your fleshless ribs and your wormy locks / standing there in your cape and crocs / They’re comfortable, he said, so I do a lot of walking / Just shut up for a minute and I’ll do the talking / Honestly, he said, You’d infuriate a saint / I may be immortal but a saint I ‘aint / Just try to clean up your act a little / because otherwise I’ll definitely see you in hos-pit-al

(he made such a fuss of not getting it wrong / I felt quite bad for earlier on)

yet another awkward silence
then gradually, away in the distance, sirens

Look, he said, checking the watch / that was looped around his jugular notch / Try to control your disappointment / but I’ve got a rather urgent appointment / Let’s just chalk this up to experience / Death’ll catch you later…Vince!

and with that he vapourised in a chuckle of thunder / that sounded like a tube going under / and it was only when the concourse was clear / and I was absolutely damn sure he couldn’t hear / that I shouted It’s Jim, you boney-arsed nonce / Try getting it right for once

Jason Statham reviews the Shark DuoClean Lift-Away Vacuum Cleaner with TruPet

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

The Shark DuoClean Lift-Away Vacuum Cleaner with TruPet
I have to say
I liked – no – strike that – I LOVED – this sexy little puppy
I mean – take the LED lights on the head of it
In-fuckin’-credible
they lit up the bed like a magnesium flare
I saw everything, and I mean EVERYTHING
bone fragments, other shit
it all went rattling up the pipe
nice
I liked the way the attachments snapped on and off
clean & sweet
reminded me of the folding stock & sights
on my Barrett MRAD
I thought the duster brush was okay-ish
the only weak spot
in the whole shootenanny
poor density of bristles, my friend
but hey – it’s an imperfect world
live with it
I still managed to get round
the ceiling, behind the dresser
the cage
I appreciated the generous amount of cable
nice touch, fellas
not quite enough
to lower myself all the way to the ground
but just enough to fuck up the copter blades
so all’s well that ends well
The hand attachment felt properly weighted
allowing for a decent swing
right and left, solar plexus, throat
Overall, I thought the build quality was top-notch
wipe clean, scratch proof, water resistant
In a word: forensic
So that’s it
The Shark DuoClean Lift-Away Vacuum Cleaner with TruPet
Five stars
Happy?
Wonderful.
Now put ten on the clock, my friend
Let’s blow this popsicle stand.

smashing trucks

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

It’s a complex family situation – as they often are – but the long and the short of it is, Jimmy’s been sent home to die.

Although the end has come quickly, it’s not entirely unexpected. Jimmy has had an alcohol problem for a good many years, as punishing to his family life as his liver. Nothing helped, not counselling, drug and alcohol rehab, surgical corrections, medication – it all turned out to be a grave but ineffectual chorus singing downstage of the tragedy.

At least Jimmy still has people around him, though. In fact, the house is pretty full. There’s his brother, Tom, Tom’s wife Stella, Jimmy’s stepson Al and Al’s little boy, Kevin. Kevin is about three years old I’d guess, a cheeky, tow-haired kid in a dinosaur T and red shorts, loving the drama of all these people, showing off by diving onto the sofa, smashing his toy trucks together, sneaking up behind you, touching you on the shoulder and then running away screaming, bending over for no apparent reason and looking at you from upside down.
‘Kevin? Why don’t you settle down on the sofa and watch the Formula One?’ says Al, although I’d guess that’s really what he wants to do.
‘No!’ says Kevin, diving under the table.
‘Don’t worry, Al. I don’t mind,’ I say.
Al shrugs, and carries on unpacking the shopping.

It’s the first time I’ve met the family. Truth is, I’d been blindsided by the whole situation. I thought it’d be an easy call, dropping off equipment and doing some obs on a patient before returning to the hospital to take care of all the referrals that’d piled up that day. When I got there I’d found a patient who was actively dying, and insufficient preparation made for any of it. I couldn’t figure out how it could’ve happened like this. After I’d made Jimmy as comfortable as I could, cutting off his hospital gown with my shears to avoid disturbing him too much, giving him a stripwash on the bed and so on, all helped by Tom and Stella, I’d spoken to the office to confirm we were putting in double-up care that evening, then called Jimmy’s GP, who was as confused and disturbed as I was. She’d promised to get clarification from the hospital, and said she’d call straight back.
‘You’ve been so helpful,’ I say to Stella and Tom as they sit down with me at the table with some tea. ‘I’m sorry it’s been stressful and messed up.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘These things happen. At least he’s not in pain.’
Tom puts his hand on Stella’s shoulder; she gives him a brave smile, then wraps both her hands round the mug of tea, to feel the warmth of it.
‘Our son Billy died this year,’ she says. ‘I suppose I’m getting used to it.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’
‘I was with him at the end. He was struggling, so I put my arms round him to help him sit up. He was trying to say something, but he couldn’t get it out, and I couldn’t understand what it was. So I held him like that, and I said I loved him, and then he fell back, and that was that. And that was the start of the year.’
‘I’m just going to sit with Dad for a while,’ says Al, heading towards the stairs.
‘Okay then’ says Tom. ‘Good lad.’
‘Now you be good’ says Al to Kevin.
‘Look at my trucks!’ yells Kevin, bouncing up and down on the sofa, smashing the trucks together, head to head. Peeyow! Pow! Kapooooof!