Monday 28 August 2017

Party in Potternewton Park by Emma Harding

It’s noisy. Really noisy. The booming bass of several different sound systems, volume cranked to maximum, compete for precedence. There’s a crackling announcement on the tannoy, impossible to make out. And from behind the trees, comes the sing-song electronica of a fairground. It’s crowded too. In the park a patchwork of families spread themselves across the grass as it slopes down towards the main stage. Meanwhile long chains of people wind their way slowly around the perimeter, investigating the stalls encircling the performance area. And outside the park people line the streets, jostling for position, even though the parade they’re waiting to see is at least half an hour from starting. 

We’re in search of food. And there’s plenty of it, although lengthy queues have already formed at each stall. We do a full circuit first, looking at every menu board, evaluating what’s on offer. To the untrained eye, every stall looks much the same. At the rear, a man wields tongs over a chicken-strewn barbecue in a blackened, sliced lengthways and turned-on-its-side steel drum. Occasionally he squirts oil onto the meat from a squeezy bottle, causing flames to spit and flare. Behind him, under the canopy, a trio of women prepare sides, decant rice and peas from plastic tupperware, and hand customers polystyrene trays full of spicy jerk chicken, fish or goat curry, with patties and dumplings. Settling on our chosen stall, we join the queue, squinting in the sunlight, shifting out of the way of people still doing the rounds. Food finally bought, we move to the shade of some trees, behind the vans where stall-holders keep their supplies: tubs of uncooked chicken, huge tins of coconut milk and gungo peas. An eye out for litter and wasps, we find a spot, sit and tuck in.

It’s a world away from the summer fetes of my childhood. There was music, yes, and parades and food. The tombola, the cake stall, the amateur gymnastic displays and miniature ponies; looking back, it all seems so twee. So pastel. So polite.

Here, everything is turned up to eleven. The noise, the smells, the crowd, the food. This is more than a party. This is a celebration. This is Carnival.

There’s a buzz of heightened expectation coming from the entrance to the park and along the road that lines it. The parade is on its way. We move, as quickly as is possible amongst the hoards of people trying to do the same, towards the road, arriving just as the first trucks appear. The noise, impossible as it seems, has got louder, each open-sided lorry a vehicle for its own DJ, decks and mammoth speakers, pounding out a rhythm to the troupe of dancers following behind. Dressed as exotic flowers, iridescent butterflies, tropical fish, geometric abstracts, feathered fancies, the young dancers stomp, bounce, twirl and gyrate, some slightly self-conscious, others embracing the attention of the crowd. Each troupe is led by a principal character dressed in a richly coloured and dazzlingly complex construction, some three times her size, yet still managing to dance, interact with the crowd and keep her group moving. The parade moves along at a snail's pace, but the dancing never stops. Many in the crowd join in, cheer and blow whistles, or just enjoy the spectacle. 


Some are watching the parade pass from their own back gardens, private parties complete with their own steel drum barbecues and yet more music. Bottles of beer kept cool in buckets full of ice, it looks like these party-goers are in for the long haul. But with our ears ringing, we tired lightweights decide that it's time to make our way home. 

Monday 21 August 2017

No Sherlock - (1) Serpents' Tails by Jo Cameron-Symes

He knew that he must keep very still while he waited. He was crouched into an uncomfortable position to say the least of the matter and tried to maintain a good viewpoint of the illicit activities that were sure to unfold. He was ice cold from head to toe. In moments like this he tried to recall the scorching heat of India to warm his bones. Now he was back, returned to London and his curious profession of Private Detective which he found to be both intriguing and frustrating. He loathed and secretly admired Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the character of Sherlock Holmes. He was teased mercilessly by the delinquent youths outside his rooms who shouted, “Oi Sherlock!” at him on a daily basis, but admired Sherlock’s powers of deduction and his scientific techniques which he sometimes adopted to help with his cases. Of course, he also did not have the benefit of having a Dr Watson to assist him. 

He was a man who was sorely alone both in his professional and private life. His wife had recently run off with a London Agent from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. God, how he hated those interfering Pinkertons! He had only come across them infrequently but with every encounter he had always felt that they were unbearably smug and no, he was not just bitter about what had happened with his wife. He felt that the Pinkertons barged in unnecessarily when what was needed was in some cases a more delicate approach to the matter in hand and patience, yes, lots of patience was always required, especially on cases like this one. He had been hired by Mr Brooksbanks of Chelsea, a successful importer of rare porcelain from the East. He was concerned that his imports were being used to smuggle nefarious items such as opium into the capital and wanted him to investigate.

He listened and heard, then saw the waves of an approaching ship churning up the Thames. A new ship was preparing to dock. The fog was thickening now, it no longer swirled in serpents’ tails across the river but formed dense clouds, thickets from which it was hard to clearly identify individual people and objects. Instead the figures looked like shadows, shapes that were various shades of grey and black. This did not help matters but he held the small pocket telescope to his eye to vainly try to get a closer look at the ship which he knew should be the one in question. The Salvador was a Spanish vessel that had been bought by Brooksbanks in a complicated sale, he used an English crew but the origins of the boat were Spanish, originating in Cadiz. Brooksbanks was a superstitious man and after losing three English ships on consecutive voyages he decided that Spanish vessels were superior. Being unfamiliar with shipping himself he could neither agree nor disagree with the man and found himself nodding along to his assertions.

The truth was he desperately needed this case for though the popularity of Sherlock Holmes had created more work for him; he had declined many cases due to ill health after his wife had left. He was ashamed to admit that he had become too fond of drink and could not last a day without consuming half a bottle of gin. He knew that he had to stop and that it was rotting him from the inside out so he vowed to take on more work. His mother was so worried for him that she said he should become a Methodist, though not being especially religious himself he had declined her suggestion.

The ship was now in the port and ready to dock. A stevedore shouted out and the rope was thrown as the ship prepared to disembark its crew and cargo. He realised that his stakeout was entirely useless, for all of the cargo was in sealed wooden boxes. He would need to get closer to the ship to investigate further. He threw off his thin beggar’s blankets and brushed down his smart gentleman’s attire. Why not approach the crew overtly he thought? He put on his top hat and took his cane. Whistling jauntily, he walked along the docks to the vessel approaching a crewman unloading the cargo. “Hello fellow, I must speak with your Captain” he said in a light, breezy tone. “Captain is currently indisposed.” He replied with a suspicious frown. “Blast” he said, “I promised Mr Brooksbanks that I would personally attend to a matter for him and it’s imperative that I speak to your Captain at once.” The mention of Brooksbanks’ name did the trick and the crewman stood up straight and nodded saying “I shall fetch the Captain at once Sir. Who shall I say is asking for him?” “Mr Anderton, a business associate of Mr Brooksbanks.” He used a false name for what he had to do would require him to act fast then disappear into the night. When the crewman went into the bowels of the ship he looked around and noticed that everyone was busy with their own tasks and far away enough for him to do what he needed to. He used the top of his cane to prise open one of the cargo boxes and saw packing straw, large vases of fine porcelain and blocks of what looked like opium packed inside oilskins hidden within. He only needed to take one vase as evidence, so hid it under his long cloak and quickly hurried away into the night, disappearing into the now beneficial fog that covered him like a shroud.

Monday 14 August 2017

Me, in Palermo, Sicily

I was invited to participate in this particular project in Sicily, because of my experience in enterprise and entrepreneurial skills development. I work across NGO, Third Sector and Private Sector Business development.

The two of us, seated across three seats, is always going to be a lovely flight for me. My neighbour, was seated at the window, and me in the aisle seat.  She kept trying to strike up conversations with me in Italian. She was very jolly, so a lot of gesticulation and laughing ensued, as we mis-communicated excitably. Most times, I am just grateful that not everyone is as shy as I am, to talk to strangers.  I said Si a lot, when I ought to have been saying non capisco.  I am sure at one point, she was trying to find out my destination in Palermo, and how I was getting there. She mimed ‘steering a wheel’ as she talked. We giggled and she threw her hands up, and I shrugged my shoulders as we hit yet another wall. It was a few days into my visit before I fully understood, the richness of her gesture.

I bounced over to some airport staff and said ‘bonjourno’ with a big smile. They looked at each other, then one of them beckoned to another a few feet away, and he came over and spoke to me in English. My simple question was where to find taxis. It was 21.30 and I realised the following day that I had actually said ‘good morning’ to them.

I approached the taxi rank and a smart looking man, took my luggage.  I showed him my address, asked him the fare, and he barked 50 Euro, and turned on the ignition.  As I queried this price, he started to drive. I shouted at him to stop, as I needed to verify that price with my hosting organisation, as it seemed to be 15 Euro more than my guide price. Well, before I could get my phone off air plane mode and 3 Mobile to recognise my location, my two suitcases were slung out onto the pavement, amidst a flurry of abuse and flailing arms, I suspect it was that Sicilian passion.  Other men gathered around to hear the ‘story’, I climbed out of the car and stood amongst them, as they looked at me, and me at them…and I wondered …now what? Would anyone take me?

Then a man took my luggage, and beckoned to me to follow him… of course all the while I imagined that I was in a scene from the God Father, how dare I question the fare LOL. I moved at a trot behind this man towards the back of what seemed like a never ending line of parked taxis. By the time we got in his little battered car, my phone had connected, and I informed people that I was in a vehicle.  I quizzed my driver on his legitimacy, ‘legal’ he understood, and chuckled. I asked why I was slung out of the other car, his word I understood, was ‘premier’. Say no more. He was lower down the food chain, and I paid him 40 Euro for taking me, not the 35 we had agreed on, and he beamed from ear to ear.  

I was relieved to reach my destination 40 minutes later, and was made aware that I probably did have a brush with the Mafiosi in my experience.  So much here is ‘controlled’ in a way which makes the experience unpleasant. I had one other frightening taxi experience at night, which cost me 28 Euro for a journey I could have walked in 20 minutes max, if only I had felt it was safe to do so, and had known the route. I had to shout and bang, to get this particular hoodlum of a driver to stop driving around in circles, so that I could walk the 5 minutes to my destination, after he had whizzed past it deliberately a few times at breakneck speed without stopping.    

What’s really exciting here though, is the growth in Social Enterprise Businesses, and the redistribution by government, of confiscated mafia property for public good.  One organisation I am working with has a ten year free lease on a building used for training the disadvantaged and migrant communities in sewing and up cycling garments and fashion retail.


SHOW ROOM reclaimed building – Sartoria Sociale



The Dalai Lama visiting Palermo, 16, 17, 18 September 2017. Buddhist Center Muni Gyana a few months ago found a home in Pizzo Sella, a confiscated possession of the mafia and assigned by the Municipality of Palermo.  Stunning Building up in the mountains overlooking Palermo City





Monday 7 August 2017

Ten writing mantras by Andrew Shephard


Writing is many things but mostly it is a habit. As habits go, it is not as destructive as some, but also not as instantly rewarding as drinking or gambling. The rewards can feel quite distant with a large project such as a novel. So distant, in fact, that even the false summit of a completed first draft can be hard to make out in a swirling mist.

To combat writing fatigue, general bone-idleness, and competing attractions (see drinking and gambling above) I have collected the writing mantras that speak to me. I write them on to post-it notes, and stick them to the wall above my writing desk. They come from many sources, including other writers and my wife’s interest in Buddhism. They help get me started on a writing session. Perhaps they might be useful to you. Better still, perhaps you can tell me how you remind yourself that writing – that poem, blog, chapter, play, or Tweet, is a very good idea and now is the best time to do it. Please add any suggestions via the Comments below.

  1. Start from where you are. (To me, this means working with what I have got, finishing what I have started, and not clutching at fantasy straws. It is unusual to go from office cleaner to managing director in one step.)
  2. Write with a light heart. (There’s enough bitterness in the world without adding to the sum with my gripes.)
  3. The mind is a machine for jumping to conclusions. (This is a reminder to write fiction with holes in it and to allow the reader to do some work.)
  4. Coherence is a useful illusion. (Life is not often coherent, but people like to think it is when they read a story.)
  5. Tell the damned story. (A reminder to focus on the purpose of the activity and not get bogged down in waffle.)
  6. Banish all doubt. (At the time of writing, doubt is the enemy and can lead to paralysis. Doubt, and a little humility, is good later on in the process when editing or deciding what to do with piece.)
  7. Give up hoping for results. (Unless you are solely motivated by fame and money, writing has to be done for its own sake. Do not expect applause just because you’ve written something.)
  8. Reach out to other writers. (Every creative act is a risk, and it is good to appreciate the risks other people take when they share or publish.)
  9. Writing something is better than writing nothing. (Phew! At least I wrote something… I can improve it later.)
  10. …………………  (Insert your mantra here.)