A Life in Words

Help me choose the best blurb!!!

~ ChanAtkins ~ 11 Comments

1) 13 year old Danny is new in town. It’s meant to be a new start, but for Danny and his mother the old problems remain. He’s a troublemaker and she has a habit of attracting the wrong men. With his new misfit friends in tow, Danny vows to scare men away from his mother. Enter Lee Howard. Local nightclub owner. Violent control freak. He is about to become a very painful thorn in Danny’s side… What do you do when your mother is dating a real life monster and no one can see it but you? Spanning the decade that brought us grunge and Britpop, Danny’s struggle is accompanied by an eclectic soundtrack. A powerful coming-of-age story of friendship, love and fighting back.

2) Having moved towns to escape his mother’s ex-boyfriend, Danny vows to keep his beautiful mother single and scare away any potential suitors. He soon makes friends with the local misfits and troublemakers and finds himself on a thrilling musical journey. Everything is as it should be for a teenager; good friends, good music and first love. However, things turn darker when his mother meets local nightclub owner Lee Howard. Howard is a dangerous control freak and there are very few adults who will believe a word Danny says. Who is Lee Howard and what does he ultimately want from Danny?

With his own personal soundtrack in his head, Danny explores the power of music in the decade of Grunge and Britpop. This is a story about music, dreams, first love, the friends who would risk anything to save you, and the choice between escaping or fighting back…

3) ‘Never go anywhere without music. I’m telling you. You never know when you are going to need it.’

England, 1993. Danny is 13 and falling in love with music in the decade of grunge and Britpop. New in town, life seems to be the up when he makes friends and feels the flush of first love. Added to that, is his determination to keep men away from his beautiful single mother. His plans backfire however when local nightclub owner Lee Howard enters his life and wins over his mother. Howard is a dangerous control freak who seems to be addicted to violence.

Told from both Howard and Danny’s point of view, The Boy With The Thorn In His Side is a powerful coming-of-age saga about friendship, music and the choice between escape or fighting back…

4) ‘I was always looking for music that made me shiver. You ever felt that? You know, when the words, or the chords, or the arrangement, something, at some point in a song makes you shiver, makes a tingle run down your spine, makes your hairs stand on end. I lived for that. I hunted it down. When it came it took my breath away and it felt like I was falling… I felt the music beating in my veins and I remembered that I was alive, and that this was a life.’

Set on a council estate in the south of England during the decade that brought us grunge followed by Britpop, The Boy With The Thorn In His Side is a gripping coming-of-age-story. Danny is on a journey of musical discovery and obsession, falling in love for the first time and having the best friends in the world. But he’s also got a problem…his mother is dating a real life monster and no one can see it but him. Lee Howard owns the local nightclub and is a control freak who seems to be addicted to violence. This intense and gritty novel follows the power struggle between Danny and Howard, as each tries to get what they want.

5) ‘I don’t have my headphones on yet, but the music is always in there. I have a constant walking soundtrack to my life you see. There is a song for everything. For every bit of pain, for every bit of joy, for every single moment I can see in bright clarity in my mind, for people’s faces and people’s words and for all the things left unsaid…’

In the decade of grunge and Britpop, 13 year old Danny is a music fan in the making. He is also on a mission to deter unsuitable men from his beautiful single mother. With his best friends behind him, a soundtrack in his head and first love on the horizon, things are looking good. Until local nightclub owner Lee Howard comes on the scene and sweeps Danny’s mother off her feet. Howard is a control freak who seems to be addicted to violence and Danny finds there are very few adults who will believe a word he says. A dark and gripping coming-of-age story about the power of music, first love, the friends who would do anything to save you and the choice between escaping and fighting back.

Stan

~ ChanAtkins ~ 8 Comments

Stan was a man. Bigger than most. But not in a way that made you look up to him or fear him. Stan was a man who lived mostly in the background. No one knew what he thought or felt.

Like most men, he was a creature of habit. He never came downstairs in his dressing gown. He always arrived fully dressed in his trousers, shirt and cardigan. I never once saw him wear a t-shirt or jeans. While she made us hot buttered toast, Stan sat in his chair at the table by the window. He always sat one side, and she always sat the other. Every morning he had the same breakfast. Half a grapefruit and a cup of tea. He was a polite, neat eater. Though his hand shook as he lifted the spoon to his mouth, we tried not to look.

He always shaved before he ate. You’d see him in the kitchen at the mirror next to the door. I’m not sure why he didn’t shave in the bathroom. Sometimes he would remind me of a very tall Father Christmas. He was a bus driver in his day. A gentleman, they said. But children never believe that old people were ever anything but old. He walked with a stick he seemed proud of. It had badges stuck to it. He was always left behind. Did he mind? Or did he prefer it? I used to feel sorry for him because he walked so slowly with his stick, and she was always in a hurry and wouldn’t wait. She was busy with us. Busy with the life of a woman. But maybe Stan liked the background. Maybe he enjoyed being the scenery.

It was just the way it was and no one questioned it. Did we ever run back to him? Did we ever go to his side to walk and chat? I don’t think so. But I did look back once, when we had gone to see the deer…We hurried on, but I looked back and he was just smiling at the deer, taking his time.

His place was under the house. The cellar was his domain while hers was the kitchen, with the hot bubbling twin tub, and the smell of cakes and gossip. The door to the cellar was maroon, the paint flaking. You ducked your head to go inside, and then stepped down onto the cool dark earth. I want to go there now. I want to see the big chest freezer which was hers and ours – full of ice lollies in the summer and peas we had helped to shell. Is there still a ghost at the back called James?

To the left was another doorway. You were underground, tunneling. Low roof. The smell of earth and rust. Stan had a room. It was his place to go. You weren’t allowed there, but why would you want to? It was full of men’s things for fixing. Work bench and tools. Tin cans and glass jars full of screws and nails. In there, how many hours did he while away in the dark, tinkering? Stan was the fix it man. If something broke you took it to Stan. Bikes and toys. Punctures and dodgy chains. You took it and left it with Stan and it would come back fixed.

In the garden, we made up games and sat in the sun and he grew things. Tomato plants at the bottom against the fence. Peas and beans in the raised bed. Marrows on higher ground. Always marrows. He had a compost heap next to her rotary clothesline. He also had the lounge. He had his chair and she had hers. In between sat a coffee table and a lamp and his jar of boiled sweets.

Stan was a man. Quieter than most. I didn’t feel I could reach out to him or find a way in. I was a child and building my own shell. He was a man that towered above us all, with his Errol Flynn moustache and his neat white hair. She was a firecracker who bitched and moaned and criticized until we cringed for him. But he loved her more than words could tell and you could see it in his eyes and hear it in his words. She was small and fiery, didn’t suffer fools gladly. He was a gentleman who never raised a hand. Never raised his voice or answered back. They said that on the day he died she threw herself across his body and sobbed the words, no, no, no.

When he was gone it was too late to ask him what he thought or felt about things. It was too late to slip a small hand into his, or walk at his side and at his pace.

Stan was a man. Better than most.

Who Is Richard???

~ ChanAtkins ~ Leave a comment

Our journey to school is the same every day. Behind the wheel, I drive us, the wheels of the car following the same path smoothly without question…down the hill, up the hill, over the bridge, stop at the lights, over the roundabout, and then the next roundabout, follow the road, see the people, bumper to bumper, yawning, past the garage, over the train tracks, turn right, down to the next lights… I could do it blindfolded. I could do it in my sleep. And we see the same things out of the windows, and we pass the same people, like Richard.

Who is Richard? We don’t know, but we can guess. We make it up to suit ourselves. We see him every day. We think he is called Richard, because apparently he used to come in the off licence for his Stellas. He wears a dark green parka, he walks like Liam Gallagher, he has the hair cut too. Ian Brown. Sometimes with dark glasses on, sometimes without. Always with his headphones on. What is he listening to? We can guess…

So now it gets embarrassing. Because I’m sure he knows that we talk about him. Maybe he sees us too. The same silver car passing him every day, sometimes as he walks over the bridge, over the tracks, sometimes as he passes the traffic lights further down… Maybe he sees the kids pointing, sees their mouths shouting, it’s Richard! Maybe he sees me, this mad woman behind the wheel, grinning at him like a lunatic.

I have to look away now. It’s Richard, yeah Richard! Then look away and pretend to drive. Oh my god if we ever bumped into him in a shop! I just know the kids would let me down. Mum? It’s Richard. How the fuck do you know my name?

But Richard we know you! We see you! Every day, with your hands in your pockets, you swagger down the pavement like you just walked out of the 90’s, and I just know what you’ve got in your ears, The Stone Roses or Oasis? Us too! I get so excited sometimes. We’re rolling past him and I want to roll the window down so he can hear it; Richard! Listen! Charlatans! Whoo hoo!

But he wouldn’t be able to hear because he is always plugged into his..

Richard…I’d say you are a bit over forty. I’d say you were mad fer it. I’d say you know your music and you know that everything since then has been shite. I’d say you probably have kids…Where are you going every day? Off to work? With your bag on your back. You must walk there, you must walk quite far..Wonder where you start? Wonder where you come from.

Sorry Richard. Poor Richard, who might not even be called Richard. But it’s not my fault you caught my eye! In your parka, with your haircut, like a relic from Britpop, you were always going to make me smile! Look at him, I said to the kids, I can tell you right now what music he likes! Not like today. You can’t tell anymore what music someone is in to  by the way they dress, because they all seem to dress the same. But you’ve got it written all over you! It’s a joy to behold.

There goes Richard. Every morning we see Richard. It would be a sad day if we didn’t. And I don’t know why, but for some reason, I want to drive past and wave to him, I want to be playing Slide Away or She Bangs The Drums or North Country Boy at high, high volume, and he’ll hear it over his own tunes, and he’ll turn and see us all smiling and waving and he’ll know that Richard, WE SALUTE YOU!!

Eyes On Friday

~ ChanAtkins ~ 2 Comments

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I said the same thing last week. Thank God it’s Friday. Can’t wait til it’s Friday. I said it last week; it’s been one of those weeks! That was because everything was broken. The oven, the washing machine, the dog. I wanted Friday and a glass of wine.

I’ve been saying it again this week. It’s been one of those weeks I am glad to see the back of. I will be glad when this week is over. Roll on Friday!

Poorly baby, poorly dog, doctor’s appointments, vets appointments. Falling behind in everything I try to do. Scrabbling for time. Existing in exhaustion. Forgotten bills. Forgotten P.E kits. Not enough time for anything.

But it will all be all right once Friday comes. We all do it don’t we? Keep our eyes on Friday, keep it in our sights. We veer around the obstacles, we duck and dive and dodge the shit, we frown, we squint, we don’t want to lose sight of it. Oh Friday, there you are.

When it’s Friday, then you’ve made it. You’ve survived. You’re still alive for one thing. You’re in one piece for another. You didn’t kill anyone. Or yourself. You didn’t lose the plot, not completely. You didn’t lose a child or your mind. Not quite. You close your eyes and the relief is all yours.

Just like everyone else around you, with their shitty jobs and traffic jams. From Monday morning to Friday afternoon, hamsters on the treadmill, spinning, never winning. Running to keep the wheel going. Running to pay the bills, buy the food, pay the rent, buy the shoes, drink the wine.

All grim faced on a Monday morning. Clear the frost from the windscreen. CD player won’t work so you’re forced to listen to Radio 4, and all that disaster and human misery, one nightmare after the other. And look at all the other pale faces hunched up over steering wheels. They are all thinking about Friday.

Why do we do it? Wish the week away…When we know we shouldn’t? When we know there isn’t really much time? That sometimes life feels incredibly long, when you are crawling behind the line of cars, when your calf muscles clench and spasm in second gear and you look in the mirror and see you haven’t even found the time to wipe the crust from your eyes.

It feels long, but we know it isn’t. Just shit things like traffic jams make you think it is. You long for Friday because it means you can breathe again. All week it is like holding your breath while you tread water. You are drowning. Almost. Come Friday you can finally take that breath. Gasp for air. Because you don’t need to make the lunch boxes and you don’t need to set the alarm, and you don’t need to think about tomorrow.

Oh the lovely glory of  Friday night…in or out…it doesn’t matter. Everyone is happy. It’s arrived, it’s here, we did it, now breathe!

That’s what you see on everyone’s faces. That’s how they all feel. And how sad, really. To always be wishing the days away. To hate Monday and feel impatient with Tuesday, to feel excited on Wednesday and curse Thursday for dragging. How silly really. Friday. Just a day like any other. Wish the week away and then try to hold on too tight to one day, one night. Before it all starts again.