Softly Shouting

This is a 'found poem' made up from fragments of comments in the rightwing press just after the 2016 Referendum.  The words are exactly as I found them but I have taken snippets of about five different comments.  These are not the worst remarks... Glad We are leaving Look at the jobs we will get back And the benefits Stop taking in asylum spongers Pedos, terrorists and all the EU dregs No more foreigners with horrible accents Send The lot of them packing It doesn't matter How many of them come to Britain They Will never be British I'm sure they'll be made Very unwelcome in our country

‘Why do you make such an effort for him?’ ‘Why do you think it is for him?’ ‘You’re going to the opera –‘ ‘-with him, yes, I know.   I am going out with someone whose belly does a Mexican wave, who dresses worse than Groucho Marx and whose hairdresser should be hanged and quartered.   That’s exactly the point, girl.   Hand me the rose cream, please.   It is on the hatbox.’ ‘That smells lovely.’ ‘It does.   Is also does wonders for your skin.   You should try it.’ ‘So tell me why you are making such a fuss?’ ‘The contrast, silly goose, the contrast.   After the opera, when we walk into the Savoy, me on his arm, it is like a live performance of the Beauty and the Beast.   Guess who’s the Beauty?   Meaning all eyes will be on yours truly.   And I’ve seen the guest list.   Very delectable.    It reads like a Who is Who of eligible bachelors.’ ‘Philippa, you are wicked.   Poor Henry adores you. ...

‘They look absolutely delicious, darling.     But it will cost me 65 minutes so I’ll decline.’ ‘Over an hour?’   ‘Afraid so.   A whopping 354.     That is 65 minutes cycling, or 3 hours gardening.’ ‘You don’t have a garden and  I don’t think watering the plants on the balcony will count, darling.'    ' I’ll have one of those biscuits.     That will set me back around 1 hour of playing with Chloe.   We will go to the park with a ball.     Would do her good as well, she is building up a little puppy-fat we need to get on top of.   So how’s Jeremy?’ ‘Fine.   I can’t for the life of me understand how he can keep so slim; all these lunches and dinners he has to go to.     Of course, he won’t stay in any hotel without a fitness suite.   Still, it’s not fair.’ ‘Oh, dear, look at that.’ ‘That’s gross.   Size 20, at least.   I’d positively kill myself.’ ‘Hot cho...

‘Try harder,’ he says. ‘I have tried. I can’t!’  And what is more, sometimes I’m not sure that I want to. My husband and I have had this argument several times over the last few years.     The problem is this: I don’t do small-talk.     I actually don’t know how to. Here is the scenario.      Friends of my husband visit.   When the children and grandchildren have been discussed and we have exchanged any other news I fall silent.    I actively dislike football.    I don’t watch all that much television.     Strictly? Never watched.     Eastenders?  Yawn.  Great British Bake-off – what?     So I sit and listen, a rictus smile on my face.     Usually, I start knitting a pair of socks.   I can’t do it.     Honestly.     I am sure some people think I am off-hand and a snob but it is mainly social awkwardness, not snobbery that m...

All the days are the same here.   I wake up, get dressed, have breakfast and go to the living room.   Every day I sit and watch TV programmes I have never heard of, having coffee and a biscuit with a bunch of strangers.   The next day they’re all gone; replaced by new strangers.   It is very odd.   I ask them about their children; I tell them about my son and my daughter and then the next day I have to tell it all again. There is this woman who visits me often.   She reminds me of my mother.   She says she is my daughter but surely I am not old enough to have a middle-aged daughter?   But then I look at my hands and they are the hands of an old woman.   I wriggle my fingers – they are my fingers alright.   My wedding ring is loose.   I must have been married but I can’t remember the face of my husband. There are many things I don’t remember.   But I can still see my mother’s face and hear my father’s voice. ...

‘Say something tae me.’ The man sits, half-turned, facing the other passengers. ‘Please?’ His voice is plaintive, non-threatening; at odds with his torn clothing and abundant tattoos.   Most people in the bus have an urgent text to send; those who don’t have a mobile stare out in the dark night with determination.   Two women move to the lower deck. ‘Why doesnae anybody say anything nice tae me?’ I am close to the man.   The text I am tapping tells of my day, of the film I saw with a friend;   matters of life and death.   I glance; the man locks eyes with me and doesn’t let go. ‘Say something nice tae me, please.’   ‘How was your day then?’   My voice sounds funny.   I feel a collective sigh of relief emanating from the other passengers.   They’re off the hook. ‘Crap, man, total crap.’ He waves a half-empty bottle of cider.   ‘My best pal died.’   A tear falls on the dirty floor.   ‘I went tae the ...

St. Petersburg doesn’t know how to behave when it is not covered in snow. The heat gives me a headache; breathing feels like inhaling treacle.   The light reflected in the buildings hurts my eyes. It is Sunday; to relieve the boredom and desperate for coolness, I had jumped on a bus to the Summer Palace, near the coast.   A trip will give me a sense of purpose; a barrier against the loneliness.   Four months of my contract have gone by; the time left is an eternity.   When I am not working I am looking for ways to kill time.   It is either that or the time will me. The air inside the bus is worse than outside.     The floor is covered with grime and phlegm; a cockroach scuttles to a safe place.   Two pensioners are bickering about whether or not to open a window.   They are veterans of the Siege; their jackets are covered in medals.   One of them opens the window and sits back; the other closes it and shouts. ...

The dog was Jess; a black lab teenager with a sunny constitution.   She loved lopping about, running after everything and anything.   The man was Ollie; thirty-something with a high-powered job, a wife and two children. Jess and Ollie were on a short walking holiday.   It was early May: cool mornings, sun dappled afternoons, sunshine and shadow playing with the still unfolding leaves.   The walking holiday was Emma’s idea; she proposed the pair would take the May bank holiday to travel over to Ireland, walk for four days to get the cobwebs blown away and the batteries charged.   Ollie agreed.   He was a little hesitant to take Jess along but it had proven to be great decision.   Jess was well behaved on the leash.   She carried her own backpack with a doggie blanket and doggie supplies. When she was off the leash she ran to catch a blade of grass swept away by the wind; she chased squirrels and lost and only yesterday she had an ...

Alice said to get neeps and tatties.   She’ll bring some mince and we’ll eat together.   I’ll go out to the shop; it’s no pouring with rain today. Ah, bless her.   She’s put a note on the door. ‘Dear Hilda.   This is your front door.’   Silly girl, of course it is. ‘When you go outside, please check whether there are any pots on the hob.   Lock the door behind you.’   Alice must be getting a bit forgetful.   I’m no child, mind.   Right, key, bag: organised.   Up to the wee shop.   ‘Morning Hilda, out for a stroll?’ ‘Morning, eh…. How are you?’   And who are you? I’ve never seen you in my life. Ah, here’s the shop. It’s no bad wee shop.   Run by a dark couple.   Mind, I’ve nothing against them; they are just … different. ‘Morning Madam.   May I help you?’ ‘I’ll just have some … what was it again … vegetable, orange …’ ‘Carrots or neeps?’ ‘Aye, that’s it.   Neeps please.   And tatt...

You pack with your head.   You pack a few changes of clothes; nothing special, because when winter comes, the insurance will have kicked in.   The mundane stuff: underwear, easy sweaters, some toiletries. There is no saying where you’ll end up.   You pack a book to read, your passport and important documents.   Packing with your head is easy. You pack with your heart.   Did you do those games when you were young?   ‘Imagine escaping from a burning building- what would you take with you? ’   Good practice: this time it’s for real; you are running from a monster, devouring everything in its wake.   So you pack your wedding album, your photo album from when you were a little girl, your memory stick with photos and films from your own family life.   Sometimes technology has its advantages.   You pack your jewellery; the moonstone he gave you when your daughter was born, her hair in a little locket, your mother’s bracelets. ...

‘What do you mean “where is my shirt”?   It is probably where you left it, in the washing basket.’ ‘So why didn’t you put the washing machine on?’ Angus and Claire glare at each other, like two animals measuring up the opponent.   Neither is going to give. ‘Can you please tell me when I am supposed to do that?   I am working fulltime, just like you.   In fact, you were off yesterday afternoon.   You could have done it yourself, being the technological whizz-kid you are.   Don’t look at me like that, I am not being sarcastic.   Why am I the one sorting all the washing and ironing?’ Angus backs off a little.   ‘Listen, Claire, perhaps we should get a help in.   After all, we   earn enough to afford it.’ ‘That’s the most sensible idea I’ve heard in a long time, Angus.   But it still wouldn’t hurt you to put the washing machine on yourself, once or twice in a blue moon.’ ‘Do you really have to work so many -?’ ...

I have made Scotland my home since 1997, when my husband and I and our two children came to work and live here. Since the 2016 referendum I have been living in Limbo.  I have nightmares, sleepless nights and periods of anxiety about my future.  The anti-migrant rhetoric affects me deeply- receiving a letter from the Scottish Government in the week after the referendum that I was welcome here left me in tears. In the beginning of this year I decided to apply for settled status in the hope that would help.  The app worked fine but then I got the first email back: The Home Office didn't have enough evidence that I had been in the country for five years.  Five years? I have been here for over 20 years, have had three jobs, did two degrees, set up a business and they can't find me in their records?  I sent various bits of evidence.  No joy - standard email back that there was not enough evidence.  I sent my business accounts.  No...

After I died I rose to the ceiling, like a helium balloon.   My family gathered around my deathbed, saying nice things about me and dabbing their eyes.    I floated to the family room where they said less complimentary things about me.   My grandson looked up, waved and said: ‘Goodbye Gran.’   It was time to go. Jacob’s Ladder was a long hard slog but I got there.   At the top I was met by a bouncer, square, dressed in black and with a face like a pit bull terrier.   He had a love heart tattoo on his neck.             ‘Ratings? What do you mean?’             ‘D’you never watch Strictly?’             ‘Nah, I prefer a good book.’             ‘Oh for Pete’s sake:   not another intellectual.   Through here pl...