365 Ways With Words

It Started With a Shandy

Well, it all started with a shandy. I can remember it clearly: there I was, as happy as an eight-year old can be, at my aunt Carol's wedding, when my uncle Jim poured me a lemonade shandy. Cool and refreshing. So nice. Of course, as an eight-year old I could have had no idea –none at all– about where my life was going, or about the terrible path down which I'd go. All because of this innocent looking drink. I'll tell you.

I like shandy. It's fun. I took it like a coke or fanta, but it has a slightly bitter taste to it. I drank it a bit, now and again, when there was enough beer and lemonade in the house. Sometimes dad would shout. I cut it 50/50 most of the time. But then one day there was no lemonade. My dad suggested I add a drop of lime cordial. I did it, but the effect was different. You see, there I was sitting with the family and drinking a sort of lemony beer. It was great. Unfortunately, I'd developed a taste for it. In fact, little by little I began to cut out the lime. I'd go to the fridge at the end of the school day for a can or two of normal beer. Man, that was sweet, I can tell you now.

It wasn't long before I was also trying out other drinks – alcopops, Bacardi Breezers mostly, although I was quite happy to try others. Each taste was new. I'd scan the aisles at the supermarket for ones I hadn't tried before. When they noticed, and they were taken out of the shopping, I would find other ways to get them – even made my own, went round to friends' houses, took them without paying. By the time I'd finished primary school I had got onto mixing my own cocktails each day. Got quite good at it, too.

This was pretty much how things began for me. I reckon I was an alcoholic by the time I was 10. Also, it wasn't long before I was in school hanging out with the bigger girls and smoking. They liked me. I took to smoking with ease. There was something about it – made me look older, gave me a stylish sexuality and carried the promise of forbidden fruit. I quickly caught the attentions of older boys. I would let them kiss me for a cigarette. It wouldn't be long before I was getting into snogging, fondling and fingering. It was so very exciting. But I got caught. It was after school and I had stayed behind the gym with two boys, Mark Flaherty and Jason Wilde, who took it in turns to kiss and fondle me. The headmaster Mr Baker said I was a 'pernicious influence' and had to be removed. So, I swapped school but did it again there too. I learned how to give blowjobs for little favours – cigs, bottle of cider, money. That last one, money, really helped. I got to buy clothes and make-up and got noticed a lot going out. I even made it under the radar into the clubs from time to time where I could really cause a stir on the floor.

But it was there I met Alex, who wanted to take me home. I let him. I already knew he was a dealer, but didn't realise just how bad things would get. Pretty soon I'd moved out and was living in his flat – overlooking the river in real luxury. He would have parties and invite all sorts of crazy people over. Some of them were stars: celebrities off the telly and people in the public eye. Really famous, but I can't say who. I'd be killed. There'd be lines of coke, and ketamine, and even worse. I knew he was a junky, but didn't know quite how far it had got for him. I took smack too, and knew how to shoot up. Anyway, we traveled all over: America, Africa, even Australia! He had these connections, you see. And everywhere he went, he wanted me to come too. More than once we'd have breakfast in London, lunch in Paris and then fly somewhere else for dinner. New York, Amsterdam, Rome, Milan: he'd take me shopping and we'd sit drinking wine in restaurants. It was unbelievable!

But to keep all this going we had to keep business running. And I had to support him – answer the phone, arrange meetings, that sort of thing. He had his dealers, who kept their patches in order.  Sometimes they needed help when others tried to muscle in. On more than one occasion we'd be off in the Bentley to 'sort out' a problem – that usually meant packing some sort of gun. It was scary, I can tell you. But he knew what he was doing, even if it meant war. There were nights we only just got out alive. Afterwards we would laugh about it, count the money and make love. I never felt so alive.

But it all changed one morning when I found him dead. We were in a hotel in Mayfair, and he'd taken too much. Dealers should never shoot, so everyone says. I got depressed. Ended up in rehab. The bed next to me had Any Winehouse in it. We got on like a house on fire. She would tell me all sorts of little private things – things I can't reveal here. In fact, I swore I'd never tell, even if she died. They go to the grave with me.

And then she died. It wasn't long before I was looking for a way out. I found my way to India and looked for a guru, like the Beatles. I found one, on the banks of the river Ganges. I learned to meditate and read the scriptures. It was a wonderful time where I felt I was really getting back to the real me – who I was as a person. Oh yes, I thought, this is it. And I went with the guru up to the mountains and would sit together watching the sunrise. But then the war broke out – between India and the neighbouring country. So I had to leave. I cried, I don't mind telling you.

And then I found myself back here. With you. Oh there's so much more to tell, but like I said, it's all because of my uncle Jim giving me a shandy. And I don't mind if you buy me one too.

The Strength of Reason

Too often he awoke to misery. Alone. Tired. Depressed. Pained.

If there was one thing to learn from late-night drinking, it was that life the next day always got worse. And here was living proof. Not only was his mind in a mess, his body was too. He knew it: a run was beckoning, with its rosy glow, clearer head, the very physicality of life. Turning over, he weighed.

*

She held his hand with a firmness that betrayed her emotions. She needed him. Like the air, the sunshine, the blood in her veins. Without him she would be lost, like the walking dead. She enjoyed all of these metaphors – all the like a and like the's. If a cloud raced across the sun, it would be a momentary occlusion of his radiance. If the bus was late, she was waiting for his words.

But inside was a voice. It was her very self-worth. It was trapped under a mountain of heart – her fatty deposits of cloying devotion that threatened to overwhelm her entire system. She ignored the little words, the denial being part of a deeper love on the long-term path. But her arm involuntarily flexed, making her hand flinch.

*

 

On a motorway overpass she stood for the briefest of seconds, then jumped. It was a peculiar sensation, this free-falling: wind, weightlessness under her feet, exhilaration – a novelty.

 

How many times she had gone through the motions she could not imagine. She would leave the house, still not sure about a note, and walk the three hundred yards up the slipway towards the M6 proper, turn right and walk the same distance back to be above the roundabout. Then, clambering over the crash barrier and railing, would leap to her death. And if anyone found her she would be able to call out his name: "Jack! Jack! Oh, I'm sorry, Jack!" Except of course, by then, in her crushed body, blood oozing from her mouth and nose, arms and legs and back broken, it would be too late.

 

*

 

It was only another two hundred metres, perhaps less. The sun was about to touch the horizon and beneath them they could see the shadow of the mountains on the other side of the col rise up the snow fields towards them as an incessant demonic presence – inch-by-inch, foot-by-foot.

 

If they had stopped and turned down a mere hour previously, they could have made for the tents on the ridge by darkness. An early start could have meant sunrise at the peak, or at least near their present location. But no, they had all agreed to press on regardless, determined to reach their goal early. And now, with perhaps another fifty or sixty steps ahead of them, the oncoming cloud of chilled sunlessness consumed them. Conversation desiccated, and taking immense laboured breaths, they switched on their helmet lights one-by-one, but the sapping effects of fatigue and oxygen privation added to their disorientation. Unwittingly, they had all ground to a halt, the frozen air scouring their lungs to remove even more heat. Above them the peak's golden wick of heavenly light finally snuffed, with a wind-whipped flurry. In the wide-open indigo above, wicked white starlight pierced them with pinioned night lances – anchored, they could not progress, nor return.

 

*

 

If he liked to get away with it, he also liked to tell. The final accounts filed, he had been careful to lay no trail, to put each step within different press releases so that only those with access to his very soul would be able to trace his direction. Information asymmetry, they called it, but only if it was exposed. Careful attention to the logistical psychology of an investigative mind, the sort he had witnessed when under investigation as a younger partner a full ten years before, meant that he was now as fore-armed as any general or commander in the field. He knew what to move where, and the effects each would have on the company's positive image, its various share prices in the forthcoming weeks, and then, when he had skilfully withdrawn all indicators towards him, the right time to resign and sell.

 

The final devilish act of the final devilish plan was to set the dates on the future meetings. Suspicions would be magnificently diverted. Picking up his jacket from his leather chair, he'd be out and be home before his beloved cleaning lady had finished emptying the bins. Ah, dear Sharon; she'd be able to find another job. Surely.

 

*

 

They'd walk him towards the pier. It was his expressed wish to see the town again from the end. The cliffs, ruddy and rude, had always seemed fragile – as if one night a winter's wave would remove it and leave a gaping hole in the landscape. Then the caravan sites and little boxy bungalows led down towards the town proper, the big fat hotels along the prom. On the other side the coast stretched away in a languishing flatness and fields ready for development. His town.

 

And here he was: dying. His achievements? A lovely suburban house, forty-five years at the bank, a will that accounted for everyone, a loving family, memories of happiness and holidays. Surely he should die happy. The doubt, his one and only, was the meaning of it all; for it had none.

 

*

 

Down, the foot went through the skull of his opponent. Not a pretty sight. But it could not be helped. He was to go, and go he went.

 

His twenty-third cigarette, he realised he had to come to final terms with this thing. For if his life was to provide any comfort then it must not be entered into lightly. It would kill him. It was killing him. And that was it! The last cigarette, the last one ever, the last. He exhaled and stubbed, coughed and spat. Holding up the pack containing the remainders, he crushed it. Into the gutter it went, and he felt... strangely exhilarated. Yes! Putting his rough hands in his jacket pocket, his fingertips fell onto the cheap plastic lighter. He pulled it out: this cheap, plastic lighter, half-empty, holding only one function. It should also go, but after one second's stare he replaced it. For next time.

Gunsmoke

It was thick in the air – by the doorway, beside the stairwell, even by the bushes. No greater combination of fighters had graced these precincts for more than a generation. Occasionally they sought cover – a passageway would do nicely, but if none were to be had, then a simple doorway would do. There was always a certain amount of normal staring off, even a bit of quick drawing, but this afternoon no one had pulled the trigger, at least not yet.

This whole thing depended much on the weather. When rays of sunshine basked the ancient stone walls more came to the fight, although conversely it was also better natured. However, during downpours the briefest of exchanges took place, the smoke would clear within seconds, and then everybody would file back indoors somewhat contented.

Sally was the best. Without a doubt. And she had the general acclaim of all: first out, first to fire up, last to leave. What a gal! The strength to maintain this appearance, time and again –not merely to depart supreme, her objectives achieved, and her quota met, but also to actively seek out new fights, to be the toughest– meant all were in awe of her. Quite how far she was willing to go, however, was the great unknown: it caused much fear, and not a little disquiet.

Their second, David, was a quiet man, who enjoyed the game. He came for the chance at a title – longest on his feet, quickest on the draw, best at the kill. And he would regularly take it. At times, he would practically skip home and prepare for the next day of competition.

There was a certain respectful camaraderie between them. Until they fought. Many came and went, but in effect these two took control of the whole scene – from morning to evening, and afterwards, if any one wanted to draw it out, into the night with beers or coffee, they didn’t mind. It was certainly not a youth thing, for there were at times others with stronger wills, better bullets, and refined tactics carefully built up over years, if not decades. But along with age and experience, tact and guile, a true fighter requires energy and enthusiasm. Most of all, they must have the culture of cut and thrust, the stomach for bloody victory at all costs and the desire for the taste of death through gunsmoke. Although most would attempt to exit intact, there are also many caught in the crossfire and couldn't help but limp home wounded. At times the fighting was really brutal.

It was three in the afternoon exactly. Some fighters had already withdrawn, their hearts no longer in it. Others were busting to come out, draw and fire, but were waiting. It was unusual for Sally to take her time, but that’s exactly what happened. Some said this was to unnerve opponents, others because they sensed a weakening – who could say for sure. David took up his usual position, at the top of the small flight of steps before the double swing doors. He was feeling pretty cock-sure. Maybe it was the weather; maybe it was his upcoming birthday, but he felt as ready as ever. It would not be long before the bullets would fly and another fighter would test his mettle.

No one expected the first salvo. From the opposite side of the square a voice rang out: “David, your essay sucks!” There he was, his middle-aged professor, leaning by the side entrance of the faculty, already halfway through his first cigarette.

Damn! David thought. He couldn’t let that one go. He took a deep draw; the deepest he had done for a long time, as if heat and sparks would ignite him within.

“Or you’re not reading it right!”

“It’s not my reading that’s the problem, David, it’s your writing – hell, even your SPG’s gone to pieces!”

SPG? SPG? Now he was aiming below the belt. No one mentioned SPG unless they were really desperate. Everyone knew it was about the bullets. But what was he going to do? This long-distance fighting would eventually have to be brought to close quarters, salvoes exchanged and wounds given and received, so that their smoke would mingle with their insults. His finesse was at stake.

Sally stepped in from right behind him. “The SPG is part of it. It’s intentional – stylistic. Hell, anyone with half a brain could see that.” Her smoking shot passed his ears, perhaps a little too close for comfort.

He didn't want her help, preferring the kudos that came with fighting alone –one-man standing– but now it was here he took advantage.

“SPG is a mere ruse to throw you." He continued. "You're always going on about creativity. Couldn’t you see that?”

To the older professor, this amounted to little more than smokescreen. He knew he had him on the run, and there was little chance of ducking a bullet, if he delivered the coup de grace. But he was distracted and intrigued – why had Sally been so gallant with David, her workaday foe? As usual, her work had been excellent, if a little weak in the conclusion.

Puffing into the air, he continued: “Bullshit! Your essay was weak because you didn’t draw on enough resources. Your points were shallow, insufficiently explored, devoid of adequate definition and, like I said, had dreadful spelling punctuation and grammar. I’m surprised at you, really.”

It was still a fight of long shots. David considered how he could he keep going without closing up and taking it down blow by blow? Was he in danger of losing, within the first few seconds? Should he run over?

Sally again stepped in: “It’s not the first time you’ve been unable to grasp trends in contemporary criticism though, is it? Is this a sign you’ve allowed yourself to fossilise? Lost the edge, have you? Is it time to move over?”

Quite how Sally was able to deliver these shots from a standing position time and again without running into more serious trouble eluded everyone present. This sharpened slanging match irresistibly drew those who had not already ducked for cover: the bullets were flying all right, but surely the fight was now going to get serious. He couldn’t allow a professional insult to whiz through the air without calling the whole thing. He was regularly accused by other colleagues of permitting a break with discipline, but he loved the fights and was not ashamed of his actions.

“I see you’re taking David’s side, Sally. Are you sure that’s wise? I mean, he’s clearly not on form today: if he goes down, then so do you. And I haven’t even got to yours.”

Without moving a muscle, the aged fighter, taking it all in his stride, and with fair and unfair salvoes flying through the air, put all personal and professional questions aside and was prepared to give as good as he got, if not better.

But Sally was not done. “Is that a matter of considered opinion? I mean, really? Or is it more that you have exhibited some hidden agenda? Are you making man in your image, or is there the possibility that in your efforts to acquire consensus you are unable to accept perspectives that do not match your own and resort to mere literary deconstruction?”

Dammit! She had something there. On both accounts. It was no wonder she was so much feared – often a contender’s last moments on earth would be spent staring up at her gunslinger's smirk, her gunsmoke twirling above the corpse. Gallantry was nowhere in her – a killer, through and through, she did it all to kill. With pleasure she’d kill them both in icy cold blood. He had to consider his words carefully: she had that smirk on her face.

But he had none. He had unwisely let this one evade him. Of course, he could deny it, even get mad, but that would only validate her points. He had to think of something – had to! But the effort wasn’t enough. Changing the rules, years ago, from private to public, had done the damage. He knew it. Where others feared to tread, he now injudiciously fumbled.

Pulling back the door, he merely mumbled, "I'll see you later," and fled into the darkness of the corridor to the sanctuary of his office. Sally and David congratulated themselves with a high-five, for they had together easily slain Goliath, and with his own weapons. But now David was taken with unhappiness. What had just happened was impolite and not a little dangerous. How would the wounded man react? He had to see him about the damned essay anyway. Of the two the only triumphant smile was about Sally's wintry chops. She beamed her familiar conqueror’s smirk, aware that the butt of any riposte would now be poor David, a mere chess piece. She’d delivered the grand finale, clean and mean, but David would collect the reward. She was not unhappy about that either. Lighting her last cigarette, it was her ascending gunsmoke; strong, dominant, victorious.

Late Night Atractor

The full, July moon sat high in the starry sky so that its light was reflected only when passengers happened to look down into the passing black water. A still night with no breeze other than that slight movement caused by the motion of the ship, the atmosphere everywhere was a heady mix of expensive perfumes, lingering cigarette smoke on the evening wear and the odd punctuation of close sweat. The band in the ballroom rattled out one after another of the most popular tunes, Rosemary Clooney and Nat King Cole, over the deep, persistent throbbing of the engines. From the bars on the upper decks could be heard the sound of singing and laughing and every now and then someone in heels would click past upon the polished decking accompanied by the polite conversation of couples.

Sighing the smoke away, he flicked the unfinished cigarette out into the darkness of the South-west Approaches and noted its light cascade in a beautiful, long, red-tipped arc. He turned on his polished heel to go back inside for an hour or two more by the bar. But before he could take a step the heavy deck door opened and she appeared.

“Oh, hello! Thought you were out here. Mind if I join you?” She approached with cigarette and matches at the ready in one hand. “I’m afraid I only brought the one.”

“Of course, Miss Shaw. Don’t worry, I have my own.” He patted his breast to indicate the inner pocket slight bulge containing his silver case. To impress, he pulled from his trouser pocket his silver lighter that instantly flicked and ignited.

“Beautiful… night.” she added between puffs.

He deftly flicked the lighter’s flame out with his thumb. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

And there they stopped and together admired the stars, the light from the boat on the passing wake, and the congenial party atmosphere. There was a glistening quality to her skin: her bare shoulders had a thin line of moonlight that contrasted magnificently with the deep yellow glare from the deck light bulbs behind. The waves of her hair radiated glamour, straight out of a magazine.

“So, Miss Shaw, have you been in America before?”

“Once or twice. My father had business dealings in Boston before the war…”

She began to talk directly, about factories and childhoods and public schools, but he heard very little. In truth he was deeply moved by her charm, her ambiance, her grace and poise – the very air that she exhaled. It had an electric charge to it he found impossible to ignore. It ignited him. In this light she became Lana Turner with the passionate elegance of a single female in her mid-30s. That made him Enzio Pinza.

“Tell me, if you please, why you never married.”

She tilted her head and returned a glance at him, not a smile but merely a thoughtful check. “Oh, I had the opportunity – was engaged, in fact, about two years ago. Lovely man, Bill, and I was just head over heels. But he was shot. Only one more month to go in Malaya.” She stopped and looked forwards, her mouth closed, a set expression of regret upon it.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused. “It must have been dreadful for you.” She nodded, but continued to stare.  “Look, I’m sorry. Shall we dance? Would you like that?” He held out his arm.

Stepping out from her reverie, she turned to him: “I’d like that very much, Mr Crane.” She joined his arm.

“Joe, please.” They walked together through the heavy deck door and down towards the ballroom where the dancers were applauding Sentimental Journey.

­–

He was sure of it – she had definitely winked. They had parted on the best of terms, yes, but there was something else. Only moments before, he had gallantly escorted her back to her port cabin, but wasn’t there something more in the way she held his hand at the end and said goodnight. Was he imagining it? Was she waiting there for him to rap at the door? Perhaps she’d already donned negligee and gown and dimmed the lights. Was she expecting him to turn up now so that they could dive together into a night of unexpected passion? Or was it meant for tomorrow? Should he bide his time? Wasn’t that the more gentlemanly thing to do? What if it was all in his imagination? Would she be offended if he knocked on her door – with only one implication in mind? But wasn’t that what she wanted? If she did give the hint, then would she be offended if he didn’t go to her? Would she think him pushy sleaze if he did, or a prudish stuffed shirt if he didn’t? What should he say if he’d got it all wrong? Would it be a disgraceful thing for her – for him?

The moments passed into minutes. He paced. He leant against the door. He splashed his face with water. He peered down the corridor: the only sound was the eternal throbbing of the engines. He shut the door again and began to sweat. He glanced at his watch: 1:35.

Looking at himself in the door mirror, he steeled. Come on, man! This is the opportunity you’ve been looking for – anticipating, hoping, praying for. Before he could stop himself, he was locking his cabin and sauntering back to the port corridor. He turned the corner and there it was – her door, a small brass 21 beside the lock. He couldn’t mask his smart shoes’ squeaks on the soft carpet as he approached. He listened: yes, he could hear rustling movement from behind the Formica-covered fiberboard. Good – she was still awake, still waiting for him, undoubtedly readying herself.

He gently knocked. The rustling stopped, the occupant unsure if she heard right. To confirm he tapped again. There were soft steps.

“Yes?”

Damn – he had to talk, to announce himself and broadcast to all ears in the nearby cabins that a juicy piece of late-night gossipy entertainment was about to happen.

“It’s me – Joe.”

There was a pause, and then the latch was slowly pulled back. A head peered round, saw it was indeed who the voice said it was, and the door swung backwards. It revealed the pyjama’d and netted form of his evening’s companion. She was shorter, had lost all her glamour, and had white lotion on her face.

“Mr Crane?” She seemed a little put out.

He took one look at her tired face, the unhappy expression of one discovered in distress. She was not the woman of the dance floor, of the martinis, of the smokes over the ocean and the sophisticated discussion on Picasso and Jazz. She was, essentially, just another woman.

“I… I… just thought… I’d… I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed tonight, Miss Turner. Maybe we can do it again. Goodnight.”

His cover blown, he walked away as smartly as he could. “Damn-damn-damn!” he muttered to himself, turning left to rise up the stairs again for another good long smoke. He hit his head with his fist: “I called her Turner…”

For her part, she watched him leave the corridor and pondered, If only he hadn’t taken so long?

The Last Resolution

I resolve to make this my last resolution. I resolve to not take up anything I will later want to put down and resolve to continue with whatever is currently going on. This I resolve to do for this is my final year. Yes, I resolve this will be my last resolution.

Last year's resolutions were a sham. I resolved, perhaps for the 45th time, to give up smoking. But smoking is something I really enjoy – the play of the lighter, the opening of a new packet, the feel of one smoking away in your fingers.  The whole tobacco thing had me hooked at 15, or was it 13, and I don't intend to stop what is a very peaceful and calming activity. I harm none by it (a considerate smoker) and can go for nearly a day without lighting up – well, almost. But December last year, the insurance on the car went up again. I calculated that at 40 pence or so per cigarette and an average of 20 each day I would save about £3000 each year – way over the price of the hiked-up insurance which, as an added bonus, would then be reduced. Then I thought of the pleasure of smog-free lungs and of vigorous exercise, hiking across the downs courtesy of my nice, smokeless car. And as I thought about it I found myself lighting up to enjoy that very thought and I knew I was a gonner. I knew I'd have to continue paying for my pleasures. January 1st was, therefore, not a day locked in a titanic struggle against the demon weed, but was instead a nice relaxing sunny day spent at home recovering from a great night out with the additional help of nicotine. After all, hangovers would be perhaps the worst occasions to quit smoking.

The other resolutions were equally ineffective – yoga, reading more, taking up painting and trying to leave work earlier. Actually, the last one was a bit of a surprise, but obviously not in the way I had anticiated. Who could have forseen the following twelve months? I suppose leaving work would have enabled me to take up the yoga and to read all those unfinished books and to start painting again, but it's a strange thing that with all the time available none of those have happened.

My last year. Wouldn't have believed it on January 1st, that's for sure. The Grünfelder project was only just in its infancy and there were so many things to complete from the previous scheme. So when I entered Mike's office on March 22nd with the news that I was scaling back my input, he was dumbfounded. We both were. I'd never seen him cry before. Silly old duffer. Got me going too.

In a way, I expected it to go on forever. Maybe we all do. Not that I had any delusions of immortality, but I really didn't expect it quite so soon. Death is so drearily emphatic. There is a full-stop to the book; a last page without a joyous and miraculous post-script. I suppose I hadn't given it any more thought than pension payments.

That's another funny thing. Now I have a pension in full, and life insurance and mortgage paid up, I would really rather have the drudgery of payments and a question mark over retirement age than have all of that money and be so near the end.

So, Mike has allowed me to continue adding drawings and attend meetings. Quite frankly, I haven't noticed much of a difference as far as my capacity is concerned, but the sideways glances and the sympathetic handshakes have added an emotional strain. I could do have done without it. By emphasising my condition they have unecessarily distracted themselves from tasks at hand. I really can't stand it. One day after loosing my hair I came back into the studio, to which Shirley gave out a particularly heavy sigh. I'm afraid I lost my temper. It made me shout, "On-on!" rather defiantly. I definitely couldn't stand another 12 months of that.

My resolution for this upcoming year, then, is to enjoy what is left and do no more. I will not add or subtract, deviate or dally. I want to go right through to the end without any tacky and desperate grasps at straws. I am neither going to take up saintliness and moderation or self-pity and anger. אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה – I am who I am, and in that I am resolute!

Czech Airs and Graces

Czech air is clear and fresh. At least, it is in Moravia. The skies are open and, unless living next to a motorway or industrial complex, they simply hang around up there supplying the honest Czech citizenry with all their necessary oxygen and ventilation needs. Compared with the collection of sick, diseased gases passed off as firmament in Hong Kong, Manila, Shanghai, Bangkok and a host of polluted Asian cities, the sparkling airs of mid-Europe are positively virginal. Even without directly and personally sampling and comparing each, it isn't hard to visualise the dramatic difference.

And yet, not everything is rosy in the garden. Some poor Czech cities are suffering from an unholy aerial admixture of three things; poor energy planning of the past (meaning many-a downtown power station churns out local smoke), rapid growth in the number of privately-owned vehicles that deliver exhaust particulates to your door, and a whole host of airborne dirtiness wafted in from elsewhere – Poland, for example. The city of Ostrava recently,and unsuccessfully, sued the state for the effects of atmospheric pollution.  It's therefore a wonder that smoking is as prevalent as it is – perhaps Czechs crave their hourly tar-filled lungful because they just can't get enough beloved carcinogens from the lovely air they otherwise breathe.

For me, Czech skies are beautiful and pristine, at least those above the ancient city of Olomouc. Since living here my lungs have undergone a good dose of necessary cleansing. Fifteen years daily atmospheric scouring in the Pearl of the Orient must have left an accumulative mark, but hopefully the emphysemic lung collapse has been delayed.