The Ghost in the House

The Ghost in the House ©

By

Michael Casey

George was a ghost, only he did not know it. George thought he had a nap and when he got up from the bed he saw the private ambulance move off from outside his house. George wondered was it old Mrs Patrick from no75 opposite, only as he looked over the road she waved at him from her bedroom window. So she was alive and kicking, so who had kicked the bucket. George’s stomach rumbled so he went downstairs to the kitchen, he’d left some old pizza in there for days, he could reheat it for the 5^th time, it would be ok, he had great stomach he could eat anything.

As he reached for the fridge door handle George noticed something, no matter how hard he tried he could not open the fridge door. He banged on the fridge, but there was no sound. George thought he was just a little hung over, he’d had 10 pints of home brew, it was old, but it was a sin to waste it. Old pizza and very old home brew from his back room by the kitchen. That was why he needed a nap, now he was awake but things seems strange.

The doorbell rung, George could see it was the Happy Clappy Christians from the church up the road, so obviously he wasn’t going to answer. He might just puke all over them, he felt strange very strange, like a politician who’d given up the booze. George sat down by the kitchen table. He felt somebody tap his shoulder, it was Mrs Patrick. You don’t look too good you know she said. I don’t feel too hot either George replied. Hold out your tongue, George obeyed , Mrs Patrick inspected his dirty tongue.

George then wondered how she had got in the house, before he could ask Mrs Patrick proclaimed, you are dead. George could not comprehend, who was she to tell him he was dead, and how did she get in the house anyway. Mrs Patrick smiled. George reached for the fetid bottle of milk on the kitchen table and drunk it all. At least that felt better.Mrs Patrick smiled sat down next to him. You are dead, and so am I, but nobody knows I’m dead yet, my neighbours are on holiday, when they get home they’ll know I’m dead, the stink will tell them.

George should have been shocked but maybe all the rank home brew had calmed him. So he was dead, and his aged 95 year old neighbour was dead too. A couple of corpses, without being a couple that is. Just neighbours. So what happens next asked George? I don’t know I’ve never been dead before replied Mrs Patrick, I’m not one of those Buddhists, or one of those Christians always being born again like ice cream salesmen in a van.

I’d give you a cup of tea but I cannot get the fridge to open to get fresh milk, said George. I had that problem too replied Mrs Patrick. But though I want a cup of tea more than anything else I just cannot have one. Do you think an angel comes and takes us to Heaven? It could be the other place mused Mrs Patrick. You did have rather a large number of girlfriends shall we say. Its normal I am a man after all, what did Hugh Grant say on the radio. Well I’m sure God loves all of us, just the way we are, or were.

The pair of ghosts sat in silence for a few hours till darkness fell, just looking into space. Do I get tired and sleep at night now that I’m a ghost wondered George. Mrs Patrick thought for a minute before replying, you see I’m so old I don’t mind sitting in my chair all then time. But you might want to move about, you might bored, and to be honest I may be very old, but as a ghost I’m a newbie. So I’m still getting used to the idea.

I only came over to see if you were alright when I saw the private ambulance take you away. Two of your girlfriends were stealing your wallet before the private ambulance too your body away. You are very kind Mrs Patrick, they were not girlfriends, they were pro pro , ladies of the night said George matter of factly.

I’ll see you out then said George heading for the door, only he could not open it. So Mrs Patrick walked straight through it, bye she called over her shoulder. George wondered would he be trapped in his house forever. He closed his eyes and walked through the door, he was in the middle of the road, a car was coming. It drove straight through him. He would have been killed if he were still alive. He was just thin air as far as the car driver was concerned. He’s lived till he was 52, now he was nothing. Too much alcohol and too many ladies of the night had killed him.

Mrs Patrick waved from her bedroom window, passers by held their noses, what was that smell,what was that smell. George felt sorry for her. All alone and dead in her bedroom. No children nor grandchildren were wondering how she was, she was dead in her bed, unloved and unnoticed. George closes his eyes and walked into her house. It was so much better than his, but he didn’t notice that smell himself, he did not notice the smell of death.

Mrs Patrick came down and they went downstairs to the kitchen, they’d have a cup of tea,or at least pretend to. In the kitchen the cat was dead on the floor, Tinker her cat had died of hunger, his owner had died so the cat died too. The smell was terrible, Mrs Patrick averted her eyes so George suggested they sit in her living room instead. They sat in the armchairs pondering their futures.

There was a bang and a crash at the back door, opportunist burglars were breaking in. This really angered Mrs Patrick especially as they slipped on Tinker he cat. George and Mrs Patrick screamed, they screamed so much as they were so angry. The burglars saw the ghosts and fled out the front door, straight into the arms of the Police who were investigating the smell.

The burglars were more that happy to be caught, they were so afraid of ghosts. Mrs Patrick’s body was discovered dead in bed and Tinker was scooped up and buried in the garden. Mrs Patrick’s body was taken away in a private ambulance. George consoled Mrs Patrick, she had tears in her eyes. Look Mrs Patrick why not come live with me, I’m only over the road after all. So long as you don’t treat me like one of your ladies of the night, replied Mrs Patrick. You are 95, laughed George. I was a looker when I was young I’ll have you know, insisted Mrs Patrick. So arm in arm George and Mrs Patrick crossed the road, two ghosts together, united in death.

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC

Pretentious Poets Strike Again © By Michael Casey

I read something in one of the newspapers today.

There is one thing I really HATE, it's bad pretentious writing, or anything PRETENTIOUS, so here's something from 2016. And yes, some of you may think I'm a pot calling the kettle black, In reply, what you see is what you get....

Pretentious Poets Strike Again ©

By Michael Casey

Now how exactly shall we describe Pain, is it just a myth advanced by Pharmacists aided and abetted by slick adverts on tv with wonderful graphics of throbbing this and that. Does it exist at all? Is it just a bad joke on Creation’s part? Shall I compare thee to a Scream on a Winter’s night echoing through The Dark of the Night of he Soul.

Now where did we put the Dictionary, next to our copy of the Perfect Word by Lenny Bruce, the well know American dictionary compiler, the coarse, the very coarse version. Or did we leave it next to our cook book, the American guide to Hamburgers a la Macdonalds, the 1999 version. Though who uses dictionaries, they are for the mentally weak, those with no moral fibre, we poets don’t need them, we just make up new words made up of sounds.

If it sounds good we use it, not forgetting a dose of alliteration on the side, and if we get the words wrong there is always the doctor or the priest to absolve us from our word choice. Priests are so forgiving of our words, especially Fr. Percy, he used to be a nudist till he saw the light and became a poet and then finally a priest, in the church of the Church of the Totally Gullible the church of Film Stars and Pop Stars.

But I digress, which word shall I pick and choose, where is my Muse, it’s hard to keep your muse, it should be chained to your bed, or was that a bad idea I saw on Blacklist, I really must stop watching late night tv, or was it the Brussel sprouts I consumed. We poets don’t eat we consume, and are consumed by ideas and emotions, because we are so sensitive, as we are Artists who teach the whole world what is Nature in the atmosphere and deep deep deep down inside us.  

I found the dictionary in the bathroom, its such consuming reading while one is at repose, or just sat on the toilet. Sadly a few pages are missing, I ran out of tissue paper, the letter Z has all but disappeared. But Z is so boring so it shall not be missed by this Poet, nor the world of words, how many zebras have you heard of in contemporary poetry. Not even Leonard Cohen used Z, so it won’t be mourned, he will be mourned, but Z will not.

So where were we, yes we were describing Pain, rather like a Rolling Stones concert where there is a 400 years queue for the toilet, now that is pain as one hops from leg to leg crossed leg to crossed leg, like a frog in a kilt, and no I’m not talking about that French Fashion person, whose name evades me right now, though he does make rather good perfume in the torso bottle. I’m almost inspired to write a ditty about queuing to have a sh sh well  you know what I mean, so long as its clean.

  

Now I was going to talk about how clever my choice of words is, but that would be boastful, but I am a pretentious poet, so I DO need to Educate you, there are more letters in the alphabet other than Z after all. In the Fall the leaves fall  and gather on the ground for walkers to walk in and squash and squish, rather like pages stolen from a dictionary never to be used again, its all such desolation, how can poets survive with no cheap alliteration to be found in the leaves, Nature itself thieves them from our life from our very being.

So Pretentiousness must end the pain killers have worked and its 5.30am now so I need to go back to bed to finish my repose, this stink of words must have gone up your nose or fallen down and left a mess on your pjs or dressing gown, amongst the tooth paste stains and hot chocolate stains. So goodnight to one and all, as the good Earth spins I have finished blowing my own Trumpet, another night owl is reading my words, its 3am somewhere and I hope he enjoys my prose brought on by lack of repose. And if He wants to give everybody a great Christmas Present, how about lowering the cost of pills, then he would be a saviour for all our ills. 

 https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC 

I have this painting on my wall for 20 years now

Downpour over

I'VE TIDIED UP THIS SITE

BUT  https://michaelgcaseyfrombirminghamengland.wordpress.com/

still has lots to read, including many Translations

 OR you can buy a book or two

and yes everything is my copyright.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC

https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC

Noah and his ark passed by it was so rainy last night and today and thunder galore too

so this is from 2012

A Rainy Saturday © 

By Michael Casey

It’s another rainy April day,  mum is out for the day so I’m left with the girls. So we can catch up with our films on the Sky+ box, we watch Charlie’s Angels together, it’s very funny with lots of tongue in cheek humour, one or two jokes for the grown ups too. We like the kung fu too, we are a Shanghai/Birmingham family after all.

My big daughter is mad for pencils, so she persuades me to order a propelling pencil set, she uses it to draw with too. When you have an artist in the family you have to have the right kind of pencil, the fact that she has 500 pens, pencils and crayons already does not matter, she must have the latest one. She was given 10 new pencils the other day by somebody we met while we were sheltering from the rain, but that was not what she needed, she always “needs”  the exact thing she wants. She is a great sketcher though.

As for her small sister, she was upstairs near her beloved dolls house, it now has two bright plastic chimneys, red and blue, old building blocks were added to make her dolls house more distinctive.  I shout up the stairs reminding her to read too, I ask what page she’s starting from so I can gauge if she is doing enough reading. She does 70 pages plus in a day, she’s a very fast reader. Now that she has mastered all her times tables I am a happy dad, the 8s were the hardest, I reminded her I was beaten by the teacher, so  I got mine right the 2^nd time he asked me, which was an incentive for her. 

Piano practice was also part of the day, my big daughter can play a little, but she and her smaller sister need to practice practice practice.  The piano will be a good investment IF in the end they can both play, we did get a letter from my big daughter’s new secondary school offered music lessons and instrument lessons; we are lucky though because Betty from the choir gives them singing and music tuition, all this means is that they are better at the piano thanks to Betty. Perhaps I should nominate Betty for an OBE or something, along with the lollypop lady.

The girls have both retreated upstairs so they must be making stuff or drawing, I do know when to switch the tv off and to switch the computer off too, a balance between fun and creative arts is a must to my way of thinking. I don’t need Dr Spock’s book, didn’t he say he was wrong years later anyway?  I have to finish now, my big daughter says she wants to write a story. We’ll turn into a family of writers, now that would make all my dreams come true.

 https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC 

this weeks readers

3 Way Ping Pong (c) by Michael Casey from 2013 I am NOT on FB anymore now

Sunday, 27 May 2018

3 Way Ping Pong (c) by Michael Casey from 2013 I am NOT on FB anymore now

3 Way Ping Pong©

By Michael Casey

I have a friend, two actually, on FaceBook who inspire me, we make each other laugh. They are in New York and have American accents I suppose, me, I’m in Birmingham, the English one. Though in Birmingham we pronounce it “Bermingum”, no long drawn out BirmmingggHAAM. Is the saying a common people divided by a language? Or maybe the other way around.

Now E & S, I’m protecting their identities, as their children may disapprove of them talking to strangers. Now E & S live together, they are related, me I’m in Birmingham with a Shanghai wife and two bilingual daughters. E & S speak and write American English, me I read/write English English. However there can be days and I mean whole days when all I hear is Chinese, as my wife screams to her mom in Shanghai. Chinese people are very loud, especially over the Internet.

So if you like E & S are my refuge. Good morning I’ll start with, as I put my bowler hat on and open my umbrella, it’s always raining in England after all. I may send a link from a newspaper over here, and they reply with a link from over there. Ping replied with Pong. Now first E may reply before S counters, it’s like having two pitchers at the Red Socks, so occasionally I have to duck.

Now E and S are poets and writers, E has a big vocabulary, luckily I have a very big dictionary, and best of all the Internet makes everybody a spelling bee, and I can find out the meaning too. Being over here she cannot see the expression on my face when I don’t know the meaning of her big words. While she is typing her next sentence I can run for the dictionary and/or Wikipedia, so I can smoothly and effortlessly seem intelligent, when it’s my turn to return service.

So this goes on, with photos of what S has baked or made for their breakfast. I’m putting the pounds on and that’s just by looking at S’s photos of cakes galore. So S is a poet, writer and baker. Then splat, is it E returning service over the cyber table tennis table? No it’s a photo of pancakes that they are having for breakfast. I’m sure my Internet connection is slowing down due to all the maple syrup in the status updates.

E will say something and I will repost as I move closer to the net, S will make another comment distracting me from my left hand side. Then Taiwan or Arab friends pop up with news, and I’ll comment on Esol English  lists, I’m jumping from here to there, hither to thither, now how do I explain those two words to Esol English students.

I have a new post to share so I post it, after putting it on my own site https://michaelgcaseyfrombirminghamengland.wordpress.com/  In nanoseconds and I’m not exaggerating E has read it, she’s an executive editor, she reads fast. S told me once E was at the dentist and somebody dropped a magazine and before it hit the floor E had read it.

So this is how I use the Internet and FB too. FaceBook is a form of Ping Pong, and Ping is an IT word after all. Ping Pong is how FaceBook works, and don’t forget I have a Shanghai wife so I know all about Ping Pong.

Now what about FaceBook itself? Well Facebook is a 3 ring circus, with high wire acts, with juggling, with lion taming, and not forgetting the clowns. And the staff? They are roadies, they set up the tent, allowing me, E and S not to mention the 1,000,000,000 rest of you to play the game.

Now I know a thing or two about roadies, when I was a concierge at CPNEC we had the Arena next door. Roadies stayed at the hotel. All of them wear shorts and they have tattoos on their calves, it’s too hot to wear long trousers. So I can reveal this final piece of information, Mark Zuckerberg has tattoos on his calves. If you don’t believe me just go ask him, does he ever roll up his trouser legs when he’s paddling at the beach?  Ping Pong.

i only use the more glamorous photos