Friends

Friend: one with whom one is allied in a struggle or cause; one who supports, sympathises with, or patronises a group, cause or movement; any associate or acquaintance.

I made a new friend in the week, in our local Lidl as a matter of fact, a shop of many cultures, languages and ethnic groups. We, my wife and I were just going through the checkout when a young boy, aged around nine or ten came through the exit doors, complete with bicycle; the bike was rough, the boy similar. He deposited the bike near the tills, looked in my direction and approached. I assumed I was to be 'chatted up' for a 'donation' towards his finances but I was wrong. 'You look after my bike' he pronounced with authority. Who was I to refuse such a request, nay, order. He vanished through the tills (the wrong way of course and was gone to do his shopping.) I hoped soap was on his list of requisites, for it was sorely needed. Every few seconds he reappeared in the isles and looked in my direction to be sure I was fulfilling my duties as 'guardian of the bike'. He was certainly not going to have his ramshackle bike 'pinched'. I did wonder if that is how he got the bike in the first place! Would that have made me an accessory?

Eventually he returned (It's a good job pensioners do not 'do' pressing engagements.) He had half a dozen items including a large bottle of Coca Cola (but no soap). The checkout lady rang in the items, he rummaged through his pockets. The money he produced was insufficient and he discarded one item. Money added up again and he was still thirty two pence short. I did consider giving him the difference (a lot of money, thirty two pence to a pensioner in these hard times) but was beaten to it by the next lady in the queue who 'donated' the difference by putting it on her bill. The boy then requested a bag (there is a charge for them but one was found free of charge) and he returned by my side to reclaim his prized bike. He was evidently Polish and I'm sure he was appreciative of my services; at least I hope so.

I returned to my vehicle; my wife had long since loaded our shopping and we made our way home. Around three hundred yards away we passed a young boy carefully parking his bike outside another smaller shop. The last I saw of him he was vanishing inside; I could have sworn he was down to his last penny not ten minutes earlier.

I have a good friend who is a fanatical 'twitcher'. He has seen over four hundred different species of birds in Britain which I suspect would put him in the top hundred or two in the country. (Where most middle aged men ogle pictures of semi clad young ladies my friend peruses pictures of Peregrine Falcons and Green Woodpeckers). Last week a bird turned up in Lands End. Even the twitching world seem unclear as to whether it was an Alder Flycatcher or a Willow flycatcher. No matter it was a first for Europe as they say, not to be missed. My friend and a friend (twitchers seemingly always travel in pairs and mate for life) made their way to Lands End after work on Tuesday. Now Lands End is three hundred and sixty five miles from Derby. A fact always remembered as its the same as the days in a year. The bird was duly sighted, presumably ticked and the intrepid pair returned the same day, mission accomplished. Dedication, devotion, mind boggling surely certifiable behaviour, take your pick. But a shared addiction nevertheless.

On a much more serious note my youngest daughter is expecting for the third time. A happy if anxious time, for my daughter never has easy pregnancies and we have already had one heart stopping week. My daughters friend is also pregnant but is not so lucky. Rushed into hospital this week, the signs are not good. My daughter is every ones friend. How someone with the adopted title 'Grumpy Old Ken' could have such a delightfully natured daughter is beyond comprehension. At the same time I am infinitely proud. (We are blessed in that both our children, though different have attributes of which we are immensely delighted.)

There was naturally concern from some that accompanying her friend to hospital would seriously affect Alison in her somewhat fragile state of mind. Alison insisted on going, her simple answer, 'She's my friend, I've got to go' says it all. Well done Alison.

Friend: a favoured companion; a person whom one knows, likes and trusts.

Murder Most Foul

Yet another week with murder featuring in the tabloids. Knife crime in Britain, though disturbing has become so common it hardly makes the headlines. Bodies found in a burnt out mansion in Shropshire is more unusual and is more avidly read. One cannot but notice the response of locals interviewed by the press.

"It's not the sort of thing we expect round here" and "he didn't seem the kind to get involved in that sort of thing" are the sort of comments bandied around. Which begs the question, "Are murderers different to anyone else, particularly ourselves, and why do we think it's only other areas that are susceptible to murder?" Could you, yes you, dear reader, recognise a prospective murderer. For they don't have 'murderer' stamped on their foreheads. Stand up the person I hear muttering "More's the pity."

The following is an extract from a piece I wrote in a book of short stories a year or two ago. (There's Nowt So Strange as Folk)

"Truth is stranger than fiction." 19th century proverb

You might think that you need to lead a highly unusual life, or live in exotic places in order to meet exceptional or unusual people. You would be wrong. Look around, listen, watch; they are all around you.
But remember, as George Du Maurier once said, ‘Life ain’t all beer and skittles.’
I used to think murderers are only to be found in the tabloids, or on Coronation Street, but I was wrong, hopelessly, wrong.

I met Bill because of a shared interest in English Bull Terriers. He was a hard, worldly northerner, particularly conversant with the machinery needed to illegally extract gas from a gas metre at no cost to the householder. We would exchange pleasantries at the local flea market on a Tuesday evening. That is, until Bill went home one evening, found his brother in law fast asleep on the settee, took his chance and cut his throat from ear to ear. There was a complicated history behind this horrific act, Bill in fact received only a short prison sentence and eventually returned to his native Newcastle. Thus our little chats ended.
I used to see Harry at a local residential hospital for people with mental as well as physical problems. I taught English in a large comprehensive school and also ran a scheme that involved school pupils working within the community. Harry, a Welshman thirty-two years of age, was a voluntary worker at the hospital one day a week. Harry was good at the work, compassionate, caring, popular. We shared tea, crisps and cakes on our regular, if short meetings on a weekly basis. Until Harry eventually returned to Wales, his sentence served. For Harry was on licence from a local prison for a murder he had committed thirteen years previously, when, at the age of nineteen, he had killed a man in a street brawl.
Grant was a pupil in one of my English classes. Average academically, he would probably have been quite successful had he shown more interest in the work set, instead of doing the bare minimum on a good day and nothing at all when he felt so inclined. Tending to be cheeky, with the distinct ability to disrupt a lesson at will, he was no model pupil. Nevertheless I quite liked Grant, as he was normally a cheerful individual, even his disruptions were accompanied by a humour that made his behaviour almost forgivable.
Several years later Grant was involved in an incident with another customer in a public house. Exactly what happened I know not. What I do know is that Grant left the public house, returned with a knife and killed the person who had upset him. An infamous action not exactly designed to put his name in lights on the wallboards in the school’s hall of fame.
Cyril used to walk past the school where I worked. I admired his fortitude in the face of adversity. Probably only in his late twenties, fate had been somewhat cruel. Severely injured in a road accident, he was left with only one arm and a leg that required a brace to enable him to walk at all, albeit with difficulty. Unable to find employment, the highlight of his day was accompanying his daughter to the infants and junior school down the road from his home. A task he accomplished with distinction for many a year. That is, until the house next door to Cyril’s was discovered ablaze, the old lady who lived there dead in a downstairs room. The murder, for the old lady was indeed murdered, remained a mystery for only a short time. Cyril was duly arrested, charged and convicted of the murder on irrefutable evidence, resulting in a life sentence, and an existence inevitably devoid of the trials and tribulations of walking to school on dark winter mornings however inclement the weather.

My children, and indeed some friends reckon I'm somewhat bizarre having 'known' at least four people who have committed murders. I tell them I'm just an ordinary individual passing quietly through life. What do you think?