Smearing my Way

Smearing my Way (c)
By
Michael Casey

Well we are a week away from Christmas 2019, and I am wearing 4 layers to keep warm topped off with a red jumper, and red trousers. With my silver hair, the local kids think it’s Santa, and as neighbours pass by I say I have just a week to grow a beard. So I found some old black paint in the house, I had seen it before but I didn’t have a paint brush, then I found a small paint brush. So I thought I ‘d attack the front gate, it’d been annoying me for a year, it’s metal with a bit of rust showing through. Luckily we get loads of junk mail, which is perfect to protect the ground from paint spills as I attacked the front gate.

I only have so much energy, physical energy what with random pain attacks and so on, or if you like I’m a doddery old git now. Though I should warn you my fists are fists of fury, just like Bruce Lee but faster. If you spend 40 years typing fast then your fingers and then fist is fast. So no mickey tacking, or I’ll slap the back of your legs with a wet lettuce again. Yes that’s what you are feeling down the back or your leg, either that or Totoro my Ninja cat has sprayed on you for cheeking her master. 

If only Totoro drunk black paint, she could have spray painted the garden gate for me, funny how ideas come. Though she is so white and fluffy I’m sure she drinks Comfort fabric conditioner and not milk. And no don’t read this story aloud to your kids, or they may just try it out, and then the RSPCA will be at your door, your freshly spray painted or cat sprayed front door. I did for years write a story and then read it aloud for my girls, so that’s why they view my stories differently than you. I sprayed my stories into their minds, I hope it improved their story writing skills.

Back to the front gate, it took all of 10 mins to smear it the other day, and immediately I liked it more, first appearances matter, so now the front of the house was so much better, well in my opinion anyway. Apart from the trail of paint spattered newspapers floating around the front garden, but at least the spills were on the free newspapers, each one saying Labour won the argument, but they still lost, logical if you are a Politician.

Then it rained so I hoped the paint would stay stuck to the garden gate. It was wood paint, very shiny wood paint, on an iron gate, but you have to use what you have got, money or paint does not grow on trees after all. Though a few leaves blowing in the wind, did stick to my bottom, or rather the bottom of the garden gate. I did find a few answers there too, the crossword answers stuck to the bottom of the garden gate, just opposite the Political Winds of Change item.

This morning I looked at my achievement, a black garden gate, with no rust showing, but it did need another coat. So today I found more junk newspapers to cover the ground as I smeared away again at the garden gate. Then I stepped back to admire my smearing and decided I was pleased with it. I realised there was more than enough paint left to do a bit more smearing. So I may attack the front of the steps into the house, the rise part, not the actual step, if my terminology is correct. Ask a Step Dancer they might know, I’m just a step smearer, as one of our lodgers once called me 40 years ago.

I can remember my dad’s advice don’t load your brush too much, I have a photo of him painting my back door at the old house, maybe 30 years ago. Other memories of my dad painting at the family house 50 years ago also come flooding back. I can even remember him on the outside toilet roof painting the corrugated iron roof to keep the rust away. Local kids calling out his name, Mr Casey cos they didn’t believe me when I said it was my dad. Dad used to have a Bobby Charlton front wrap around lock of hair too.

So in the morning I’ll look at my garden gate again and then decide in the light of day if I should smear the gate for a 3^rd time or smear the steps. I’m dangerous if I find left overs, if it’s food I’ll eat it, and if it’s paint or string I’ll find a use for it. Yes I’m a mini hoarder, no I’m not a Whore, hoarder, sometimes I think some of my readers have paint in their ears not just pencils and earwax. Anyway I have to fill my belly now, so I’ll finish now, but do save and recycle those Christmas wrappers. We have to buy some Lindt chocolate, not just because it’s nice but we can use the golden bells on it to put on Totoro’s collar, a kind of handicap system for Ninja cats, jingle jingle Totoro.

Christmas Tree has landed at the Casey House 2019

Christmas Tree has landed at the Casey House 2019

we had a tree delivered today, so small daughter put the decorations on

while big daughter watched from University






























remember to make love the priority not how many gifts you get

A Christmas without Presents

 michaelgcasey  Uncategorized  15/12/2019 3 Minutes

A Christmas without Presents ©

By

Michael Casey

My mother stopped buying Easter eggs for us because they cost so much, she did have 6 children after all, I was 5 of 6 if you want my Casey Borg designation. She also told us that for Christmas back in Cromane Lower Kerry Eire, she might get an orange, or a hard boiled egg, she was 3 of 7 I believe, Timothy her little brother died aged 7 from Rickets. So she always had tears in her eyes as she told the tale and admonished us for wanting too much.

So what should we want this Christmas, or what do we actually need? Perhaps if Santa brought us working Nuclear Fusion, which would solved the carbon crisis and Global warming. Though it might be available already but Big Oil has locked it in a safe, they are not going to lose Trillions, instead we’ll lose the Planet. Some Politics and the Greed of Economics for you. And what do we all want. Well the 3rd world wants to imitate USA, or even the wealthy side of China. Everybody wants an iphone, designed in USA by an Englishman, and manufactured in China, then sold in USA, and to the new rich in China. Making the USA stock market grow so much, until a no trade deal between USA and China means China will stop using Google, first because of a ban, but then because China can go it alone. This is Trump Economics, annoy everybody until you kill the goose and the golden eggs.

But I digress.

So children are all excited because they can see him with a large bag, full of presents, coming up the garden path, dad is even dressed like Santa. He comes through the door and says HO HO HO, the kids jump for joy. The giant sack is opened, a balloon floats out, Happy Easter on one side, with an Easter Bunny on the other. The kids laugh nervously, dad is having a laugh. Then he takes oranges, big oranges out of his pockets. The children are deflated, the balloon is half deflated too.

Dad sits them down to tell them a story, you remember Irish grandma back in Kerry Eire? Yes, you’ve told us a 1000 times. I have but you know what she gave me most of all, she gave me Love, with a Capital L, so this year I decided to share that love. The orphanage is near where I work and I was asked to play Santa for them as I’m so big and fat. So I gave out all the presents, and I did have presents for you all, but in all excitement I gave out your presents to them. I left them to one side and I planned to take them home to you, but they ended up in the sack for the Orphanage kids. So the orphans got some really nice presents, and you got these oranges I stole from the Orphanage Christmas party food.

The kids, his own kids began to cry, but as they saw Santa cry back in return they stopped crying. Sorry Santa, I mean dad, we were being selfish, at least we got something, just as Irish grandma did. So dad stays dressed as Santa and Ho Ho Ho the rest of the day, until mother took him to bed, to give him her Xmas present. He in turn gave her a Xmas present, something for all the family to enjoy, a little brother that his daughters always longed for. Though it would take 9 months for him to appear.

Now God works in mysterious ways, in the pocket of the Santa suit there was a Christmas card, with a message stuck to it, you are the best Santa ever, can we book you for next year? As they ate their Christmas orange the kids noticed something stuck to the Christmas card, it was lottery ticket, Santa’s Reward was written in pencil on it. And yes they won millions in the lottery, and gave half to the orphanage. Did they have loads of presents that Christmas and thereafter? NO, because they realised that the greatest gift of all is a family, and Christmas should be about that, and not presents.

Vietnamese Translation The Butcher The Baker and The UndertakerKorean Valentine PoemKOREAN TRANSLATION Still Alive 2015Korean Still Alive 2015Kasap Fırıncı ve Taahhüt © tarafındanBBU IndonesianBBU ITALIANBengali Translation of BBUBBU UrduBBU in Indian HindipersianBBUPORTUGUESE BBU2019China BBU-convertedChina BBU-convertedВ поисках индийской принцессыWydanie polskie Still Alive 2015win Wiersze dla wszystkichThe Polish TranslationsThe Polish Translationspolish Guardian AngelPolish Edition of Still Alive 2015Michael Casey The Polish Translations페이지 1 Quick Stories KOREAN아직도 살아있는 2015ページ1 Quick Stories in Japaneseインドのプリンセスを検索するにはインドのプリンセスを検索するには – CopyЭТО МОЙ ЛИФТ ADСтраница 1shoplife spanishJapanese elevator AdvertBBU GermanBBU French50 Spanish Examples50 Spanish Examplesbbumar2008-en-zh-cn-1BBUMar2008.en.zh-CN (1)BBU in HebrewBBU in Arabic300 وBBU Russian Translation microsoft wordBBU in KOREANBBU GermanBBU French50 Spanish ExamplesKOREAN TRANSLATION Still Alive 2015The Polish TranslationsSpanish BBU아직도 살아있는 2015아직도 살아있는 2015아직도 살아있는 2015

Grandma I'll always Protect you

Grandma I’ll always protect you ©

By

Michael Casey

Now it’s 11^th Dec 2019, I’ve just checked my readers figures and you are still a very far flung crowd. I didn’t have a single idea in my head, as usual, then a thought slipped past like a cloud, and I had a picture in my head. It was a Grandma or a Babushka as my Russian and Ukrainian readers might say. So this is the cartoon stuck to the page, I’m not pushing myself as much to create new stories, when I get a PhD student write a FaceBook essay on me, then maybe I’ll speed up again. Though I did have a PhD reading my rubbish recently, he was looking for a recipe and just found a recipe for my rubbish. So if you are sitting comfortably, ok finish those 5 pints each then I’ll begin.

Nana was a nana, her son had died tragically, so she was left to raise his child JB, the mother had left as she did not want to be tied down, well outside the bedroom that is, so Nana was left with her grandchild JB. Nana loved being a nana, and she loved JB with all her heart. It always amused her to claim her Pension and Child Tax Credit on the same day, rather like this writer’s mother did many a year ago. So Nana just winked at the man in the post office, pretending to be like Frances de la Tour in Vicious on the tv, if you haven’t heard of it go find it, Gay Gandalf is in it too, you can find it when I finish this story.

So Nana was a great nana, she encouraged JB in everything he did, and JB loved her back. And was was JB called JB, well because he always wore a Tee shirt with JB printed on the front, refusing to change it. So despite having a name, JB was just that JB. Rather like somebody refusing to take their anorak off when visiting Lourdes in 1966, or in East is East that film. So JB grew up, he was so small and weedy and Nana worried he’d be bullied and not be able to look after himself, so she always fed him meat, and meat and more meat. Then when her neighbours’ sons started to do Martial arts at ten JB was sent along too with Taz and Singh and Anita too, Anita was destined to be a doctor, but her mother said it would be good for when she was a GP doing home visits, just in case.

Now JB just got bigger and bigger, and fell in love with Anita. She fell for him too, but their paths would diverge when she went to Cambridge to study Medicine. He wasn’t gifted in science, but the things he could do with his hands were unbelievable, he could build things, there was always the smell of soldering iron in Nana’s house. And yes of course Anita loved the way he stroked her hair, and her very heart. He was her’s and if anybody even looked at JB they’d be sorry, she did hold a couple of Black belts by then, as did JB and Taz and Singh. Taz and Singh will be in the Tokyo Olympics in 2020, just look for their warm up JB Tee shirts, they are not supposed to wear them but, who’s brave enough to tell them off. Besides they are Birmingham boys, and Birmingham boys love kebabs from Neelams near the Kings Head, and besides when the kebab sauce dripped the JB Tee shirt was great for mopping it up.

So Anita went to Cambridge to study to be a doctor, but she was going to marry JB, he’d impressed her dad and her uncles by working in their electrical shop since her was 12, fixing the un-fixable. But they did insist he got a degree too if he was to marry into the family. So JB decided on Electrical Engineering, or some other fancy title, it was far more than wire a plug and so forth, if you want to know go study it yourself. Then explain it to me, because I haven’t a clue I’m just a poor writer, and I mean lacking money, not rubbish writer, just in case you are getting any ideas as you are sat in your chair. Any cheek and I’ll plug in your chair to the mains, that’ll give you a Ken Dodd hair style.

So Anita was away, and JB was away too, the boys Jaz and Singh were practising for the Olympics. Nana was all alone in the house, she had fallen asleep in the reclining arm chair that JB had made for her. It replaced the old battered one she used to sit in as she read stories to him, then to Anita and Jaz and Singh too. She had loved the armchair and so did JB, it was like the armchair in Nanny McFee, but obviously bigger as Nana had such a fat arse. So with regret it was replaced, but the stories continued even now they had all grown up. So there was a bump in the night, Nana had fallen asleep in the chair, the house was so warm. JB had totally rewired and insulated it, and there were solar cells on the roof. In fact I lied JB was going to do a PhD in Electrical Engineering, if Anita was going to be a doctor examining him as they lay in bed together, he should be a doctor too, doctor and doctor not just playing doctor and nurses.

So Nana awoke there was a shadow lurking like a ghost in the corner of her living room. Nana pretended to be asleep, she was half frozen with fear in her warm house. She cursed herself, she could have flicked the alarm on, but it was too late now, there was an invader in the house, her burglar alarm was useless. Give me your money you old bitch threatened the burglar. Nana closed her eyes, the burglar had a weapon and was so big, and then she noticed he has 2 others with him. Nana was afraid, but JB had always said he’d protect her, and he never lied, she had brought him up right. He knew right from wrong.

My grandson said he’d always protect me, she said defiantly with a quiver in her voice. He’s no use to you, you’re all alone, we’ve been watching the house. You’re rich we’ve seen all the fancy cars visiting you, so you must have money. Give us your stuff, or we’ll hit you. Nana started to cry, a slow silent tear slipping down her face. She’d die all alone in her own home, beaten up by three big men from the shadows. JB protect me, she whispered. The 3 burglars moved closer, Nana closed her eyes and touched her locket.

Nana, always wear this locket, I’m only as heart beat away, just as Anita is and Taz and Singh, you are all our nanas. Nana smiled, the 3 burglars raised their weapons. Nana squeezed her locket. Force ten from Navorone erupted, or in fact much much more than force ten, more like 19. Wall to ceiling speakers awoke, Hey Jude by the Beatles played on speakers, Mother Mary Come to Me, the force of the speakers, drop kicked the burglars in the chest, a glass case surrounded the armchair, military grade bullet proof glass. JB promised he’s always protect his Nana. From the roof flares lit up the night sky, and ear piercing whistle went out. Every dog for 10 miles heard and would come running, every shop keeper and his Alsatian would come running, or be dragged by the dog. The house was lit up by sports field like lights. It was a nuclear flash of light, PhD in Electrical Engineering or what.

JB looked at his phone. He saw the web camera picture of Nana, safe in the armchair. He pressed speak. Come out with your hands up, the Police are on their way. The burglars spat at the glass case, that was a big mistake, the sensors said under attack, so more flares lit up the night sky. Nana closed her eyes as JB had instructed if ever the unimaginable occurred. Holograms of Jez and Singh appeared amongst all the noise and light. By now the dogs had arrived, the burglars crawled out the house, the noise and light putting the fear of god into them, or the love of Mary via Jude protecting Nana.

The 3 burglars had been robbing the area for a long time, but they had picked the wrong house tonight. The dogs lined up and formed a queue to pee all over them, they were shopkeepers dogs after all. Anita watched the scene from her phone in Cambridge, she smiled she loved her JB, he was already a PhD he was so clever and advanced in his field.

So the next day in a field outside Cambridge Anita said, doctor doctor examine me, so Jeremy Boris did as he was told,being careful of all the stubble.  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

Tinnitus tired

didn't sleep last night due to Tinnitus, then had  to get up early for a dental hospital visit

they Xrayed but did not do the extraction

I was so tired may have appeared Tipsy, though it was just lack of sleep

I maintain my happy exterior, then went to see my pharmacist

No no a guy in a dodgy car etc, a real one with a store

had a natter there, and corrupted his sales girl, telling her where to read my stories

so God help her, 2000 + stories to read if she reads them all

as for the pharmacist 31 years there in his own store

If ever I'm rich I'll get him a date with Trump playing golf

So Donald make a space in your diary for my Pharmacist

Had a nap when I got home


As I'd walked a couple of miles today up and down the longest hospital corridor

in Europe at Dudley Rd and to and from the house

Spotted 20 Chinese looking students being shown around the hospital

They were all very pretty, though thinking about it theu must be from the Philippines

So hello to them, it was me  saying hello in Chinese, so they must have thought who is

the fat silver haired guy.

I also discover that my pharmacist's son wants to be the new Jonathan Miller

so hello to him too, and his mince pieces.

that's all stay happy, they'll be more nonsese in the morning

I bet you'd rather stay in bed....

Michael and the Chink in the Wall

Michael and the Chink in the Wall ©

By Michael Casey

Michael was all alone in the house, he was abandoned, left all alone with just the mice for company. He was the kitchen boy in the Master’s house, he’d fetch and carry and be allowed to sleep in a corner, just like a dog, but a dog would at least have a basket. He was actually the Master’s son, but when the pantry maid had died in labour, Michael was kept in the kitchen, the Master agreeing not to send him to the Workhouse, a promise he kept as the maid died before him.

Being the eldest, Michael should have inherited the house and the fortune, but he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. The non bastard children were in fact very ugly, but the Master had married for a fortune, and not for love. Meanwhile Michael slowly rotted in the kitchen, while snotty noses enjoyed their Victorian life.

Michael would sit and dream on the cold flagstones, just shadows on the wall for company. Sometimes one of Charles Dickens’ stories would appear wrapped up with carrots or turnips. Michael loved Charles Dickens his stories were so good, what with the cliff-hangers, one day Charles Dickens would be famous. The cook just laughed, but she enjoyed listening to Michael reading out the stories while peeled the spuds. That was the only reason she had taught Michael to read, so she could entertain her, she had in fact invented Radio, minus the radio that is, Listen with Mother if you like.

Every night the staff went to the attic to sleep while Michael shivered in a corner, it was a slow death of the spirit apart from Charles Dickens. Michael had to try and fall asleep before the kitchen fire went out, or he would not sleep at all, the cold being so bone chillingly cold.

There was a chink in the wall from the house next door and this was Michael’s tv, without the tv that is. For in the next house everybody was always happy and gay, the servants laughed and even danced. They had a good Master, their fire was always on, the Master liked a warm house, he had made his fortune in India so he liked a warm house.

If Michael squeezed himself against the chink in the wall he could hear the singing and smell the cooking, he could pretend he was with them in the warmth of company and of real warm. There was actually a bit of heat coming from that chink in the wall, Michael loved that house and that kitchen, it was so full of life and joy.

At night Michael fell asleep mumbling the songs that he’d heard from the next door household. In the middle of the night he’d regularly awake, his toes numb with cold, his bum freezing too. So he’d get up and stamp around. Only shadows for company, the one candle in a jar his only illumination. Michael would hold the jar and press it against his body for warmth.

Even the shadows on the wall had pity on him, they would dance about and form faces of people dancing and talking, trying to amuse and console Michael. The very stones cried for him, shadows of tears fell. Michael loved their company in his daily Dark Night of the Soul, a shadow is great company if you have no friends, if you have to decide whether to burn Charles Dickens for warmth or save him so he can warm your soul. Such a choice, warmth of the spirit or warmth of the body.

The same shadows came night after night, they were in fact peopled by stories from Charles Dickens, if your body is so cold, then all that is left is the spark of soul. Or distant smells and laughter coming through the chink in the wall. So your imagination sees things in the dark, you see what you want to see in the cold and dark. You see Hope. You see Love. You see Laughter. You see dancing shadows.

The cook gave Michael a sweet, it was covered in muck and feathers, she’d found it in the street when she’d been to the butchers, a few weeks previously. She had only just remembered it. It was a present for being such a good boy. It was also a goodbye, Michael would be 9 next week so the Master had decided to let Michael find his own way in the world. Michael would have to leave.

The Master was going to buy a puppy for his legitimate children, Alpha the dog would need a space in the kitchen, Michael would have to leave to make room for Alpha the dog. A dog is a man’s, a Master’s best friend after all. The promise to the pantry maid had been kept, 9 years Michael had squatted, now he was man enough to find his own way in the world.

The Master ordered that Michael be locked in overnight and then in the morning when Alpha arrived Michael would be shown the door. Michael stuffed all the Charles Dickens in his pockets, he’s freeze one last night, but Charles Dickens would be part of his new life whatever and wherever that may be.

The walls wept, if only Michael could squeeze through the crack in the wall, if only he could sing and dance with the neighbours, they were having a Christmas Eve celebration. Michael fell asleep dreaming that very same dream. He was dancing and drinking punch, the maids all gave him a dance and a peck on the cheek. They all loved him, he was not the bastard son, unwanted and thrown out to make room for a dog.

Michael danced and laughed all night long, he was so happy, a much loved member of the family. He was smiling in his sleep, clutching Charles Dickens in his hands. That was how they found him in the morning, curled up like a dog, but with a smile on his face, and Charles Dickens’ new story in his hand A Christmas Carol. Michael had died happy in his sleep. But how he got next door through a locked door nobody would ever know, not even the stones would tell. Sometimes all the love you need is a chink in the wall.

*******

I wrote this 4 years ago, I hope it touches you this Christmas
I've written over 2000 stories, will I become the new Dickens?