BREAKING NEWS [from the Fox News network, so it must be reliable] …
The truth is slowly emerging following Ivanka Trump’s rapid elevation into the White House as America’s ‘First Daughter’. She is pregnant … with Donald Trump’s baby.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not as bad as you might first think because, let’s be honest, while he almost certainly would, she wouldn’t go there. Ivanka’s pregnancy has been confirmed through in vitro fertilisation. The procedure apparently carried out by the respected Smith & Jones laboratory in England. [Archive footage from Smith & Jones Laboratory]
It’s understood the seed was [more than metaphorically] sown in a conversation during the recent meeting with British prime minister, Theresa May. In a casual chat she’d talked about Britain’s steeped political history and our youngest ever prime minister, William Pitt the Younger, who was just 14-years-old when he became prime minister in 1783. [This might sound young, but the average age of the population following the Bubonic Plague was just 19 – and, in a similar historical misunderstanding, an average age also later adopted by America for conscription to the war in Vietnam.] It’s believed Ivan Vladimir Trump will then be groomed to be the 46th POTUS in 8 years time, with Ivanka likely to remain as his official assistant, but with a subtle switch of name plaque on the office door to read: First Mother.
It’s also rumoured that Donald Trump’s brain – assuming it hasn’t been already – will be cryogenically frozen by the same laboratory. And, as evolving technology allows, he will then run for a future presidency. Although it will no longer be POTUS but simply President of the 71st State of the Anglo-Russian-Chinese Empire.
Since the end of summer, with increasing frequency – a tucked away rock overhang where I drop down into the woods to walk along the river with Willow – piles of litter. Not just any litter, of course, but a curious mix of hard drug remnants [blackened foil], wet wipes, empty crisp packets, sweet wrappers and lollipop sticks. Just how young are these users?
The rock overhang is only just out of view of a public footpath, before a steep tumble down into the valley, but would otherwise only be sparsely frequented by the intrepid dog-walker, or possibly kids looking for a den in the holidays. Suffice to say, without the occasional black sack intervention by myself and another regular dog-walker, it would otherwise be an indescribable shite heap by now.
As I say, the frequency had been exponential – in line with a growing addiction? – and the inevitable happened: I bumped into them. The penny dropped with an incredulous clang. A guy in his mid-20s preparing his next fix; a woman, of similar age; and four kids chomping on crisps and sweets, aged maybe 8, 5, 3 and a baby in a buggy. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I doubt I would’ve believed it.
The guy quickly scampered from view, leaving me to say to her, ‘Unusual place for a picnic?’ [It was close to freezing and light rain fell from impending twilight.] We had a brief conversation about ‘rubbish in the woods/kids’ laced with metaphor. I’m not sure she grasped the desired references. Then he returned, shielding his face with high collar and hat and they hurriedly left.
I wondered what might happen? If I should do something?
Throughout the following week, the ‘littering’ continued for a handful of almost consecutive days. The inevitable happened again. The eldest child’s rushed voice, ‘Someone’s coming!’ The man runs around the overhang from view. The mother is scrunching up tin foil into balls and the kids are ‘playing’Who can throw the rubbish down into the valley the furthest! There’s another fractured conversation – she glibly suggests the wind will deal with any of the litter.
It’s another cruel winter’s day. She breaks away from the awkwardness of our conversation and prepares to leave. I fix the eldest child with the softest expression I can muster and ask him what he thinks about coming into the woods to play such games. He shrugs his shoulders, but there’s far more than a child in those sad eyes.
The man returns again in a flustered rush, she says, ‘Let’s go kids, we’ve got to pick up Mary from school.’ Shoulders are nudged, a hand is grasped, and a flurry of muddied feet and the mud clogged wheels of buggy melt into the narrow path. The smallest boy turns in my direction, “I’m not your friend,” he says . The man briefly meets my eye from beneath his wintry disguise; a connection. I know him. He knows me.
We don’t know each other by name. But he’s grown up around here. I recall the teenage, slow-witted demeanour from years gone by; he’s cuts a desperately sad cliché.
So… What would you do?
A direct report to the police/authorities now, and the source is probably clear. He/they know where I live, and walk – often in isolated darkness. Ramifications are a distinct possibility – they’re certainly from the rougher side of the tracks. But I can’t ignore this completely, can I?
It’s now one week down the line since my intervention – and a number of days since this blog post. It’s been invaluable to gain other people’s thoughts [notable thanks to my Instagram followers], and it might have been considerably more helpful to have put it out there earlier[!], therefore saving a lot of personal soul searching and wandering of thoughts.
I discussed the scenario with a couple of colleagues in school [I work in a high school environment, in case any reader isn’t aware]. And it’s an important distinction to draw, simply for the reason that in my position as a teacher I have a responsibility for safeguarding and child protection. Effectively this means, had, say, a child come into our room and made reference to potentially going down into the woods with dad/a man while he does drugs, then it would be professionally incumbent on me to report this to the head of safeguarding. So, as you can see, there was always thinly-veiled semantics, as far as my experience and professional obligations were concerned.
In school, I spoke to both a support tutor/counsellor, the latter – known for quite strong opinions – suggested How would I feel if something happened to one/some of those children? [Something alluded to during the discussion on Instagram, too.] A slightly brutal analysis of the situation; at the end of the day, it’s not me who should be responsible for the welfare of those children; and my discovery was purely accidental. But it did make me feel less comfortable about doing nothing, or delaying any further.
In the end …
I came up with my own compromise solution. A compromise in the sense that I had, at least, done something, while also hopefully protecting myself against any potential repercussion.
I researched and located Bristol Drugs Project and Frank . “There is no easy way to pick up that phone or knock on that door but take that step and you’ll find knowledgeable, free and confidential help…” I photocopied their main website pages and inserted them into a couple of weatherproof sleeves. I then wrote a personal, handwritten message headed with a loud THINK! [Slightly annoyingly, I didn’t keep a copy of it, as it was simply a stream of conciousness – but it referred to BDP and Frank and assured the reader, if they were open and ready for help with their addiction, that they were great people; I also posed a question, referring to my own connection with safeguarding/child protection: If you were me, what would you do? I closed out with further encouragement to seek help, but at the very least, to take this habit away from the children and think what they might be doing to them.] I added the note to top of one of the clear sleeves, went down into the woods and cleared every scrap of ‘litter’ [again!], before placing them on the ledge, held in place by two large stones.
The following day [last Saturday], I returned to the spot. There was a single discarded cigarette paper on the floor and the remains of one of the man’s distinctive roll-ups on the ledge … the sleeves were gone. I had a good look around, they had seemingly been taken, rather than discarded in the immediate surroundings, at least.
The addiction-driven habit, since just before and across the Christmas period, had become almost daily – certainly every other day.
It’s now one week down the line … and absolutely no sign of any return. I can only hope there was an impact, on his/her conscience and awareness of the children, at the very least.
It’s morning. And Donald packs up his briefcase, affectionately grabs his wife’s pussy, pats his lovely daughter’s ass … ‘If only,’ he thought … yells at Juan, the gardener, to stand on the other side of the ornamental wall he’s asked him to build, and sets off for his new work experience placement at The White House.
At 70-years-old it’s relatively old to consider starting a new career for which you have absolutely no experience but Donald has ambitions to one day become an intern.
Unfortunately, when Donald later bursts into the Oval Office without knocking he’s immediately shot in head, many many times with an assault weapon, due to the country’s lax gun laws. “I thought he was an intruder,” Mr Obama later explained. “This orange face suddenly burst into the room and my first instinct was to protect my family … all Americans.”
Ahhhh, wait a minute. Is that an alarm? And all America then woke up to find themselves in the shower with Bobby Ewing.
This is quite possibly the creepiest thing you’ll ever see …
Uh, no, not me! Although it’s admittedly a close run thing. But does this not sound like the plot opening to a Stephen King novel? I mean, this has never happened to me in my entire life before. And aside from making me a little nervous and worrying about monsters under the bed [which haven’t really bothered me since my early 30’s], I’m just hugely relieved I didn’t use any metaphors or analogies involving car crashes or pianos falling out of high rise buildings when I was hatless!
On the plus side, since posting this to my Instagram feed this morning, I’ve already been approached for film rights and understand Hugh Jackman has committed himself to playing me.
Quietly delighted to have an image of mine featured in the latest issue of Paragraph Shorts [Issue 61]. I say quietly, as the associated remuneration rolls through my financial world like an apparition of tumbleweed. But maybe association with the great and the good will rub off kindly, unlike the love-heart drawn upon my hand by my childhood first love in blue biro; I didn’t wash my hand for over a week, until it slowly faded, like her love for me…
Huh? Oh, yeah, I digress!
Paragraph Shorts is a free app associated with the iPad and iPad mini: “...brings you the world’s best short stories in text, audio and video. Each issue features some of the most captivating storytellers from the most interesting literary publications, coupled with moving imagery from amazing photographers and artists.”
My image has been used alongside the story The Gypsy Chooses the Whatever Card by acclaimed American short story writer and novelist, Ann Beattie.
Somewhat ironically, I haven’t actually seen Issue 61 in all its intended glory, as I don’t possess an iPad. Uh, despite my apparent moving imagery and amazingness abilities, I am confined by my school issue Asus MeMo android tablet and the sense of a world tantalisingly out of reach. But the kindly folk at Paragraph Shorts have sent me a couple of screenshots, so I can dream over the horizon:
More news soon on my follow-up to last year’s Retrospective shows at Rubicon and Rubicon Too. [The latter premises is now being redeveloped and expanded; set to open again in May with around three times the gallery wall space. Owner, Umut, has asked me to consider being a part of the opening exhibition. Watch this space.]