Joy Pig, dr -1
draftdrafting in progress – turn into fiction, draft 2, drafting pain
[And Finally] and Both of my children were employed – by the ginger bread emporium – Hove, Brighton, England.
I, of course,
I had driven past the new, the sugar-coated pastry venture, to check standards . AND Upon close inspection, the venture that appears entirely suitable for my progeny’s evolution towards the man, womanhood of adultery, in the workforce bee: that is, and is, [the gainful] consideration, in being a bee worker among brother bees, and sisterhood. [BREAKDOWN]
[Here] My son kneads dough mixture with
his knees, endures eleven hour shifts aside the blast oven, under low ceilings and [is] confined appropriately inside his work safety cage. He has twenty-one years old. I agree, agreed, with the witch, the boss lady, when she says (how) and then, that physical labour is most appropriate for his range of skill sets [on display], my gorilla for fattening [she says]. Meanwhile, my daughter, dressed in the Hula uniform of sales, and santa hat – dispenses leaflets, literature, outside the candy stick doorway, under a chocolate bell that tinkles every time a new customer steps inside the bakery premises. Delicious scent of cinnamon drifts from this doorway, attracts customers, distracts from the acrid black cloud of smoke that chimneys from the roof top, past the butcher’s loft, and seaward generally, thank god.
When my boy has completed eleven hours of kneading, he is unlocked a duration, placed on the exercise bicycle. One must work nude – in this heat, he says, and the bike powers billows to the witch’s clay ovens, all the rage, this part of town.
So you get the picture. Kids have jobs at last, and I expect, demand a Christmas present this year-time around. Yet, and blast her crooked teeth, the witch has failed to pay my children any wages. She has run out of money, or something, drunk it all. I am not completely unsympathetic. Who has not spent the tooth fairy’s pennies, the coins, on a replacement half-bottle of gin in their own meagre experience, I say? And I say, well I say, well, we have got no money yet again. Payment element appears to be absent from my offspring’s employment, some cruel figment is this pay, so, so we, household, is penniless until the eighteenth century of December, when my own substantial wages – bonus pay from the poultry slaughterhouse, shall trickle into our vast and shared co operative bank vaults, the account. And witch shall pay my boy, my girl, this time next week or eat them both, possibly, she says. Nobody is quite sure of the situation’s resolution as I write, and presently.
If only my son had become a temporary post man like I suggested way back in November we might be steady, rich in weed, guitar strings, all the necessary accoutrements to the modern lifestyle, going forward, pot noodle. Likewise, and back then, I condemned my daughter’s rejection of the sock shop opportunities at Heathrow airport, this arrogance has finally come home to roost. You fools, I say.
As for myself – the anthology manuscript has departed – to the publisher, according to reports on-line. Seems the publisher too, he too has too, an editor too-too, which is simply wonderful when worn. However, I dread-fear my prose in its rawest form, might be incomprehensible to mortals who are not me, indigestible really like filet americanne of Rotterdam, yuck, or the breakfast conkers my wife prepared last Tuesday morning in her saucepan. The editor also suggested that the authors – me, and the other great writers in the anthology, we might like to update our biographies. I see no point in this avenue. My old biography was probably jolly, or interesting. Currently though, it might read:
‘Dark angel Mat Woolfenstock of death writes for his own pleasure only, and rocks upon a mattress in Brighton attic under bulb, a pencil held in his earhole, screams at the advent calendar he made last year, and is still affixed to the wall by grey duck tape, [the calendar, not he] yet this year’s calendar contains only dry curls of pasta surprise, no chocolate, no chocolate you bastards I got no money,’ he says.
I chew another pasta shell, wear my pants and bra combination from Lovehoney, mark the passing of decades – by scribble into my moleskin notebook for the time capsule apology, and must apologise to you – for my poorly output of late, for my hasty deletions and suchlike, comrades. I have had – been gripped by a mounting hysteria after, apparently, according to the doctor – acquired a bacterial infection to the vas deferens lung, me, from chickens. Let me apologise now for the mid-week blog post about my aching balls, a fairly unseemly episode, I am sorry.
The doctor didn’t like me very much, a reactionary kapo type figure in jumper, even after I showed him my large [I believe so, a personal opinion] testicles, but he, at least, provided me with an antibiotic remedy. I shall stop for now, whittle on later, cheerio my darlings, Matty.