Things are better now, but when Fay was at school, in th 1940s and early ’50s, children who persisted in writing left-handed had their knuckles rapped with a ruler.She now writes with the non dominant right hand, as understanding did not arrive in edication toolate. No doubt there were poackets of enlightenment.

My own daughter, who is left handed, was shouted at by ‘dinner ladies’ in the Eighties for using knife and fork ‘wrong way round’ until we had a quiet word. The people concerned were honestly trying to do the best for the children, but simply did not know enough.

Even in the early 1970s, children then designated ‘mentally handicapped’ who were able to use utensils and tools were made to hold the knife in the right hand and fork in the left, and to use right-handed scissors. This was when severe disability provision was emerging from health into education and staff were used to institutional methods. These practices were not enforced unkindly, but I cringe to think of them now. By the time I left this field after years in a senior enough position to call some of the shots, the official line had changed.for the better.

There’s a whole world of Orwellian discussion waiting to be tapped here, but this writing has been Ulysses-like, (James Joyce, not Kirk Douglas) stream of consciousness,from the top of the head. What I see is that it could be a very valuable activity but would need awarenes of individuals’ circumstances with school age students, though of course withyteachers that would go without saying.
Even so, you still hear the expression ‘cack-handed’, about which I for one feel very sensitive.

On a positive note, a left handed fencer, like a ‘southpaw’ boxer has an advantage over the majority right-handers. I have enjoyed saying to children whom I have been teaching to fence that they have this great ‘something extra’. More than once, I have detected a little ‘glow’ when they learn this.

(Practically, this writer’s left handed attempt for the exercise looks like a desperate ‘Beware of the ……….’ message scrawled in desperation in a Fifties B Monster movie.)

So, ‘For good or ill, let the wheel turn..’ (T.S. Eliot or, as Bo Diddley put it,’Here ‘Tis’.

Questions I would be grateful to hear addressed:
This is an attempt to write out of gender. To what degree, if any, does it work?
Is the atmosphere stilted or turgid?
What could be removed without detrimant to the story?
Thanks. Looking forward to reading everyone’s.work.

(I am also sending this by email to Mollie, and posting to Dropbox, as a file.)

PF

Prey

He’s rather nice in a bad boy sort of way, she thought, returning his smile through the busy café clatter. Good looking certainly. Very much so. Bit of the rake about him too. Not the sort she’d buy a car from but the attention was exciting. Not many fellas gave her that flick-of-the-eyes look these days. She’d had all sorts walking into lamp posts as a girl. Most of those who looked these days she wouldn’t wish even on Joyce. But now, she thought, here’s one I could fancy. A few years younger – toyboy material perhaps. Nothing serious but a bit of a laugh. Friendship, maybe more, as the Rendezvous columns said. Just how much more she wasn’t sure.
‘Petite brunette, 45, own house and car, GSOH (gosh!), very loving,’ she’d written. Paunchy or bald she didn’t mind but she drew the line at sweaty. Nice clean suggestion of shower gel as he sat down facing her.
‘Join you?’ With a smile. Fortyish, Thick hair with just enough grey at the sides.
‘Sure. Hi.’ Was she being casual and sophisticated enough?
Some kind of security probably, with his yellow jacket. What was the logo? Looked like City Cycles but that couldn’t be it. Pale blue shirt and black tie. He had to be something official. Not that she cared much what he did but it gave him a sort of integrity.
‘Let’s go somewhere else. I’ve an hour for lunch.’ Another smile. Nice teeth. She’d noticed that before and then felt guilty about wondering how many were his own. No tell-tale glint of metal at the corners. Ooh I’m awful she thought. Take him as he is.
‘Yes. Where?’
‘I know a place. Let’s walk. We can go out through the car park. ‘
They left. In a café across town sat a young policewoman sipping her third J20, tensed and waiting for a suspect who wouldn’t appear. He was too busy elsewhere.

* * *

Bait

Two weeks earlier he’d thought he had the last one lined up. He relived the event. There she was as usual. Third day running, alone. Denim jacket. One cup on her tray. No vast bloke appearing out of the gents this time with ‘Who are you?’ written all over his face. Now that had been a close one and he’d had to lie low for a while.
Charm offensive first, resulting in a smile. Yes, she’d have a coffee. That jacket had been his master stroke. Fluorescent – nine fifty from the bike shop. Official looking and it reassured them. Good value too. It was serving him well. Honest hardworking chap on his lunch break. They all think they’re safe till I get them by the bins, he’d thought. Almost too easy: ‘Never mind the stairs luv. I’ll take you in the lift.’
She’d thought he meant the car park till it was too late.
Jack the Wrapper they’d call him if they found out, but they wouldn’t. He sniggered at his own wit. All nicely bagged and off to the tip. He believed in recycling. ‘No longer viable,’ as they say. No clothing disarrayed though. Oh no, nothing like that. Just dead. He wasn’t some kind of pervert. Mind you, he’d take the odd little souvenir. Something from a handbag, an earring here, a clip of hair, a finger even – no money though. That would be dishonest.
He’d haunted shopping malls long enough. That security guard had given him a look. Just this one and I’ll give it a rest for a while he’d thought, then walked over to her, cardboard cup in hand.
‘Anyone’s seat?’ He’d begun, and then stopped, seeing her eyes hard above the wary smile.
Her jacket. Mobile ‘phone? Too big.
Were they onto him? All around, ready to pounce?
He’d have to let this one go – spring the trap and watch her trusty henchmen crawl into the woodwork trying to look casual.
‘Consider your bonfires peed upon, And mine, till next time.’
But not aloud, of course.
‘Cheers.’
He’d raised his cup to them all and left.

***

Hunters

‘He saw the radio,’ said Debbie. ‘I thought we’d got him.’
‘Not your fault. They’ve got X-ray eyes, that sort.’ ‘Low cunning. We’ll get him.’ They sounded relieved, both Bill and the Super.
‘Thanks, Super. Bill.’ Debbie gave them a wan smile and finished her coffee. Not as good as the café. She’d drunk gallons in the last few days. And J2Os. Every afternoon for a week. Florence behind the counter was in on it. Had to be or she might have called the police. Fine stakeout if the undercover team got nicked. Even the café people thought it was about missing handbags.
Debbie shook her head. The Super was kind, but she’d blown it. That radio had given her game away. Fear had made her move too soon. Even with a team by the bins and Bill across the café she could have been dead in a flash like the others. A stab vest won’t cover your neck.
Three women murdered. They’d found them all, well hidden and taped up in bin bags – ‘Asbestos Waste’ to warn off the curious. Each with the same small wound an inch deep, a single stab to the carotid, narrow and catastrophic. With a Stanley scalpel, one of the small ones in packs of three, probably from B&Q. Forensics had shrugged. Even they couldn’t tell who’d supplied the weapon. No fingerprints. He’d left it on purpose.
The Super had had a plan.
‘Let him think he’s in the clear for now. No media yet. Risky I know, but we’ll have one of ours ready for him.’
That one had been Debbie. She’d heard herself volunteer and seen concern on several faces. They were friends as well as a team.
‘Debs, are you sure?’ This from Bill of course.
‘It’s either me, or you lot in drag,’ she’d said. Laughter all round – a bit too hearty perhaps – and the hunt was on. But which way next?

* * *
Pierre Le Gué
2006/2013

995 words
Peter Ford
August 2006

Phew! Just read your concise postings and realised that I am not the only only without an immaculately written formal journal. Yours sound good.
Looking forward to reading/writing and reading writing.
Peter

In the Fifties,we used to have the Letts Schoolboy’s Diary (or Schoologirl’s). This was a fine institution with photo pages showing role models such as Ernest Hemingway, Nuclear Scientist Sir John Cockcroft, cricketer Don Bradman, Yehudi Menuhin and others. There was also a map of the London Underground and an accounts section to help apportion the weekly sixpence (2.5p) among Beano, penny bubble gum, money box etc.

But of course the Diary itself was what it was all about. Whether Santa driven or paid for with half-crown 12.5p) postal order from kind uncle, we made sure we got one. I once kept mine going full steam until March, but that was about it. After the first enthusiasm, entries would become more concise and eventually sporadic, althgough the little book would last and serve all year as a practical organiser.

I have foiund it the same with a writing journal. After a course or serties of workshops, I have kept one of sorts,,returning to an informal system of jottings as soon as my ‘normal; writing pattern (which works well enough) has returned. The main non-journal problem has been having great flashes of inspitration on top of the bus back from Preston and then forgetting what it was all about. A small notebook cured this problem, so I suppose you could say that it was a kind of journal. Deciphering my own bus-top handwriting, though, is another matter altogether, but it can be done. A brief dalliance with a mini tape recorder was unsuccessful.One playback of stilted thoughts from the seafront at Arnside was enough to convince me of this.

So – what’s the answer? I’ve found it true that what works for one may not for another, and I find the ‘ad-hoc’ notebook suits this writer’s purposes. One thing I do find works well is to write everything in a series of hard backed A4 exercise books. Unlike a loose leaf folder or perforeted pad, these do not tempt me to discard anything I feel is not of value,, a feature I have been glad of more than once.

These few little books go right back to the early days of my DCE courses, when I first decided to learn seriously about writing, and I find them very valuabe. Like the old Schoolboy’s Diaries, my notes now contain what ai need to knowm rather than what I feel I ought to be putting down I have a vast amount of research material on WW23, UFOs etc.,mainly in paper form. Although as you know I ama prolific emailer, the compute ris notr my natural medium and much material has been lost in the Tron-like labyrinths of this hard disc and the one before.

If a cours eleader asks us to keep a jpurnal, or write a statement of intentions I do so0, as I do take and value advice from people who know more than I do, but I know I will eventually default into the old system. I appreciate the value of discipline in any field, notably driving, which is a potentially life or death situation and also teaching, where (I have a duty to youing people. In both these situations it has been necessary to bring to heel a basically chaotic mindset .

This response has in itself highlighted one of the problems in my writimg – excessive wordinesss and a tendency to pontificate. Workshop and course feedback has helped with recognising these and other faults but has also provided me with the means and confidence to put them right when I really need to.

In summary, yes – I do keep a journal although it may not look like one. Thanks again for the thoughts and triggers for consideration! (Starts nostalgic piece on Schoolboy’s Diary to clatter of falling dominoes.)

PF

Shall I pressend or edit it ?

Press Send!