First Impressions, by Anthony Bloor

Doncaster and Darlington were lovers. Or so he thought. But he wasn’t even 10 yet, and what did he know about love? Mysterious bonds with parents and siblings, a mix of emotions too deep to explore, and a passion for football, his local team. And a passion for collecting things – lollipop wrappers and bubblegum cards. And football programmes, chosen for him by a mail order firm. A lucky dip, and in the beginning there they were – Doncaster and Darlington, always together in the pile, always in the same division, so close they seemed to be chasing each other – and they always seemed to be playing each other. They weren’t married, obviously, because they were football teams and also places, up north somewhere. But they were always paired in the tables, hand in hand, promoted together and relegated together – and with a name like darling, they must be lovers, he thought.

Occasionally there was Derby, popping up in the pile to disrupt the sequence. But Derby was familiar – a bus-ride away – and Derby was bad news. A friend had told him that Derby fans had head-butted him just because he was wearing the wrong-coloured scarf. That’s why they’re called the Rams, he said. Didn’t you know? No, he said, he didn’t know, but the programme had a ram’s head on the cover, butting in between Doncaster and Darlington, like a spoiler at the wedding who objects to the couple's joining. But the joining continued regardless.

Years later, what had changed? He knew now that Doncaster was near Sheffield and Darlington near Newcastle. Miles apart, and a slim chance of playing each other because Doncaster was still bouncing up and down the divisions, while Darlington had drifted into non-league obscurity, and they'd only be playing each other in the beginning in the programmes that had been chosen for him, supposedly at random. But he'd grown up with a mental picture of the UK, moulded by those kick-off snapshots of 92 teams which were also places.

And somewhere in the picture, there was Doncaster and Darlington, still paired, and joined at the hip like Siamese twins. Or rather, like a loving couple, the Don and his Darling; the man of steel with his consort, who wears a Quaker’s hat. Those mysterious bonds, that mix of emotions too deep to explore – had anything changed? Decades had passed; yet Doncaster and Darlington were still coupled. So perhaps it was a marriage after all, even though they were football teams and also places. It was a marriage because certain beginnings are creative times, times spanning who knows how long when anything is possible, and chance comes along to tie things together – tied with a knot that’s impossible to unravel, and stored in a mental cupboard for evermore. Doncaster and Darlington were lovers, and that was a fact.

A Letter from Boris, by Georgia Kelly

(This poem is called "A National Home", by Boris Johnson and me.  I tried to use blackout-style poetry for this in order to spread a more positive message than the one Boris Johnson sent out to 30 million homes. I also wanted to try and recreate the way in which the government used to censor soldiers' letters in other national crises , such as the First World War. Now we can all censor a letter from the government.
  The asterisks represent words blacked out.)


                                10 DOWNING STREET
                           LONDON SW1A 2AA

THE PRIME MINISTER


I am **************************************** taking *******
in *************** life ************************** dramatically.
We *** feel the profound impact of ****************************
love ***** and ******

******************************************* to **** live ***
*************************************************** for one
very simple reason.

********* people *******************************************
**********************************************************
**************** need *************************************
*********

*************************************************** a home
********** not ********************************************
****************************************************
********************** seeking ****** attention ***************
**********************************

**********************************************************
********************* from anyone. *************************
************************* people break **********************
********************

*********************************************** you ********
******************* will do whatever it takes *******************
*********

***********************************************************
****** to *************** find********************************

******************************* the right *********************

********************************************** advice********

*** we must do.

**** important ********************** things ********************
*************************************************************
************************************* so *** life can ***********
*******

********************************** be ************************
************ fantastic *****************************************
and *********************************************************
*************magnificent ***************

*************************************************** hundreds
of thousands ********* volunteer ** to help the most vulnerable ** with
that great **** spirit ********************** we will be *** together

************* a *********************national ******************
home ************************************


       Boris Johnson and Georgia Kelly

A Letter, by Peter Shilston

The envelope had fallen face downwards on the mat. Nigel ripped it open without bothering to turn it over. Inside was a single sheet of paper. There was no sender's address at the top, and the writing was in careful block capitals.
   "Mister Williams", he read. But that wasn't him: Mr Williams had been the previous occupant of the house. Really, the man should have informed the Post Office he was moving, not to mention telling his correspondents!
   "Mister Williams, you still haven't paid us the ten thousand. We will be sending someone round to collect it".
   He read the message three times, after which he was shaking with fear. What had this man Williams been up to? He knew nothing about him at all; had never even met him. The property was vacant when he moved in; the letting agent had shown him round an empty house. Now Williams's misdeeds, whatever they might have been, were catching up with him. That must have been why he'd left without a forwarding address. And here HE, Nigel, was; trapped and helpless, having to answer for someone else's crimes!      A chill crawled up his spine as he imagined what would happen: a couple of thugs would come to the door and he'd try to explain that he wasn't Williams but they wouldn't believe him and ......... No, he couldn't bear even to think about it! They were probably watching the house even now! He must escape! There wasn't a moment to lose!
   Without even bothering to pick up his coat, he ran to the kitchen door and outside to the rear garden, with some thought of getting away through the back hedge. But he was too late! There was a man, dark under the shadow of the trees, coming round the corner of the house and advancing towards him! Nigel stood there, tembling and quite incapable of movement, as time froze, and then the figure spoke.
"Morning, Nigel! How are you?"
"Michael! Oh thank goodness! You can't imagine how relieved I am it's you! But it was a rotten trick to play with that letter. You know what my nerves are like!"
"What trick? What letter?"
The cold panicky feeling started again, but at least he wasn't isolated and on his own any more.
"I got a letter just now, threatening me. Or not me exactly, but ......... Wait; I'll get it and show you".
But the letter wasn't there. He scrabbled around ineffectually for a while, and finally said, lamely, "I don't seem to be able to find it. But it was here!"
"That's all right, Nigel", said Michael. "I am your doctor, and I quite understand". Yes indeed: it was becoming more complex and fascinating by the day, the case of Nigel Williams.

Whitewash, by Peter Morford

When they found the first cave paintings, the experts thought they were about 20,000 years old. They praised the draughtsmanship and realism, and if one buffalo in Lascaux appears to have two rear and three front, legs, nobody worried.
As time went by they found ancient art in every continent. In Australia the dating was 28,000 years: Borneo 40-52,000, Iberia 64,000 years. Three thousand generations. In Borneo they were still painting in the last 100 years and palaeontologists are running classes on tv.
Silly question: Why did the cavemen paint their walls?
Answer – because canvas was too expensive.
Alternatively: Our ancestors had the same instincts as we do. They had imagination. They could see the galloping animal and carry the mental image back to the safety of their cave and draw it.
Well-decorated walls have always been a sign of cultural or economic power. I imagine a Neanderthal man, with a much bigger brain than mine, had the same instincts to outdo the Joneses. Later, the builders of cathedrals and pyramid had the same idea of aggrandizement.
Today, it’s expensive girlfriends, the fleets of expensive cars, the Old Masters, the ownership of Championship League football teams, the superyachts, Lear Jets and the £100m. houses in Belgravia which, declare the owner to be the big winner. Nothing changes.
Some time, perhaps during the Industrial Revolution, people living in mean houses in befouled industrial cities tried to improve their hovels by painting the walls with whitewash. It was cheap, easy to make and, when the smoke spoilt it; easy to repaint. The front step had to be scrubbed daily and repainted frequently if the lady of the house, mothering the survivors of her fertility, could earn respect in her neighbourhood.
Sunny Mediterranean houses are painted to reflect the heat. It isn’t art but it’s practical and, anyway, there were plenty of pictures in the museums.
Nowadays, whitewash doesn’t mean cleanliness but covering up the dirt. We’re all good at it, especially if we’re in public life. Persons of power or influence use it to the maximum. Governments and Ministries are especially liberal with the wide brush. When some blunder leads to loss of life or enormous expense to the taxpayer, there’s always someone demanding an Enquiry or Royal Commission. A big name is made chairman. Over well-paid months or years he digs enough dirt to justify further budget and time. Two or several million pounds later, he promises to publish his report- but not just yet. There’s the hope that the Public will have lost interest after all this time but there’s sometimes a pesky protester. In haste a bland and diluted report squirts forth and the Pesky Protester demands more.
Time for another barrel of whitewash. This type of whitewash is art. It’s the genius of cover-up and the freedom of the perpetrators to enjoy their pensions. It’s enough to make you proud if you’re a politician or a lawyer.

Night, by Catherine Redfern

I fear the dark of the night
not as in my childhood -
then the forces were external,
witches, ghosts, for a long time
the Speckled Band - there was a high vent 
above my bed.

No: today, tonight,
it is my thoughts I fear.
As the moon rises
they multiply with the stars
they merge into a Milky Way
of echoing reproach:
you've failed, you've failed.

And can I at this late hour 
wake to a calm dawn
of quiet resolution?
Is there a healing path
leading to the sunlit uplands,
and I, inept, irresolute, rudderless,
can I find and follow it?

Notes on a Funeral, by Anthony Bloor

The journey the station the streets the accents the bus station the driver the accents the stop the walk the church the service the car park the drive the roads the roundabouts the creme the service the curtains the wait the car park the drive the roads the lodge the cousins the voices the memories the car park the drive the traffic the lights the queues the detour the station the rain the train the rain the rain the rain…

A cynic would say that funerals are civilisation’s way of dealing with what is essentially a waste disposal problem, best solved by cremation. One in, one out – a conveyor belt for the dead, exploited by those in the business for a tidy sum that continues to rise. Leaving the house that morning, I was more concerned about the weather. And the trains. It was just about feasible. It meant catching the first train from Church Stretton and leaving Durham fairly early to catch the last train from Manchester. The trains were on time. Then a bus ride to the rendezvous, a church in the middle of a housing estate. Leaving the church, the guests exchanged nods and smiles and words of satisfaction that the resume of Sheila’s life had been a fitting tribute. But falling asleep that night, the eulogy was lost, the details dissolved in the day’s events which were strung together like scenes from a movie.

And the movie was rewound, replayed, rewound and replayed, over and over – the journey the station the streets the accents the bus station the driver the accents the stop the walk the church the service the car park the drive the roads the roundabouts the creme the service the curtains the wait the car park the drive the roads the lodge the cousins the voices the memories the car park the drive the traffic the lights the queues the detour the station the rain the train the rain the rain the rain....

The Office Cleaner, by Peter Morford

About out a year ago I told Betty, the House Manager, that my office was not being cleaned properly.
“I’m sorry Mr Perkins, we’ve had a number of complaints lately. We’re going to change the cleaning contractors – they start next week. I’m sure you’ll see a difference.”
“I’m on holiday for a fortnight.”
“You’ll see an improvement then. Have a good time.”
Two weeks later I checked the bookshelves and the top of my filing cabinet. They were clinically clean. The phone smelled medicinal. The air was fresh and wholesome even though I had yet to open a window. I said as much to Betty.
“I’m glad you’re happy. We bend over backwards to serve our clients,”
“Really?”
“Of course.” She winked and rolled her eyes.
As I said, I try to work regular hours. On this occasion I was having deadline trouble.
The Telegraph had commissioned an article about a company in Glasgow and I had spent a few days researching and interviewing. It was going to be a late session. It must have been about 7 o’clock when my door burst open.
“I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t think you’d be in. Shall I come back later?”
She was about thirty, dressed in the smart uniform of our new cleaning contractors, with her vacuum cleaner, basket of dusters and polish. Her ID tag told me she was Mary Patel.
“No. Come on in. I’m almost finished.”
She started in my spare office while I rechecked my article and emailed it to the paper. As I was locking my desk and filing cabinet she came back. I said, “My office is much better since you took over.” She smiled.
“Goodnight Mrs Patel.”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”
For the next week or two I kept to my usual times and was away before the cleaner came. And then I had another tight deadline. I had been down to the café for a sandwich and returned to finish my article. There she was, sterilising the phone.
“I’m nearly finished,” she said.
I decided then that she was not quite the sort of person one associated with the term ‘cleaning lady.’ I may sound old fashioned, but I usually expected cleaners to be, well, more working class. She spoke properly, for a start and there was the lilt in the voice, as you would expect from a Patel. I decided that she was too old to be a student. Perhaps she worked three hours a night because she needed the money, while her partner (she wore no wedding ring) looked after the children.
“How long have you been working for OffKlene?” I asked.
“Two years.”
“Do you like the work?”
“It’s fine. It doesn’t stretch the mind. I’ve just read that,” she added, pointing at a new-published novel on my desk.
“Did you enjoy it?”
Within three minutes she had analysed the style, psycho- analysed the author, found an inconsistency in the plot and anticipated the sequel. Here, I thought, was a cultured, educated and beautiful woman.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”