My Achievement Today

My Achievement Today ©

By Michael Casey

What did you do today? Our mum or dad would say to each of us today, or any day. I used to have a Social on the top step of the stairs, I’d tell my mum everything I’d done at school that day, then she’d pat my bottom and send me off to bed with a kiss goodnight. 50 years later my smallest daughter always gives me a kiss goodnight, so History is repeating itself.

Now what is my achievement today, as we end May and invade June? Well today I put a new handle on our toilet. So I saved myself the price of a plumber, £30 or even £50. The part was 7 quid in my local Pakistani  Aladdin’s cave, they have everything, all the way from China. So all I had to do way take the lid off the cistern and  then replace the handle. So simple even a simpleton could do it. Only I could not.

You see the original silver coated plastic handle broke off, we don’t enjoy the smell from one particular smelly bum in the family, so lots of flushing goes on. This distorted the handle till eventually it came off. So I had to become an emergency plumber. We had to resort to other measures to flush the toilet,  I did suggest I could drink lots of Stella Artois and then use my own fire hose to flush the toilet, but that was deemed too expensive an idea. It was so simple, and I was prepared to sacrifice myself for my family of girls.

So today when the shops were open after the bank holiday, we were drowned in Birmingham, one month’s rain in one hour, I went and got the new shiny metal toilet handle. I came home triumphant my toilet handle in my hand, my bargain my joy was flooding from me. I knew in seconds the new handle would fit, but the plastic nut that held the old one in place refused to budge. 

I poked the old handle out of the way with the new one, but a large plastic nut was in the still in the way. You have a hole in the cistern which the metal handle bar goes through, and then it is attached with its own nut, then hanging from that is a plastic fitment and a hook that attaches to the plunger that sends the water racing down into the toilet bowl below. The bar has a piece of plastic on it with a screw thread so that a nut can attach the handle firmly to the cistern from the inside, so it does not wobble. Then hey presto you put the cistern lid back on and all the magic is hidden, you  can pooh, flush and go.

Well this is the theory. But what do you do if you have a nut stuck to the inside of the toilet cistern? I could put the new handle and its bar through the existing hole, but I could now screw it firmly because I could not put the new nut on from the inside. Now my mother is called necessity, and I am very inventive. To I stripped the plastic from the new toilet handle bar, so now it would slip through the hole in the toilet cistern, but it wobbled. So then I thought about Plumber’s Tape. This is like ribbon for plumbers, you wrap it around a thread  and put a nut on, thus sealing  things. I did actually have some plumbers tape but I wanted a seal and the ability to move.

Sellotape came to the rescue, by wrapping one end of the bar around the  toilet handle bar I killed two birds with one stone. I bulked up and sealed the hole going into the toilet cistern, and it was slippy so could move in the hole and thus allowing a clean flush. By the way the hole is above the waterline, but it does need sealing, just in case there were to be an overflow, so water inside only goes out the proper overflow pipe.

So once I’d finished and tighten the nut connecting the handle bar inside to  the plastic fitment with the hook in, I stood back and stood on the cat’s tail, Totoro is a very nosey cat after all. She was very noisy as well as nosey when I stood on her tail, so she skipped out of the bathroom window. All  that was left for me to do was to christen my toilet, so I lowered myself and enjoyed a good sit down, before flushed  with success I pushed the new shiny toilet  handle. And guess what it worked.

So I’d saved myself a bit of money. I used to watch our lodger do all the odd jobs so I need to thank him Killybegs for the education, 50 years ago and more. Now should you ask what kind of story is this, and what kind of writer am I then you know already. I write about any old S*&^ but I hope I make it entertaining,  because it’s   the way I tell them as Frank Carson used to say.

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