First Drafts is a collaborative blog aimed at providing writers with a place to share their work on any subject they like.

(Near-) daily writing prompts are emailed to you to provide guidance or inspiration.

To sign up to First Drafts and to start receiving the writing prompts click here.

For previous writing prompts click here to visit the archives and choose any subject that inspires.

The Free Directory of Independent Writers and Artists

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

I can never say quite as much as I know

I'd already knocked twice. But I thought I'd give it one more try, and so made a lusty rat-a-tat-tat TATTA-TAT-TAT-TAT!! I could hear the cats mewing on the other side, which surprised me, because I didn't think cats came to the door like dogs did. Then I recognised that distinctive pawing-flickety-flick-of-gravel noise and remembered that the cats' litter tray was just inside the door. I put my eye up to the security-lense-thing in the door to check for any movement, when just at that moment Batesy opened it, and I almost fell into his arms. The cats fled.

Unimpressed, he grunted "Oh. It's you", and turned back into his flat. I listened for a "Come in then", but no such invitation was issued. The door was left ajar, like a toilet seat left up to reveal a steaming sh*t in the bowl. I metaphorically put down the seat, pulled the chain, and sat down. Which roughly translates to: I thought of the money that c*nt owed me and how much I wanted it back, so followed him down the hall.

When I arrived at the loungeroom doorway Batesy couldn't conceal his surprise at my being there: clearly most folk turned away. He had company, and likewise she couldn't conceal her annoyance that my arrival had now made this A Crowd. Equally transparent, I couldn't conceal that I felt the same way. So, there were all were, our naked displeasure exposed. Almost comic in our synchronicity we each silently set about retrieving tobacco from respective tin, handbag, pocket; then rolling, licking, lighting Rizla papers; and finally hiding behind our veils of smokey indifference.

It was only after this ritual of nonchalence was complete that his 'visitor' spoke. "How long is you planning on being ere?..." I didn't notice the dot dot dot suffixing her question, and I was about to reply saying: It depends on how quickly Batesy hands over what he owes me, when she continued... "...only me and Ronald was aving a p-r-i-vaaaate converse-sation..." [slight pause, as she watched me for a reaction] "...and we isn't finished, see?" I waited to see if there were any more dot dot dots to follow. She must have indeed finished, but I had apparently waited too long to reply because she then raised her voice and slowly, patronisingly, added: "Is... you's... hearin... me... Son?" -- "Hey, is he DEAF?"

The last question wasn't directed to me, but to Batesy. It was only then that I noticed that Batesy (evidently 'Ronald' to 2-bit whores) was wearing a bathrobe, which had separated to reveal, well, the reason his visitor was so keen to get me away. Alright, if the window had been open I'd've stepped out of it right then, because a sudden loss of the will to live swept over me. I saw the futility of pursuing this debt, and realised what a fool, a sap, I'd been in holding out any hope for it. "Forget it. Just go." I told myself.

Interpreting my silence as a refusal to leave she defiantly began manoeuvering Batesy from the room - with me still sitting here, catatonic in defeat. As they left, the smirk on her face betrayed that she felt getting him to herself again was a conquest of mountain-to-mohammed-like magnitude. I heard the click of a latch, the squawk of cheap giggles, the scrape of furniture, the grind of bedsprings, the sound of my money being spent. I felt my attention wander off, and finally I followed.

Outside the building I opened the handbag. Fifty, one-fifty, two-fifty, four-fifty, five... five hundred and fifty. He owed me four-hundred - and I'd been waiting for it all Winter. Yeah, the surplus could cover the Inconvenience being out-of-pocket had caused me. Rummaging through her bag I found the tobacco and a lighter, put them in my pocket, then tossed her handbag into a skip. She'd get her money back off Batesy - her pimp would see to that.

[for info: here is my last one]

Comments on "I can never say quite as much as I know"


Blogger Diana said ... (1:40 PM) : 

I loved this, LL. Particularly the indirect way you describe so many things ("to reveal, well, the reason his visitor was so keen to get me away" is the one that comes immediately to mind, for some reason...)

I also loved "our naked displeasure exposed," and the metaphorically putting down the seat bit (along with the "rough translation"). This has real style, a definite "tone."


Blogger lodgerlow said ... (11:42 AM) : 

Thanks Diana. I had to dilute some of this 'tone' with a few well-placed asterisks. I don't know what it's like in America, but here in the UK they are really really weird about the 'c word' - so I thought a Brit reading it might take offence and flag the blog as objectionable. See, I can be a responsible poster... when I put my mind to it!


Blogger Diana said ... (12:24 PM) : 

Um, yeah - we take that word pretty seriously here, too. It's hard to read it, and I'll admit that I probably gasped or cringed or something when I read it but I admired your guts!

Now, I get confused with the words "bullocks" and "bollocks" (sp?). SL tells me that one is pretty mild while the other is somewhat shocking, if I remember correctly.

(Seriously, I admire anyone who can write with some "shock value." I'm too hesitant, too afraid to offend. Too "nice," which can be bland.)


Anonymous Anonymous said ... (12:31 PM) : 

LL, I loved this post. I can't tell you how many times I have felt "Alright, if the window had been open I'd've stepped out of it right then, because a sudden loss of the will to live swept over me."
The ending was fantastic, a really great homage to 'Payback is a b*tch'!
Keep writing, and way to be a responsible poster!


Blogger lodgerlow said ... (3:42 PM) : 


"bullocks" and "bollocks"

Bullocks means here exactly as it does elsewhere - it's just the regular word for a castrated bull. It's not used here as a swearword, just, well, when you want to refer to a castrated bull.

Bollocks are a slang term for testicles. "Look at the size of the bollocks on that dog." or, The cricket ball hit me right in the bollocks." But it also means bullsh*t, but in an slightly less offensive way. You could almost say to your boss, in a heated meeting, "They're talking complete bollocks - they asked me... I didn't ask them.

It's swearing, but not really. Like saying crap (and not sh*t), and shag (and not f*ck), and dickhead (and not c*nt).

Does that sort of help??


Blogger lodgerlow said ... (3:44 PM) : 


"I can't tell you how many times I have felt "Alright, if the window had been open I'd've stepped out of it right then, because a sudden loss of the will to live swept over me." "

Thank you, once again, for your encouragement. I'm afraid though that that sentence is a hallmark of mine. I suffer from crippling depression - and this is an urge I have to repeatedly suppress, in my own life. So that was a little bit of me creeping into my writing.


post a comment