Bloody hell, late as it is; don’t need this right now, stupid crowds. Forgot how much I hate public transport. How many people need a train at the same time for God’s sake? This group of girls in front of me – are they even doing anything, or just loitering? This is a train station, not a bloody youth club, get out of my way you stupid little- oh my Christ I’m gonna hit someone. I’m actually going to hit someone. Need to pick Patrick and Sophie up from school, go home, feed the kids; got a ton of washing to get through and a bloody PFA meeting at seven. That Angela woman better not be there, stupid cow. Made a complete show of me last week, she did. Well I don’t really think that suggestion is very realistic – who does she think she is? I’ll give you a suggestion, and it’ll be very realistic. Who are you Angela? With your one kid and your big house and your smug little smirk and your bloody light blue Volkswagen Beetle Convertible. Bet you’ve never slept on a sofa have you Angela? Never bought your shampoo from Home Bargains or let your aunty cut your hair? Have you Angela? Stupid phoney.

This would be so much easier if the car wasn’t going through its frigging MOT, can’t be doing this every- hold up, is that… what the – someone is pissing, pissing, in the middle of the train station. Not even against the wall or anything! Slap bang in the middle of the train station! Where’s a security guar-oh God he’s swaying, anyone, please?

What am I meant to do now? Train’s on Platform Six in three and a half minutes and I can’t get to the stairs without sloshing through some –engers boarding the 1506 TransPennine Express service to Plymouth please be aware of – ’s not me– without sloshing through some rancid tramp’s wee! He’s literally taking the piss, these are new shoes! Cost an arm and a leg these did: Clarks’ own! Oh bloody hell, not turning round is he- oh God that’s horrendous. Cover yourself up, for Pete’s sake! Where’s your decency?

I need to get past! Patrick and Sophie’ll work themselves into a panic if I’m not at the gates. Last thing I want is for them to end up in Mrs. Hulme’s office, especially with Pat’s nerves – He’s bound to cough up about their ASDA jumpers – Heaven knows how they expect us to afford YC Sports’ stuff – falls apart in two minutes! No, can’t have them near Mrs Hulme’s office. That’d fuel Angela’s fire, wouldn’t it just? Like that wouldn’t you? Bet little Kolton’s never been seen dead in Mrs Hulme’s office has he? Too good for that, is he? Got a YC Sports jumper, has he? Get over yourself Angela, no-one likes you.

I wish everyone would just shove out the way! I’ll have to go the long way round to Platform Six now; can’t bear to walk straight pa- oh my God is he following me? He’s following me! He’s dripping all over the place, sweet Jesus, where is a security guard?! You’d think these shoes would carry me faster, small fortune they cost – excruciating blisters I’ve got as well – ’s what you get for being rushed off your feet all day, being a bloody dogsbody for everyo- shove out of my way, you’re clagging up the hallway; what is this? Hop, skip, jump – weave – dawdlers- navigate, navigate- all with some pissing blockhead hot on my tail.

It’s no problem guys don’t worry, walk as slowly as you like, not as though I’m in a rush or anything – just here for the laugh really, stroll it out.

Fed up of this. Soph has her cello as well, that’s gonna be fun on the way back. Oh Christ, orchestra! Completely forgot she had orchestra! I’ve not organised a babysitter, Lu probably won’t be available at such short notice will she? Been up to my eyes all day, haven’t even had a chance to get to Morrisons’. It’ll have to be something quick for tea like beans on toast or ravioli or somethi- was that an announcement? –engers please note that the 1516 Arriva Trains Wales service to Bargoed, calling at Heath High Level, Llanishen, Caerphilly, Llanbradach and Bargoed has been delayed by ten minutes. We apologise for any inconvenience caused. Oh bloody heeeeell, Mrs Hulme’s office it is kids! Can already feel Angela’s smarmy little eyes all over them – oh children, is your mother running a little late? – get out of your own backside Angela! What kind of a name is Kolton anyway? What does she think he is, a hoover brand?

Can’t believe this, stressed just doesn’t even cover it. Platform six, train, pick up kids, home, tea, orchestra – Richard’s just gonna have to come and watch- drop the kids off at Nan’s for half hour, PFA meeting, home, ironing, bed. Which stairs are Platform Six’s? –ain now approaching Platform Three is the 1515 Arriva Trains Wales service to Swansea, calling at Bridgend, Port Talbot Parkway, Neath and Swansea. Right. well that woman’s just yelped and belted it up these stairs, guessingshe’s Platform Three, so Six must be-Oh God Patrick has a school trip tomorrow doesn’t he? How much is it, a fiver? Do I have a fiver? Oh God I’m gonna have to get money out aren’t I? Such a pain in the arse, Christssake. Got an extra ten minutes I guess, still a massive rush - where’s the cash point? You’d think they’d make it a bit more obvious.

Oof, sorry, ow. This is ridiculous, why are people so rude? Still gonna miss the train at this rate, cash point queue is outrageous. Come on, come ooon, how long does it take to type in a few numbers and grab a sheet of paper? I’ll be wh- what is this? The tramp. The tramp is next to me. Don’t look at him, don’t look at him, stare straight ahead, don’t look at him. He’s given an ‘ello love already, don’t encourage him. He stinks of piss and sweat and beer and probably a number of other things I’d rather not think about. Flaming Nora, hope this car passes its bloody MOT, can’t be doing this on a regular basis. Why does a trip to the park cost a fiver anyway? Could take them all to the park myself if they’d allow it – God knows the kids’d have a better time. Absolutely unbelievable. Miss Drury’s input, that is; Gove’s dream, she is. School’s gone to the dogs since she turned up, I tell you. Charge me to step through the doors if she could.

Finally. See, doesn’t take an eternity to get some money out of a machine. Urgh, have to side step the sodding tramp again - rush up the stairs to the train. Don’t make eye contact. Can feel his eyes slopping in my direction. ‘ello love. Disgusting.

Move, shove aside, hurry up, shift. Why won’t people learn to walk to the left? If everyone just walked to the left this would be so much easier. Give me strength. If you want a natter, why pick the stairs of all places? What’s the time, 1525? Pat and Soph’ll be on their way out now. Here’s hoping Angela’s not on the prowl yet. Come on, move, seriously. Some of us have things to do.

Right, there’s a train. Is it mine? Pray to God it’s mine. Don’t want any more faff now, don’t have time. What’s the number on i- Christ, my eyesight’s getting worse. Everyone’s moving forward, is this the one? Watch me get on the wrong train now, that’d be convenient.

The train now approaching Platform Six is the delayed 1516 Arriva Trains Wales service to Bargoed, calling at Heath High Level, Llanishen, Caerphilly, Llanbradach and Bargoed.

Well thank God for that.

Shove. My. Way. Onto. This. Bloody. Train. Jesus. Wept. Ow. Don’t tell me there are no seats. All this palava just to have to stand the whole way the-‘scuse me love there’s a spare seat down b’there. Oh thank God for that, thanks, thanks. Didn’t make these aisles for the hefty legged, did they? Can see the seat now, ridiculous hair clip on the woman in the nex- hold on, I know that clip. It can’t be. Oh please no. No no no no no. Oh it’s got that little clasp and the stupid little flower. No no no. Can’t go back now, she’s seen me, someone phone me or something ple- Oh hiii daaarling! Just off to watch little Kolton’s rugby tournament, starts at four. Dave’s gone ahead with the car but I was getting my nails done. Girl has to do what a girl has to do- need to look after ourselves us women, don’t you agree? Didn’t know Patrick played? Where’s Sophie?

Angela.

This wouldn’t have happened if my name was Charlotte Davies. If my name was Charlotte Davies, I’d write it in Play-doh from my thing that you put Play-doh in and turn the handle round like a fancy sharpener and spaghetti Play-doh pieces come out. I think it’s kind of funny how the Play-doh name could be so mouldable whereas your real name can’t. I know my name means ‘grace’ and that’s weird because I have a friend called Grace and she’s nothing like me.

Sometimes if I think long and hard enough, I can convince myself that my name is Charlotte Davies. And in my long and hard thinking I go to badminton and clarinet practice and everyone calls me Charlotte Davies because they know it to be my name. And in my clarinet lesson in my head I play the clarinet like Charlotte Davies, and I don’t puff my cheeks out any more or spit into the clarinet and make that awful dribbling noise like Connor Peters does because he never cleans his clarinet. No, I play like Charlotte Davies.

And when I walk into the year 5 and 6 toilets and there are three girls in one and I say, who’s there, and they say, it’s Hannah O’Brien, and they laugh, I won’t mind that so much because I know in my heart that I’m Charlotte Davies really. And when Mrs. Gray calls out the names I won’t be shy and I won’t be embarrassed. I’ll just answer that yes, I am Charlotte Davies.

Based on my experiences of working in a supermarket over Christmas

So my manager says, ‘overtime, Christmas Eve?
Want an 8-6 day shift with Paula and Steve?’
‘Why not?’ I reply, ‘I’m not being funny,
ask Santa, he’ll tell you, I could do with the money.’

So my name’s on the rota; Steve and Paula’s come next,
My ten hours await, I know what to expect.
I’ve done this before, so take it from me,
On a one-to-ten scale, this shift hits a three.

Tilling I am, and alas, soon enough,
despite positive hopes, things begin to get tough.
It’s like famishing fish are fighting for bait,
there’s pushing and shoving, I’m getting irate.

The rabble’s arrived, madness has ensued,
‘Excuse me,’ I beg them, ‘please form a neat queue!’
But my pleas go unanswered, as out from the crowd,
slides veteran shopper, Mrs O’Dowd.

As if ‘Festive Priority’ is stamped onto her head,
she sidesteps the queue and my heart fills with dread.
“Excuse me young child,’ she asks with a growl,
“but where is my order of seasonal fowl?”

‘I’m sorry Madam but there’s others here too,
could you please join the wait at the back of the queue?’
The contempt in her eyes I can barely digest,
she can see that it’s busy, I’m doing my best!

Anyway, she’s off, to take her due place,
there’ll be no head starts in this Yuletide rat race.
Stopping at nothing to reach festive goals,
over rushed shoes are worn down to the soles.

The queue trundles on and the problems get stranger.
I thought stubborn mules belonged by the manger?
With bickering brats my till seems to heave,
you don’t see these tantrums at Paula’s or Steve’s!

As gift geared grumbles and groans reach a high,
lingering menacingly in my mind’s eye,
with reddening face and furrowing brow,
is ever-approaching, grumpy, O’Dowd.

A heartbeat elapses, she’s back at my till,
‘Child!’ she exclaims in tones piercingly shrill,
‘that seasonal fowl to which I referred,
would you please do me kindly and fetch the old bird?’

So I trot to the stockroom but to my dismay,
the shift takes a turn for the worse shall I say?
I’ve weaved through the commotion only to find
O’Dowd’s Christmas turkey has been left behind!

How shall I tell her? What on earth shall I say?!
She ordered online, her deposit is paid!
I recheck her form - ‘butter basted, organic’,
but I know it’s not here and I’m starting to panic.

I trudge back, dejected, O’Dowd in my view,
and Steve and Paula, like wisemen one and two,
Handing out turkeys like they’re frankincense and gold,
O’Dowd doesn’t seem the myrrh type truth be told.

I make the approach with a sorrowful smile,
If this ends in tears I’m running a mile.
As the knot is untied and the news is let loose,
O’Dowds anger spirals into full on abuse:

‘Heaven’s above child! My turkey’s not ready?!
What in God’s name will I feed little Freddie?!
(He’s my youngest grandchild, I’ve a total of nine)
No turkey at Christmas and the fault will be mine!

Wait, what am I saying?! The fault will be yours!
My Christmas is ruined and you are the cause!
I’ve already purchase this cranberry sauce,
what use is it now without the main course?!’

It’s a clerical error, I try to explain,
from indignant remarks I attempt to refrain.
They’re sat on my tongue but held back with a bite
but it seems it’s just me who wants a silent night.

‘No turkey? NO TURKEY?! This just will not do.
How this could be worse, I just haven’t a clue!
My seasonal fowl, it could have been missed,
so make like Santa Claus is to his list

and check it again! I demand that you do!
Be thorough about it now, check through and through!’
Bound by contractual work obligation,
I go, fearing O’Dowd’s potential probation.

I arrive and alas, it is just as I thought,
there’s a serious lacking of turkeys pre-bought.
I debate, should I give her another’s Yule game?
But surely a quandary would evolve just the same?

I cast my sight to the attributed labels
and a curious factor is brought to the table.
Two remaining turkeys are branded ‘E.Scrooge’,
that both should be named this, the chance isn’t huge.

Two people can’t bear this unfestive a name,
surely a glitch in the system’s to blame?
I debate with myself and I twist my own arm
as potential success outweighs potential harm.

I hustle the turkey, the shift’s turning shifty,
dart back to O’Dowd and I’m feeling quite nifty.
With confident manner and no hint of shame,
I tell her that this turkey is hers to claim.

‘Thank gosh, I was starting to get really quite miffed,
fearing my family’s turkeyless rift,
but all is resolved so I bid you goodbye,
to sit by the hearth and enjoy a mince pie!’

Needless to say, my relief highly piles,
but is tainted with visions of fit to burst aisles.
The ratio of potential E.Scrooge to person
is looking unpromising, my mood starts to worsen.

A Miss Eleanor Scrooge approaches my till,
I turkey her and down my spine runs a chill.
One down and yet hopefully not one to go,
I gravely hope E. Scrooge mark 2’s a no show.

I settle my fretting, It’s completely absurd,
two grinchly named people can’t require Christmas birds.
it just would not happen, the name is too rare,
I get on with my job and forget my despair.

An hour goes by and it seems I’m in luck,
there’s no sign at all of the ill-fated schmuck.
But just as I gladden and am feeling quite swell,
there’s a loathsome addition to my clientèle.

“Hello my dear, Edward Scrooge is the name,
turkey collection’s the reason I came.”
I sigh in exhaustion and place a mind’s bet
that this will be the longest Christmas Eve yet…

This was my winning entry for the the 21 Poets for Sheffield Digital Slam - It was a competition run for Off The Shelf Festival of Words 2012.

This is made up of different bits of facebook content mashed together - it’s mostly extracts of facebook chat, done in the same way as ‘You Can Come Shopping And Watch Me.’
 

               Got your false eyelashes on and your hair straight and glossy?

                                    I’d love to say I miss your face

                  but we both know I’m not a liar and I hate your face. 

                                                                                      pinned ya again.

                                        oh god i miss working in tesco.

      Sheffield has the best tesco as well
                           they even have blueberry wheats 
                     as well as apricot wheats

The ratio of greggs: other food outlets in Sheffield is about 15:1 I reckon.

Just saw 
      the fattest belly 
               I have ever seen in real life.

     It was flopping down to the man’s knees 
                                       and rippling in the wind.

                                                Wales is shinin’

                                    Nothing like a friendship based on advertisement.
 

By studying your gait

                      I 
                        have 
                     come 
                            to 
                          the 
               conclusion     
 

    that when you had to swim through a hoop under water


                                                                                         you struggled.



Fooshin’ ‘ell you’re ‘ome early;
you were better when your laptop was robbed.

I also concentrate mainly on the fringe whilst drying.

                    Without a hairdryer, 
          the fringe is a tyrant.

                   I miss your disgusting face
             I have your face
               It’s next to my bed 
                             and I say goodnight to it every night.
       

                                               I miss your pig-like features too
                           my eyes are getting too used 
                      to looking at nice things
                                            rather than your face.



shut up
shut up please
go away
why are you speaking to me
shut up
get a grip
just
   shut
 up
now
  please
shut up, grow up
stop talking to me

                I HOPE YOU FEEL EQUALLY INFURIATED TALKING TO ME 
                                   AS I DO TO YOU SOMETIMES.

                                              If I was a bear
                                  I would roar at you right now. 

                                                                                                       wow
                                                                                      someone typed
                                                                          ‘feminism azealia banks’
                                                                               into a search engine
                                                                                and got to my blog.
                                                                                                       cool.

I think we are both putting too much hypothetical weight on braveheart.
This is real life son.
No place for fantasies here.

    Fatboy slim is arguably the best driving music.

  Also,

If anything I ever write to you on facebook is ever used in a poem I will cry. 

The result of a productive night with oldest pal Lauren King.

Smoky conversations settle
but settle nothing.
Cryptic words steam
into mouths of months gone by
while submission waves its tired arms
and holds them overhead.
Steady hands stop striking
veiled faces and
make fists with words
scraped from the table
into open palms.
Qualms diluted,
blue runs clear through the murky grey
creating vicious hues of insolence.
Candid yarn unravels and falls
but woollen smirks remain tangled.

And heated speeches blaze,
igniting fibres that won’t
be dimmed by vivid hues.
And smoky conversations settle
but settle nothing.

This is made up of extracts of facebook content mashed together.
It’s pretty much all facebook chat apart from the first line, which I nicked from someone’s comment on a status because I thought it sounded nice (person in question, if you want copyright/royalties just chuck me your agent’s number).





               I threw myself in the river because my shoes didn’t suit me.

You put your hands round my throat and threaten to kill me if I don’t make
                                             a portrait of you.

        Do you know what pandemonium means?
       
        This is a great night.
       
         Pandemonium means the capital of hell!
                                   
                                       y gallwch ei deall hyn?


                    If I was a woman I’d dress like you;
                    You can come shopping and watch me.


      We just dominated the juke box for 3.5 hours.

                    - You should study more Dylan if you want to succeed as a
                       successful beat poet.

                     - You would make Daniel Craig want to study in Sheffield.

                     - Everything about you screams madhead.



What’s for tea do you know?
Turkey breadcrumb things with salad and strawberry trifle for afters.
What with like potatoes or something?
No, just with salad
oh no
with potatoes.
how did you forget you had potatoes?!




                      I have a stick to beat off the women as I walk home.
                                I get so many weirdos on my case,
                                              it’s so annoying.


I want to be friends with good souls,
I wouldn’t be able to decide between ploughmans sandwiches
and tea.

Over the summer lets learn loads of Kate Nash covers
                                                and call ourselves Gate Crash.

                                              You are weird love.


     I have no money really.
        I can’t, no money.
 No money.
      It’s such a waste of money.
                    Right on the money.
         I wish I had money.
I need money.
                 He works he’s got money.
I don’t want to talk about money anymore.
       I can take a joke but not about money.


           I am too cool to show any form of emotion
                                so I dressed as a sad clown and moped on a sofa.  

       omg its like
               someones          actually
      painted her
   its like in high school
                         when you try                    and
                                      paint skin colour

                                         
                                                                You’re quite a funny drunk actually.
                                                                       You sort of smile and fall over
                                                                                                and that’s it.

   Nice face.
   Aw thanks.
   My bank account requires that I work with chicken.

Don’t get shanked;
your hair looks lovely on a horse.

Love a bit of imagery.



It’s like she’s trying to write a story
but her pen runs out when she gets to the good bit.
She’s got the introduction,
too many introductions,
but no inspiration past there.
The ink loves the introduction,
loves it,
but decides it’s too tired when it reaches the main plot and tries to just slide from the page.
And she’s left with introductions she doesn’t want
and pens that don’t work.
She tries to buy a new pen,
a good one,
but to no avail.
They’re already being used
or the cartridge doesn’t fit
or they just don’t like the look of the page.
Although she’s sure that if the pens tried,
they could write quite easily on the page,
perhaps more easily than on the other pages.
It’s a good page,
nothing rough or draft-bookish;
it’s quite plain but easy to write on.
Lots of pencils write on the page,
but why would she want a pencil
when there’s a pen that she’s sure would be so much better?
The only pens that even try to write are those that clearly don’t suit the page.
They all try to write at once
but they’re writing different stories
and the plots don’t fit together properly
and she’s trying to rub it out with her finger
by licking it
and rubbing it
and scratching the page a bit
but it doesn’t work.
The stories just become jagged
and none of them want to leave
and the pencils just look stupid now
compared to the garish, ugly pen
that she’s trying not to make look worse
but she can’t help it
because the pen is so unhappy.
And if she’s honest,
she loves the pen,
just not the story it writes.
And the wrong pens
with the wrong ink
try to rub out the pencils,
but they can’t reach the eraser because it’s on the end of the pencil.
And you can still see the old pencil anyway
because the rubber didn’t work properly the time she tried to rub it out,
and one pencil was a dark one anyway,
perhaps a 4B.
There are too many pens now.
They keep spelling things wrong and getting the grammar all muddled up,
which is quite frustrating
because she’s quite good at spelling and grammar.
She just doesn’t know what to write anymore,
but what’s the point?
None of the good pens work anyway
and everyone knows that there’s no point in writing in pencil
because it’ll eventually fade,
as is the nature of a pencil.

The voice of my new born self - being a twin, I obviously had to share a womb with my brother for nine months [younger sister: “at least you didn’t have a second hand womb”], so was quite relieved to be out of there…

Look.
I’m not saying I don’t enjoy quality family time.
I’m not whining.
I’m not claiming I don’t highly prize the ties I was knotted into when begot into the O’Brien blood line,
but nine months is long.
And with a placental oxygen intake
and baby to womb ratio of 2:1,
the uterus hardly provides a lot of breathing space.
Don’t get me wrong,
I don’t mind sharing.
I love to Cher;
I believe in life after love
and I’ve got her greatest hits.
It was just sometimes a bit of a chore
when his umbilical cord was all up in my grill
and of course he’s my brother
my wombsman
my twin,
but although we’re akin
with his bum in my chin
I thought, here on in you’re a pain.
I know as a fetus you’re a bit out of proportion
but I found it difficult to comprehend
how he could be so big headed
having not further fled than the wombal twin bed.
Albeit condescending, I’d tell him:
“You’ve got a lot to learn my friend.
If the world was a cereal cupboard,
you’ve only had weetabix.
If it was a library,
you’ve only read one book
and it might be an interesting read first time round
but there’s only so many times you can flick through the caesarean section
before you need something a little more substantial.”
I know that I’m dwelling on past events,
that this is just a bit of a pre-crawl prequel,
but they’re not lying about this care being intensive
and I’m getting the post womb gloom.
I mean,
I’ve heard the words anti-natal so many times that I’m starting to wonder of the whereabouts of Uncle Natal.
Hairless and de-uterised, me and him look like Phil and Grant Mitchell,
respectively
and retrospectively,
it was a much better look for us when it wasn’t subject to public scrutiny.
I’ll tell you what, mind,
it wasn’t half suffocating in that womb with him.
I know he was only practicing his breathing technique ready for the outside world,
but 24/7 and down my neck
is not the time nor the place to do so.
And although I feel wary of the ward,
I was sick to the back gums of his idea of ‘fetal fun”
and it’s such a relief to be born.

This is based on day to day interactions with elderly customers when working on the tills in a supermarket. Had a bash at representing the hypothetical customer’s Cardiff accent so hopefully it reads that way!

 

“Hi Mrs Thomas, how are you?”

“Orr, ‘iya luv, I’m alri’ thanks, ‘ad a bitta trouble down the doctors earlier mind, been ‘avin jip with my ear like.”

“Aw, there’s a shame. How’s your hearing?”

“Oh alri’ luv, s’tidy enough, I put a few rollers in only last night, makes the werld uh difference dun ih? S’usually so frizzy in this weather.”

“…Yes Mrs Thomas, it’s lovely. Do you want a bag for these?”

“Wha’sah luv? Do I know Aggie Rees? Oh aye, she’s ‘ad er baybee. Bit of an odd one, not gonna lie. It’s powerful fat and gorran ‘ead like an October cabbage. Bet its mother’s finding it terrible ‘eavy. Feels fer ‘er I does.”

“Yeah, must be hard for her. Any cash back?”

“Nah, she’s not ‘ad trouble with rash this time round, thank ‘eavens. ‘Er last two must’ve cost ‘er a small fortune in Sudocrem, not cheap these days either is it?”

“No, you’re right there Mrs Thomas. That’ll be ten pound and a penny please.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Ted’ll be round in a short while luv, doubt he’ll bring Jenny though, she’s bed bound these days, not been the same since ‘er ‘ip packed in ‘as she? Poor thing. No point tryin’ to talk to Ted though luv, ‘is hyearin’s going, ‘e won’t be able to understand a single werd you say.”

“Alright Mrs Thomas, here’s your change. Thanks a lot.”

“Aw thanks luv, see you again like, tarrah!”