Nik And The Library Book Club Drink Free Coffee

INT: Library basement, early evening.

A stark white room, clean and functional in a converted basement. Above a long, narrow window allows some natural light to fall into the room. In one corner is a coffee machine and stacks of compulsively neat coffee cups, saucers and single serving milks. The foil pull tab of each of the milks points to toward the opposite wall. A dozen chairs are placed in an equally compulsive semi circle all facing toward a projector and screen unit which has been wheeled into a corner. Next to the projector unit is a table containing copies of THE NOVEL IN QUESTION.

In the darkest available corner THE WRITER sits sipping at coffee and staring at the entrance.

ENTER: OLD LADY WITH BAG and NOT AS OLD AS OLD LADY WITH BAG BUT STILL QUITE OLD LADY. They both shuffle toward nearest chairs paying THE WRITER no attention at all. NOT AS OLD AS OLD LADY WITH BAG BUT STILL QUITE OLD LADY pauses just before she sits, glances toward the table containing THE NOVEL IN QUESTION.

NOT AS OLD AS OLD LADY WITH BAG BUT STILL QUITE OLD LADY : Better see what all this is about then.

She picks up a copy of the book. Turns it over. Turns it back over.

NOT AS OLD AS OLD LADY WITH BAG BUT STILL QUITE OLD LADY: 9987?

She frowns and replaces the book.

OLD LADY WITH BAG: One of those hi-fi things is it?

NOT AS OLD AS OLD LADY WITH BAG BUT STILL QUITE OLD LADY: Hi-fi things?

OLD LADY WITH BAG: Yes, those future stories.

NOT AS OLD AS OLD LADY WITH BAG BUT STILL QUITE OLD LADY: Oh, you mean sky-high?

OLD LADY WITH BAG: Do I?

NOT AS OLD AS OLD LADY WITH BAG BUT STILL QUITE OLD LADY: Yes dear.

*Story may have been stolen from events not at all connected with the writer or the book club.

But I did get coffee.

My Confession: A True Story Of Desperation And Free Coffee

I have a confession to make.

It appears I have succumbed to adultery.

Last night, I am ashamed to say, I accepted free coffee from a different kettle.

I've not yet told Disco Kettle this. I am hoping that, perhaps, me broadcasting it to the world will help ease the blow. It'll give DK time to reflect and, of course, it'll give me a chance to offer my explainations without interruption or scalding.

See, the thing is is this.

Last night was truely terrifying. Truely honestly truely. I was shaking and sweating and generally minging with fright and well. I just didn't think.

It was all instictive and although I'll admit that at the time it was wonderful, that for a brief moment it meant the world to me now I just feel - well. Dirty. And guilty. And I can't quite shift the taste of the chocolate bourbon, the haunting tingling in my fingers from the curve of that mug...

And I am sorry. Deeply sorry.

And I'm blaming the libarians.

They tricked me.

"Let's show you round" they said.

"It's really a beautiful building" they said.

"Have doen this sort of thing before?" they said.

They were right of course. They did show me round. It is a beautiful building. And no, I'd never done this sort of thing before.

I passed the poster on the stairs on the way down to the public library:

"Middlesborough Central Library
7-9pm
Entry £2

Two first-time young authors read from their new novels and talk about their publishing experiences so far.

Alice de Smith’s new novel Welcome to Life is a coming of age novel set in the 1980’s.
Nik Jones’ first novel, 9987, is a dark menacing drama about young man who works in a video
shop who goes off the rails.

The authors are part of New Writing North’s Read Regional 2009
campaign."

And, DK, before you start arguing I haven't done this sort of thing before. I've never had to appear at a library before. I've never had to talk to people about my experiences as a published author before.

I've never had to read my work in public before.

Never.

I've had an actor do it, and he was really good.

I've done it on the radio before. But that was over the phone. At early o'clock. And I had slippers on and my Magic Dressing Gown. And coffee from you, DK. Coffee from you. And no one was watching except for the cat. Who, I'll admit, seemed less than impressed.

But reading in public?

Never.

And I was nervous. And I didn't know what to say. And I was garbling. And it was awful. And I couldn't hold the book open and stand up. And I couldn't turn the pages. And it was all going so horribly wrong.

And one of the lovely librarian ladies handed me a coffee. And I spied a plate of chocolate bourbons.

And I just didn't think.


I am sorry, DK.

Really sorry.


But, if it makes you feel any better I think it helped. As awful as my beginning was I think I got better. I got polite and much appreciated applause after each mini reading I did. I almost managed to stay on track when answering questions.

And I brought you back a signed copy of Welcome to Life.

Do you forgive me?

Can you forgive me?

I could descale you...

On Returning To Juggling My Monkies

Ah... Back at work. Again.

I'm not expecting any sympathy here. I know full well how lucky I am getting holidays to write/read/drink/stroke my Disco Kettle (and no, that's not a euphemism). But even so. Mondays are Mondays and the first Monday in a while is a shock to the system.

This Monday is still going on, a full 24 hours after it started.

Increasingly my Mondays last for days.

Increasingly my Mondays are tougher to get through.

Increasingly my Mondays are creeping into my weekends now. A long, slow recovery from the previous week. A sinking, heavy feeling in my chest at the prospect of the week to come.

I am dropping monkeys.

Monkey blood on the walls. No ice-cream in sight...

For example. A meeting on Monday. At 8:30. In the morning. A Breakfast meeting. No bacon provided. No toast. No cereals or pastries. No coffee.

At least not for me.

Boss: You haven't yet passed on your detailed, lesson by lesson, homework by homework, plan of action for the whole of the year.

Me: I know.

Boss: (not smiling, silent, tapping pen against her clipboard. Yes. Clipboard.)

Me: I have a vague overview you can have, and I have a list of assessments with deadlines. How's that?

Boss: Not detailed enough. Why isn't it done?

Me: Because I've been teaching it.

Boss: Teaching?

Me: And marking (lies lies lies).

Boss: Marking?

Me: And then planning on how best to build on what we've done, or how to approach tricky bits in new ways.

Boss: Planning?

Me: Yes.

Boss: Well I think your priorities need thinking about.

Me: So not the teaching bit?

Boss: No. I want your paperwork done.

Monkey bleeds on floral carpet.

So there you go. Teaching: It's all about the paperwork.

And after I'd done so well smuggling my piles of paperwork out to the recycling bins undercover of darkness. Buggah.

Ah well. At least I'm making good use of my time now eh? As we speak I'm training up my Marking Year 7 Student (now year 8, and progressing well into planning and form filling out) to write schemes of work.

It's longer, I admit, in the short term. The training and support needed to train a 12 year old to write complex and detailed schemes of work, but hey. That's what I do. I teach. Besides, it'll be worth it in the long run.

Right. So. Almost lesson 4. Where's me Monkeys gone?

Juggling Without Monkeys, Plus Disco Kettle Packs His Bags

Me and my brother have a dream.

It is  glorious dream.

An ambitious dream.

It is a dream that cold change the world (or at least the service industry)

It is a dream the RSPCA are unlikely to share.

We dream of Monkeys.

Waiter Monkeys. 

Waiter Monkeys who Juggle.

We'd make a Mint.

But more importantly it would help me out. Cos I'm not much of a juggler. I juggle three ok. As long as the stuff isn't breakable obviously.

See, problem is is that maybe. Maybe. I took on too much.

Firstly I'm still working. Suprising I know - people haven't discovered me as yet. Secondly there is the MA, which is fun - but still, it's a lot of work. It is, horribly, more important to me than work.

Lastly there are new and exciting developments in my personal life. This takes up a lot of my time. And I'm not complaing, really I'm not. It is, in fact, priority number one. It's proper mint, how.

And yeah, I know. I said I could juggle three. I remember, it was only a few lines ago. But, see, problem is - they're all breakable aren't they?

I could cope with working breaking - but it would bugger up two and three wouldn't it?

So. 

Me and my brother have a dream.

We dream of Juggling Monkeys. And they could teach us so much.

Plus:

Disco Kettle Packs His Bags

Me and DK got ourselves a new place.

Oh yes, I'll let you know when we can afford the heating to have a warming... see what I did there?

Of Possibly Being A Bit Mental

Year 11 Boy: Sir? When I'm not at school...

Me: Yes, Year 11 Boy?

Year 11 Boy: When I'm not at school, do you still exist?

Me: Probably not no. You're homework still exists though...

And as bizarre as this was for a conversation starter it did stir up the old grey matter a bit. For the vast majority of the world I do not, in fact, exist. At no point do I cross their minds, at no point do they stumble across me in the street, in a bar, in a gutter. I am not a real person. To people who've never met me, I do not not exist. And, in all fairness, even some people I have met question how real a person I might be.

Which is sort of why I'm grown a bit more comfortable blogging. I started off only talking about the book - cos I wasn't comfortable with anything else. And now look? Philosophy. Sort of.

Anyway - I like this cos most people who read my blog don't know me. Have never met me. Have no idea what I look like, are unaware that I'm typing wearing a Dangermouse T-Shirt and shorts beneath a Big Winter Dressing Gown.

I might live on your street. I might be your neighbour. (Sinister no?) Worse still: I might educate your children (duhduhduhdummmmmmmmm) Terrifying isn't it?

Unless, of course, Year 11 Boy is correct. Unless of course I don't exist. This whole thing could be an entirely randomly selected group of letters accidentally created by some bug in the Blogspot brain.

Would explain a lot...

Oh, me thinks I hear a *Bing*

Or do I?

Hiding Behind Piles of Green Books

So... another back-at-work post, once more from behind a pile of Big Green Exercise Books.

I'm hiding or, perhaps, I am camouflaged. Blending in seamlessly with my academic surroundings, child's exercise book open on the desk in front of me, no one just has realised their mistake. No yet has spotted I am a fraud...

It astounds me that I am allowed to do this. I teach, stood at the front of the room, or wandering about making suggestions and corrections and, occasionally, fairly poor jokes. And all the time I am convinced I am about to be found out.

At some point there will be a knock at the door and all this will be over.

I've got the right degree, I've got the right teaching qualifications, I can talk the talk and generally I think I'm pretty good at what I do... But I'm blatantly not an adult. I'm a twenty something year old child.

I am playing hide and seek with my Head of Department, crouched behind the Big Green Books. How mature am I?