ISSUE 28

No Literary Merit? (Editorial)	Phil Boyd
This Side Of The Fence (Story)	James McCulloch
NORTHERN COLLEGE WRITERS
Jerusalem Phase 2 (Poem)	Arthur Adlen
Afternoon	Arthur Adlen
Heat (Poem)	Phil Wildin
When (Poem)	Phil Wildin
Death Of A Young Collier's Wife (Poem)	Brian Asquith
The Light of Experience	Iain McDonald
WORKER WRITERS AGAINST THE BOMB
Out of Kilter (Story)	Jack Withers
Hope Chapel (Poem)	Anne Thomas
Quattra Doom (Story)	John Walsh
NEWS FROM THE FEDERATION
Northern Gay Writers (Article)	John Gowling
Sexuality (Poem)	Elaine Powell
Suffering In Silence (Article)	Write First Time
The National Hospital (Autobiography)	Alice Linton
The Shelter (Poem)	Geddes Thomson
A Wet Sunday in May (Poem)	Sally Flood
Old Sailor Boys (Poem)	Keith Whitelaw
LIVERPOOL WORKER WRITERS
What A Piece Of Work Is Man (Story)	Jimmy McGovern
They Bate Us For Years (Poem)	Maria O'Reilly
Mrs. Newlyrich (Poem)	Stan Clare
A Letter To Jo - One Year After The Event	Kim Rogers
Mr. Claus (Poem)	Tom McLennan
Mass Unemployment & Mothers In Liverpool (Article)	Marjorie Jones
Just Another Day (Story)	Tracie Heaton
To The Unwritten Poem (Poem)	Olive Rogers
Gis a Tissue (Poem)	Deirdre Hanlon
Gran's (Poem)	Chris Darwin
The Best Days Of Your Life (Story)	Joan Batchelor
LETTERS
Voices in Decline	Wendy Whitfield
Not Interesting	Lotte Moos
The Widow Of A Famous Man (Poem)	Anne Johnson
Road Block (poem)	Mike Jenkins
Stop A While (Poem)	Dave Hutchins
Before (poem)	Cath Cairncross
REVIEWS
Marketing	Ailsa Cox
Union Street	Ruth Allinson
Men	Phil Boyd
Pass the Valium Martha	Ailsa Cox
Alienation	Paul Ray
Not Expecting Miracles	Kathleen Horseman
LISTINGS
One Life Is Not Enough	Ailsa Cox
Left In The Dark
A Far Cry From 1945
Avoiding Institutions
Diary Of A Divorce
Cover photo	Eddie Johnson

VOICES 28

Old readers will notice a number of changes in this issue of VOICES, starting with its new, larger format, but extending to a more varied range of contents. In addition to the usual fare of stories and poems, we have a letters section (to be swollen as the news gets around), more reviews (ditto), plus features on worker writers in Liverpool and at the Northern College, and articles from literacy students and the Northern Gay Writers. New readers, of whom we hope there are more than a few, may wonder what all the fuss is about.
The changes have taken place as a result of long discussions within the Federation of Worker Writers.
The idea has been to present some of the variety that exists in working class writing which has partly been overlooked by VOICES in the past. We have also made changes in the way the magazine is edited. To your left you can see the increased number of names involved, and also a statement about what contributors to VOICES can expect of us. We look forward to hearing from you what you think about the new magazine, and ways it can be made even better (impossible!). In addition to stories, poems, letters, photos and cartoons, we are looking for articles on any aspect of working class writing and books to review.

In 1979, the Arts Council issued its notorious judgement on the work of the Federation of Worker Writers: 'successful in a social and therapeutic sense but not by literary standards.' No doubt when this is recalled at the forthcoming Federation _ AGM, hackles will duly rise followed by smiles of satisfaction at having finally screwed out of them some token recognition.

DOUBLE STANDARDS

The Arts Council changed its mind under duress. We secured the support of recognised literary figures, space in the liberal press, and bandied about the names of worker writer successes such as Joe Smythe and Vivian Usherwood (temporarily forgetting that we weren't the launching pad for a few writers into stardom?)
The turning point was the report the Arts Council commissioned by Blake Morrison (among other things a reviewer for the TIMES, that well known champion of working class struggle), in which we discovered that our work was of a quality of 'any comparable body of work'.
But is it sufficient to have won recognition on their terms? After years of public wrangling, we are no nearer to knowing what the difference is between our own criteria and the Arts Council's.

THE FEDERATION LINE

The sorts of argument we have developed were outlined in the afterword of WRITING: 'Increasingly many active people recognise that the essentially economic struggle for equality waged by the unions and other political groupings of the left - while crucial - is not enough.'
And: 'As we realise the gulf between the economic drives of capitalist society and everything we can relate to in immediate terms, we seize the opportunity to work at a local level.'
And, on the origin of the original Federation members: 'None of the groups represented in this collection has grown out of an exclusive concern for 'literature', 'creative writing', or 'history'....'
And: 'Sales figures show healthy readerships in areas where book buying and reading haven't appeared to be significant spare time activities.'
Various points become clear: a) a political justification and explanation of working class writing; b) an emphasis on the local; c) the connection between working class writing and life; d) the interrelation of different sorts of writing: autobiography, creative writing, etc; e) the link between writers and readers.
These arguments won't create waves within the Federation. From the other side of the class barricade, however, read: 'useful in a social and therapeutic sense.'

GOOD WORKING CLASS WRITING

On standards, WRITING is more evasive: 'No attempt has been made so far to define what is meant by working class writing ...... while we do not see good bourgeois writing and good working class writing as utterly distinct,...we are agreed that they are recognisably different. '
Some in the Federation believe we shouldn't make judgements: everything is equally valid (as long as the writer can present impeccable class credentials). But the fact is that we make judgements all the time about our own writing, and while there are people who have only just started writing for whom ideas of 'literary excellence’ may not exactly be helpful, there are other, more experienced writers who have very clear ideas about what they think is good and bad. Nobody writes in a vacuum. If we are to progress as a movement some discussion about a common approach is needed.
There are other difficulties. The range of our work is huge. How do you compare, say, the work on the threat of nuclear war (see pages 6 - 9), with Alice Linton's account of the National Hospital (p. 12). But avoiding the issue creates (or covers up) problems. In my group, several people have expressed hostility towards people's history (not enough writing about life today), or work by literacy students (what have they got in common with us?). One purpose of starting a serious discussion about standards would be to shed some light on these differences.

VOICES

At VOICES, it has to be said, we rarely discuss standards. Our talk is usually at the level of 'creaming off the best of the worker writer movement'. So, when selecting work for the new VOICES we considered Mass Unemployment & Mothers in Liverpool (page 19), while most of us thought it a powerful expression of Marjorie Jones' experience, others felt that compared to some of the more polished work on offer, it didn't merit inclusion. In the end none of us can feel very happy with the compromise of publishing it simply because it represents a type of work produced within the Federation.
Members of at least one Federation group have complained that we favour work by middle class or educated writers over work by 'ordinary' worker writers. In this issue the poems by Geddes Thomson or Cath Cairn-cross might be examples of this sort of work. My feeling is that these poems read no differently from, say, some of those from Northern College, and that it is dangerous to base our judgements on the character of the writers rather than the writing. We should value all work that speaks to working class readers.
And it has been suggested that because the editorial group consists largely of people with a further education, our tastes are unrepresentative. Lately more 'ordinary' worker writers have been involved, including a Second Chance to Learn group in Liverpool. Any difference in literary taste has hardly been noticeable. Either the old editorial group had it right; or because there has been no discussion of alternative standards, we all fall back on the same (middle class) values.

NOT AN ACADEMIC ARGUMENT

This lack of discussion has a number of results that makes this more than an academic argument. We tend to play things safe, going for simplicity of style and immediacy of subject. From one point of view it means that Our work is accessible. From another it means that we are confined to a restricted, conservative area where there is little room for experiment and the subjects are limited to a statement of the 'issues' .that generally affect us.
We assume that the worker writer is always like the bloke (or woman: no sexism thank youj) next door for whom writing is an extension of other parts
of their lives. In fact we all know that there are working class writers as obsessed with their work as any middle class writer. Within the movement there are undoubtedly both sorts. The danger is that the ones who see writing as the main thing in their lives are alienated by our cloth cap image. At least two working class writers have left my group feeling that the politics of the Federation add up to an apology (sorry it's not very good, we're only working class). For others who remain within the movement, there can be a feeling of isolation and demoralisation when they attempt to break out of the mould of social realism.
We tend to concentrate upon the subjects and assume that good writing is just a matter of finding the right turn of phrase. Lotte Moos, in a letter printed on page 26, suggests a writer may dry up altogether once 'he has exhausted his own, after all limited store of autobiography without having acquired an interest in the business of writing.'
Earlier in her letter, Lotte deplores the lack of poems in VOICES with a clear political message. Here I disagree. For me, a poem such as 'Hope Chapel' (p. 8) speaks far more of the fears we all have of nuclear war (because it places then in an everyday context) than the numerous other, more direct poems we received with titles such as 'Jobs Not Bombs'. Good poetry is not produced by versifying a political slogan or everyday experience, but by the use of words to discover for the writer and suggest to the reader deeper truths and feelings.

FUTURE DISCUSSION

Literary standards should be the product of serious and sensitive conversations between writers and readers, designed not to make academic judgements, but to enable individual writers to improve their work. The pages of VOICES are open to letters and articles, but these are not enough. We need more direct contacts between members of different workshops. The obvious place to start is at the April AGM, but we need other, regular opportunities throughout the year, something the incoming executive ought to make a priority of for this and a host of other reasons.

This article is a personal contribution and does not necessarily express the views of the whole editorial group.

A railway line, infinite twin barriers, divided our group of houses from the rest of the village. A strip of golf-course, with sand bunkers like scabs, cut us off from the sea. We lived discreetly, near nothing, far from everything, isolated and neglected, in a disused army camp, rows of abandoned tin houses, all curvy corrugated walls, rats and stone floors.

When Ma and Pa were fighting, feuding about money mostly, hot angry words, long sullen quiets, I'd wander off, forgotten, they would never notice, too busy.
Sometimes I'd lie looking down on the railway line, hear the early rumble rumble, watch the confused faces skim by, going south, going north, far away, fast. When the train yammered into the distance, near-silence would return, never complete, there was always the sea, it was just across the golf course, you could, hear it, feel it, taste it, always the sea-sound, that and the sea-gulls. Mostly I ignored the trains, went to the golf course, on the other side of the fence.

Ma would shout, nag about the golf course, you'll need to tell him, the boy'll get into trouble going over there, always wandering off, you need to control him, he never listens to me. Pa said, keep away from there, it's not for the likes of us, you'll get hit by a ball, you shouldn't go there, those people are not like us, keep away, they're different.

I used to creep, crawl under the fence, into another world, me and Ralph from next door, into ferns and brambles, nettles and high grass, rough and green, green and bright. Looking through the fence at the thin stretch of golf course between us and the slate sea, looked like a picture, what television must look like, we thought, then we slid into it, became part of it, breathed deep exciting breaths. Even the air was different, the other side of the fence.
I'd scream when Pa hit me, cry and yell, it hurt. I told you didn't I, warned you to stay away, you've no right in there, it's private, people like us got no business in there, stay in your own bit, where you belong.
Ralph and me went to watch trains, nothing else to do, he'd been beaten too, we didn't say much, just watched one train, chewed grass, waited, watched next train, between times only the sound of the sea. The sea, just across the golf course.

We crouched under the front window of my house, listened. Can't help not working, it's not my fault, what can I do, some people got plenty, plenty money, keep it to themselves though, look over there and see, nothing to do all day but hit a ball around a bit of grass with a stick, waste of time.
We left, no point in staying, we heard it all before, same at his house, and all the others, nothing else to do, we went to the golf course, crept under the fence.
Two of them were playing near us, talking, smiling, we listened, they used the same words as Pa, like when he hit his thumb with a hammer, but they sounded different, loud but not angry, different. I didn't understand them, they talked very loud, laughing a lot, we hardly breathed in case they heard us, they were not like us, they were different, like Pa said.

They went away, we found two white balls in the long grass, nobody around so we went into the sand, like a beach without water, soft and dry. Together we threw the balls into the sand, then one at a time, playing hunt-the-ball, nobody came. Ralph plugged his ball in, 'deep into the scarred sand, then I threw mine hard, trying to hit Ralph's ball, but he was in the sand. The ball hit Ralph behind the ear. I watched, laughed a bit, shivered, as the ball bounced into the sand, Ralph staggered like he was playing best-fall, his knees buckled, he toppled down, slowly down to the sand, a red blotch spread over the dry surface, he twitched then lay still. The blood ran down his neck, it was bright red, I'd never seen so much blood before, except in the sheep got caught on the barbed wire fence. Down his neck it ran, clogging his hair, staining the sand, looked like the tide came in, the bloody tide. I dipped my fingers in the blood, it was sticky as tar, it tasted like the sea.

Wiping my fingers on my legs, I cried, ran for help, shouting, crying like a baby, Ralph's hurt, Ralph's hurt bad.
You shouldn't have gone in there, Ma said, knew something would happen, you'd no right in there, you need to punish the boy, he needs to be taught a lesson, he's got to keep this side of the fence.
Pa grabbed my shoulder, grabbed it hard, hit me, I cried with the pain, that and the fear, made me cry and yell really loud.

Locked in my room, I shouted and bawled, face all tears and snot, I just let them dry, nobody listened. I cried a long time before I shut up. I put my ear to the door, could hear Ma and Pa shouting, arguing again. Ma said, I knew he'd get into some bother, wandering off, why'd you let him, you don't care about controlling the boy, just hanging around all day, let'n him do as he pleases, he'll turn out like you, weak.
And Pa said, you're pleased something happened, you always want to be right, nag, nagging all day, not my fault he went in there, the fence should be higher, that would keep him out.
Ma said, he'll need to say sorry to Ralph, in the morning, need to learn good manners, better not go over the fence again.

Next morning, knocked on his door, sorry Ralph my mouth said, he blinked from below a white bandage, never spoke. I turned away, not sorry, I liked it over there, it was different, not like this side of the fence.

James McCulloch was born in Ayrshire. He lives in Glasgow where he has worked as a postman, in an animal house, and as a lab technician.

The Northern College writers group, which has lately broadened its interests to take in other art forms, draws its members from students who attend courses at the college designed to offer them a second chance to improve their education. They are in the process of building links with the local community.

The disarmament conference got nowhere was the general consensus of opinion. As was expected. The delegates agreed to differ. Too much was at stake and the problems seemed insurmountable. It was still a divisive world. But they had agreed to meet again. That was at least something.
The sky was like a sea of blood that evening as the delegates left the building.
Setting western sun.
Exhausted though they were, the more sensitive of the delegates noticed it. The others did not.
Security of course was tight but not tight enough as obviously it never can be. Several young and disillusipned people fired their rocket-launchers all at the same time in a murderous hail from the rooftop of a nearby skyscraper and then, a few seconds later, leapt to their collective deaths.
At the end of the day the slaughter was enormous.
So said the newspapers.
The clock ticked remorselessly on.

I need you, said the young man to the fashion-conscious young woman, shortly before he stuck the bread-knife deep into her soft body. I need you so badly that I can't live without you. His eyes were wild and restless, his hair was long and shaggy. But it's impossible, he went on. Impossible. And we both know it. There is no hope for the world, or for me. There is no work to be had, no house to be had. No future. I've failed my exams. I've been judged a failure. I am a failure. I would never be able to provide for you, or for a family. I hate this society and all it stands for, and where it's heading. Its values are not mine. It is concerned about things and not about people. And the masses are conditioned to it and love it. It's depressing. I see no way forward. Mediocrity is paramount. I see darkness up ahead. I can't bear it. I must end it. So, goodbye, my love. Goodbye.
Night closed in fast. The littered banks of the river were deserted. A dead cat, blackened with oil, floated past, legs and inflated belly pointed obscenely to the sky.
No one heard the screams.
Deaf city.

After he had pressed the button yet again, the bomber-pilot banked his plane away from the scene of devastation and returned to base.
And so how did it go? asked his squadron-leader. Hmh? Maximum effect?
Not quite, replied the bomber-pilot. But near enough. Near enough.
Nothing untoward happened though? Nothing went wrong?
No, nothing went wrong, said the bomber-pilot removing his gloves. But if you'll excuse me I'll need to go and wash my hands. They're filthy. Absolutely.
A jet blasted across the sky. No one seemed to notice.
They were hardened to it all by now.
No sooner was he released than the prisoner was back again in the courtroom for robbing and murdering a wealthy businessman.
Twelve long years inside doesn't seem to have taught you a thing, said the judge sternly to the prisoner. About discipline, decency or freedom.
The prisoner was silent.
It was as if he was not listening. His gaze was fixed on a blood-red rose.
It kept changing its shape.
In the fleeting sunlight.
Germ-warfare establishment. Outside the electrified fence. Two protesters.
"We're wasting our time. Getting nowhere..
No we're not.
Singing and chanting.
And ensuring that they know we object?
Observing the law. Being non-violent.
Which you obviously don't agree with, seemingly.
Yes, now I don't. Once I perhaps did but now I don't.
So what's your alternative?
Be as violent as they are. That's the only thing they understand. All this Christian crap about love and peace gets nowhere. To them it's a joke.
Change at the point of a gun, eh?
That's right.
That's fascist you mean.
Fascist? Fascist? Obviously you don't know what the word means. Go study history. Or examine what's happening round about you. Or shall I tell you the story of my father who was killed fighting against fascism?"
Lorry loads of police began to arrive.
And barking dogs.
The small army of protesters raised their voices in song. And their banners in the air.
A man tied to a chair in a cellar.
At long last they remove his blindfold and he blinks in the glare of the lamp.
Masked figures beyond.
It is a nightmare, he thinks. His stomach churns. His body aches.
And they are still silent.
Psychological warfare, he thinks. A kind of menace. They are trying to break me. They are monsters. Unhappy monsters. Political psychopaths. Destroyers of systems. Malcontents. Ideologists. Misguided ideologists.
He is forced to talk.

Who are you? What is it you. want of me? My money? It is not my fault that I am rich. The system allows it. It is legal. I'm a respected member of the community. And a politician to boot, as you no doubt know. I care. Charity is greatly indebted to me. It's down in the books. In black and white. Ask anyone you like. And I help the church a lot. I wouldn't say I was a Christian but I help a lot. I am greatly respected by the hierarchy. Most consider me their friends. I am often overwhelmed by
their kindnesses. True Christians they are. True Christians, yes.
Bile rose in his throat. Sweat was icy on his spine. His legs were trembling uncontrollably.
A gun was pressed against his temple.
Before shutting his eyes tight he saw a rat appear in a corner.
It was a nightmare.

The money was okay. He was being paid to kill. After a time it was quite easy and you no longer thought too
much about it. The first time was the worst. After that it got progressively easier. It was the bullet after all that did it and not oneself. Pressing a trigger. Same as in the films. Dead easy, actually. Kids' play.
And besides they were terrorists.
He was no assassin.
It wasn't too bad a life, when you think about it. A man's life it was.
In the army.
Ultimately they got round the conference-table again. But this time on a boat in the ocean. Greater security of course. Space had been considered but rejected. Too remote from reality, they said. From our roots. -It would be thinking in a void, something we must avoid. And besides, space would be impracticable.
And terrifying.
It was too much of a risk.
Too many lives were at stake.
Absolute security was the criterion.
Despite the heavy swell and the uneasiness within, the delegates felt relatively at ease.
The sky and the ocean filled with blood in the setting sun.
Even before the bomb went off.
Few remembered when it happened, for there were few remaining and few had understood in any case.
Kill, over-kill and saturation. A balance. Of terror.
Few saw it as a general sickness. The curtain had been a dark and heavy one and most had hidden behind it.
And now there was oblivion. Only oblivion.
And wind and dust.

Jack Withers left school at 14 and has worked in a garage, as an electrician, youth worker and librarian. He is active in the Peace Movement.

It's Sunday morning and I'm looking out of my upstairs bedroom window at happy neighbours, who are cleaning their cars or hanging out freshly washed clothes to dry. And some have already put neglected lawnmowers to use. One or two look up, and seeing me, they wave, and then shrug their shoulders when I fail to return their waves and go back to doing whatever they were doing. The sun is shining and its rays blanket the area into instant summer, making the red brick houses reflect a comforting glow of warmth. A nearby canal pretends to be made of glass. A winding mirror snake and on its skin floats a wooden rainbow, moving with the grace and smoothness of a skilled ice-skater.

THREE MINUTES TO GO:
More people are appearing now, pruning themselves, straightening ties and hats, grouping together then setting off for church. Watching them are happy children, until bored with the spectacle, run up and down the road, kicking a ball and chasing a dog. Smiling. Laughing. Getting dirty. Oblivious to the gleaming cars until a shout limitates their playground. 'Hoy, get off that car, I've just washed it. '

TWO MINUTES TO GO:
Across the road, a car draws up, stops and spills out its passengers, who fall into handshakes and hugs, 'out of town friends on a visit, long time no see'. It made me wonder if any of my friends were at this very moment travelling to visit me. Someone else has just come out to sunbathe and another has turned to the first page of a new book. While up above the clouds paint white Picasso's onto giant blue background, and the bright colours of our feathered friends skim below its canvas, in search of food or perhaps a place to rest. I always wondered if the noise they made as they flew over my house, was an argument over food or just simple conversation, that only they can understand. I watched them zig-zag on invisible rails of force, circle and then finally dive and dart out of my sight and into someone else's.

ONE MINUTE:
Suddenly, a radio bursts into life, making some neighbours retreat indoors mumbling quiet curses to themselves. At the same time the radio influenced others to accompany the broadcast and to sing along with the melody. Their out of tune voices crippling the original harmony into a subdued background noise. Land of Hope and Glory will never sound the same again. An angry shout and the radio is silenced. It's funny how time seems to go slower when you're watching it, waiting. Drifting voices from passing strangers mention my name. "A writer lives there, have you read his book?" "Yes, I have as a matter of fact, and I believe he's starting on another one soon."

THIRTY SECONDS:
Huh, another book, how? When I have no pen in my hand, no ideas in my head and no time to think. What's wrong with the world? Have they all gone mad? I mean, they all must have heard it. Surely they must know what's happening. What's going to happen. Why do they pretend, disbelieve, ignore the obvious? It's over. Everything is finished. Forget your gardens and your dirty cars. They are not important now. Nothing is. It's too late for church and praying. We should have prayed years ago.

TWENTY SECONDS:
It's too late to do anything. Can't you understand? Didn't you hear? Do they all seriously believe it's a practise, or worse - a joke? God, how I wish they were all right, but I know they are not.

TEN SECONDS:
Am I the only one frozen in fear? Unable to speak. Unable to move. Unable to cry.

FIVE SECONDS:
Am I the only one who heard the four minute warning or have I imagined it all? Yes, that must be it. I've imagined it. There has been no warning. Why else would everyone appear so calm and normal? I've been imagining the whole.....

An article from the 'Sun' newspaper.
Regulars in two village pubs knew exactly what to do when a siren signalled the start of a nuclear war.......they went right on drinking.
The four-minute warning, howling accidentally from a siren at a top-secret Army weapons range, did not even cause a rush for last orders.
True, there was a moment's hesitation over the pints at the White Hart
in Great Wakering, Essex..... until someone suggested it was a burglar alarm.
Up the road at The Exhibition, landlord Terry Harding said: "No one paid any attention, even though it was a bit deafening."
Parish Councillor Edwin Adcock said: "People round here don't scare easily."

Although ours is a gay group, therefore vaguely something to do with the sexual origin of why folk meet, there seems to be much consternation in the material over who not to go to bed with, with the bisexuals trying to defend their ground, and the 'all-gays' now saying it's not enough to be 'bisexual', that's a cop-out.
However despite debit side the group is worth while if only cos TV and movies and Mary Whitehouse and darling friends do nothing for us, apart from suggest we molest children. Gay people HAVE TO read to READ their culture or discover their lack of it. There is a big big space where POSITIVE GAY WRITING should be.

Secondly, positively, our group is one of the few non-alcoholic, non-commercial gay groups in town, and is a big chance to talk about your experiences and your life. I mean so what you have to do it in from of men, women, bisexuals5 but one thing's for sure we are altogether because we are gay, like black people have something in common with each other.

I am sceptical to the extent that I would see the group as consciousness raising, you know either for gays or wider society. Naturally we do want other views of life other than of factory floor white guys, but the aim of the group is not so to be a peep zoo or to create a highly politicized elite, nor to do an acrobatic stand between the polarisations of bisexuality, gay men and lesbians.

Manchester is a good place for Northern Gay Writers, it's 40 miles from everywhere up north and about half the population of Britain live in 100 mile radius, I'd guess. On the gay scene too it's a regional capital, with all its commercial gay scene.

I feel the group is going fine, as a group of writers writing about their experiences at the hands of a homophobic society. We have thirteen members, two envelopes of material going round between Manchester, Bradford, Leeds, Sheffield, Chesterfield, Oldham, Stalybridge, Leigh; and we also have five Manchester members, attendance at fortnightly meetings runs between three and five people. This really is a sufficient workable number for writers at any one time I feel, whom unlike musicians and actors do not need the whole damned cast or orchestra there on the night, every workshop.

During August we have read to Manchester Gay Centre (40 people) and Manchester Gay Workshop (30 people) (they chat about issues affecting gay people ie drink, police harassment, more drink, sexual politics, gay writing, and more drink). At both readings we quit the floor about nine o'clock had a discussion with the audience about what did they think of the writing and what do they think about how gay writ should be, how it could be tailored etc.

In February and March would like to tour Yorkshire and Lancashire to the small town gay groups who hold coffee evenings, and club nights; and we would read to them. We all want to conduct our book sales in clubs and pubs, I mean you’ve got to go where the people are and it's this theraputic side of our writing which I see crucially important. Most writers, outside of worker-writers are too damned aloof, they think they have a God given right.
We do not like overtly sexual material, though inadvertently we've got served up with it, but there's rubbish like that being served up without us having to leap on the cart; but instead over the last six months since July we have insisted on writing about gay themes, so that we are not merely duplicating Commonword's work, we did not want to become a gay tea and bun group, that met to discuss water colours or bird watching, we wanted our writing to have some 'consciousness raising' quality. Also it's a matter of market. You may be able to sell Shirley Bassey in a gay pub but poems on tenements or vases of daffodils is unlikely, so we have had to tailor work.
For our anthology we have a story from Sheffield about the difference between being gay and just being homosexual, one about when Leeds gay group unwittingly attract a hustler (I'd have straightened him out); some celebrations of being gay/ infatuation from Chesterfield/ Bradford; picking up the gay pieces after married life (Tame-side).

Our group includes one writer who has had a book published by Gay Men's Press down south, we have no qualms about links with established 'come-out' gay writers, cos gay writers certainly need solidarity and to be in a group support situation because publishing 'gay' in this society of ours (better than some others) is, to be quite frank, more suicidal and dangerous than deep sea diving.
Our future plans (money, honey) include:
* gay anthology
* writing tour of gay north
* encouraging bisexuals
* encouraging women
* starting our own newsletter
* cracking other publishers ie
* Gay News, writing competitions, Mancunian Gay, Gay Men's Press;
* being nicer and more reassuring to one another
* having our next Manchester get together
* bringing more gay writers out of isolation in the big, big north.

In October in Manchester five of us attended a gay writers national conference in Manchester, you had to pay three pound to get in, for two days.

Northern Gay Writers was started by members of Commonword Workshops. An anthology of their work and a novel by John Gowling will be published this summer. See page 31 for a review of 'Alienation' by a member of the group.

This article is reprinted from WRITE FIRST TIME, the national newspaper by and for Adult Literacy students.
There is no average age for people who come to literacy projects, which shows that the problem has been around for a very long time.

With the start of adult literacy programmes in the last few years the problem has been highlighted. Most of the people who come forward are from working class backgrounds. The problem is not just confined to the working class but the middle class seems to be able to overcome it with more opportunities. This highlights the double standard in our education system.

Here are the attitudes of three people attending one literacy project, the age group is mixed.
"Looking back, I had problems changing over from the i.t.a. system of English at the age of 8. Living in inner-Liverpool, the houses we lived in kept being demolished and I kept changing schools. There seemed no overall planning of my education. I seemed to have no contact with my teachers."
"Coming from a large family, my main problem was whether or not I had shoes to go to school. There was no communication between my family and school. We had an average of 45 a class and the teacher could not keep control of the class, never mind teach. I feel very bitter about the waste of my ten years of what was, to me, torture."

"At 11 we were segregated; all the bright kids went to colleges, the rest were left in a rundown school with bad teachers. We spent the next few years at the same desks doing nothing. I would have accepted this in my ignorance, but the last year we moved to a newly built school and then it dawned on me - seeing all that I had missed out on. At 15 I left, hating all the bastards that had closed their eyes."
The double standard in education that applied to us as children is still with us now as adults. It is easy to go to a night class for painting, woodwork, car maintenance, cookery and other hobbies. Why? Local Authorities are willing to pay teachers to take night classes like these. Yet with so many unemployed teachers no one is willing to pay for one-to-one basic education and they drag their heels forming small classes. We don't want a hobby or a pastime. What we want is our right - to be able to read and write in a literate society. Is this too much to ask? Because we lack the basic skills we don't have the work opportunities that others enjoy. Yet there are several million of us paying taxes and rents. Why are individual tutors not paid when they are needed so badly?
It is a great step to come out of the shell of ignorance seeking help. Why should we then have to wait for tutors because of the shortage of trained staff?

Those who suffer in silence continue to suffer.

THE NATIONAL HOSPITAL is an extract from Alice Linton's autobiography, NOT EXPECTING MIRACLES, published by Centreprise. A review of the book is contained on page 31 of this issue of VOICES.

When I was nearly thirteen years old I became very ill. They thought it was flu but it turned out to be Rheumatic Fever. Mother had the doctor, she could only afford to have him once because his visiting fee of two shillings was very hard to find. It was only a shilling if you went to the surgery. Father at the time was suffering from tuberculosis - or consumption - as it was then called. He had contracted it while working in the T.N.T. department of the Woolwich Arsenal where they filled the shells with gunpowder. There was no compensation as such.
I can still remember the awful pains in my head as I lay in bed with this fever. I spent many hours alone while mother was at work. Father would be out trying to get odd jobs although he was a sick man. When I began to feel better father thought he would give me a treat on a Saturday night and take me with him to his Working Men's Club. On Saturday night they had variety turns and some were very good comedians. The pains in my head were excruciating, as I tried to laugh. After a few weeks, when they thought I was better, I went back to school.

I was only back at school for a few weeks when peculiar things seemed to be happening to me. I couldn't control the movements of my hands. Teacher grumbled at my bad writing and at home I was always getting into trouble for dropping things. I was also suffering from dreadful headaches, and as I sat in school I kept wishing that someone could remove what felt like a heavy brick from my head. It was my teacher who first realised that there was something really wrong with me and she sent a note home to mother, suggesting that I should see a doctor. The doctor suggested that I should see a specialist. This wasn't very easy. At that time one could always get treatment in the Casualty department, but to have a consultation, unless you could afford to pay, you had to get a special letter from either the local Vicar, the Mayor, or someone of importance. These people were allowed a limited number of letters each year. Father managed to obtain a letter from the Head of the Working Men's Club.
Mother took me to Bartholemew's Hospital, which was only a penny tram ride from where we lived. The waiting hall was crowded and mother was worrying as to how long they would keep us. She was hoping to be able to get back to work in the afternoon, otherwise being 'piece work' she would lose quite a lot of her wages and she needed them badly.

At last I was taken into the consulting room where I was examined by a very pompous gentleman with a grand manner of speech. He evidently had no idea how the other half of the world lived, or else he had conveniently forgotten. He was surrounded by a large group of students. Each one tested my heart beat both in the sitting up and lying down position. Then he questioned each one as to what they discovered. Apparently my heart was affected by the fever. I can remember how terribly embarrassed I felt, having my newly formed bosom exposed to all these young men. After, there was a long discussion in which I took a great interest and tried to understand a little of it, and in spite of feeling nervous I was quite pleased to feel something of importance.

My mother was then brought in and the grand gentleman proceeded to give mother instructions as to my treatment. In his cultured voice, he told my mother that my heart was affected and I would need months of complete rest. I would have to be kept in bed for about six months, have good nourishing food. I was not to have too many visitors to excite me, not to read exciting books, and not to stretch or bend over to retrieve things dropped from my bed. It was plain to see he had no idea as to mother's circumstances or how impossible it was for her to carry out his instructions.

Mother went home in despair. I realised now that she felt that I really needed to be kept in hospital. My home might be a poor one but it was where I belonged and felt secure. The hospital seemed austere and rather frightening.

After a week or two worrying what to do mother went to see our Vicar. She had been told that it might be possible to see another doctor at the National Hospital in Queen Square, where they specialised in my illness, but it meant that she would need another special hospital letter. Fortunately the Vicar had one to give my mother and she took me there the next day.

The moment I had dreaded had arrived. Mother took my hand reassuringly as we got off the tram. I looked around at the great tall buildings. Had it been a different occasion I might have been impressed by the fine buildings that Bloomsbury possessed, but today my mind was filled with fear and dread of the unknown.

As we walked along together I gripped mother's hand more tightly. It was only a short distance to Queen Square, and my mother might have to leave me there. All too soon we reached the Square. A disturbing sight met us. It was a sunny day and a number of patients were being exercised around the Square. It was 1921 and several of the patients were dressed in the blue uniform worn by invalids of the 1914-18 war. Nurses pushed limbless men around in wheelchairs, some were badly disfigured. Others with lesser disabilities were pushing their pals along so that they too could enjoy the fresh air. It was wonderful to see how cheerful they all were though they must have suffered for so long since the war ended.

Mother's heart sank. She looked at all those very sick people, then looked at me. I really looked fairly well and she felt that the doctors would never consider that I was ill enough to be kept there as an in-patient, even though she had been told that I needed special care.

We entered the large waiting hall which was crowded with people. It looked as though we would be there for hours. We sat on long forms and as patients were seen to we moved up on the form. Some of the patients looked dreadfully ill as they sat patiently waiting. We had not been there long when we heard a young boy sitting at the end of our form give a terrible shriek, and then collapse on the floor. He lay there, his body writhing and jerking in a very distorted manner. His eyes were rolling until only the whites showed and he was making terrible grimaces. I was petrified. I had never seen anyone in an epileptic fit before. I was also worried, because no one was doing anything. They just left him there. I didn't realise that so long as there was nothing near to hurt him and his head was in a position where his tongue could not slip back and choke him, there was nothing you could do, and the spasm would soon pass.

We sat on and on and only moved along the form toward the consulting room very slowly. It was after we had been sitting there for some hours that a nurse came to tell us that the doctor was unable to see any more patients that day. We must come back the next day. That meant that mother would have to lose another day's work and pay that she could ill afford.

The next morning mother and I started off early and were thankful to find that we were among the first of the patients waiting to see the doctor. When it came to our turn to go in we were both relieved to be seen by a kind and understanding doctor. He listened to all that mother had to tell him and after he and his students examined me, he told mother that he wanted to take me in straight away. Mother was very relieved to think that I would now be given the treatment I needed, also she would now be able to get back to work for that afternoon.
I was inwardly terrified. A nurse came and took us upstairs to the ward. In a flash nurse had taken all my particulars from mother, and with a hurried kiss and "Be a good girl" she vanished.

As I watched mother disappear through the door of the ward I suddenly felt lost and abandoned. I had been warned that I might be kept in at the hospital but I hadn't realised just how terrible I would feel. I wanted to rush out after mother, but the nurse smiled at me and taking my hand she said, "Come along Alice I will take you to the bathroom, and then I will introduce you to the other two girls who are here. They are both about your age."
Seeing that she had addressed me by my Christian name somehow reassured me. As we walked down the long ward I gazed at the endless rows of beds stretching down on either side in perfect straight lines, each one covered in a spotless white quilt. A strong feeling of awe, and orderliness mixed with the powerful smell of disinfectant completed my desolation. Nurse began chatting to me and told me her name was Nurse Webb. Some of the patients gave me a friendly wave as we went by and I began to feel less frightened.

As we entered the bathroom I was struck by the vastness of it. The huge bath in the centre of the room looked large enough to drown me. I compared it in my mind to the old tin bath that mother had used on Saturday nights, in front of the old kitchen fire and was afterwards kept hanging on a large hook embedded in the wall of the yard. The old stone copper built in the corner of the kitchen would be lit an hour or two earlier and mother baled the hot water out and poured it into the bath. It was lovely and cosy.

Nurse Webb began to turn on the huge brass taps in the bath and the water rushed out with a roar I I began shyly to undress. I was rather sensitive about my clean but shabby underclothes. However, the bath felt warm and refreshing as I floated in its large interior. I was not allowed to use any exertion in washing myself but Nurse Webb washed me very gently, chatting to me all the while. She told me that she had only just started working at the hospital, and it was all very new and strange to her also. This comforted me that she had a fellow feeling for me.

Alice Linton was born in Hoxton in 1908. 'Not Expecting Miracles'a, her autobiography, from which this extract was taken, is reviewed on page 31 of VOICES.

At present there are, in Liverpool, four writers workshops (members of the FWW&CP) (Liverpool 8. Scotland Rd. Old Swan & Netherley Writers). While each workshop is autonomous we maintain very strong links, that is why it seemed sensible to show a cross section of work being produced in the city, rather than featuring one workshop.
Workshops in Liverpool grew from the roots of struggle, one reason why there is often an aggression present in some of the writing which causes people to take one step back, that is, until the honesty grabs them. If you are afraid of the ugliness of reality, you may turn away from our words, we hope not.
Reading us will not tell you what makes us tick, but possibly cause you to ask the question, "Why do you tick so loudly?" Simple, WE wish to be heard, like every other group ir the Federation we believe we have something worth saying.
I should add there are many worker writers both individuals and groups in Liverpool who are not yet members of the FWW&CP, time and friendly discussion should remedy this.
The history of the Liverpool workshops is long and interesting unfortunately there is insufficient space to cover it, if readers want more information, let us know we will do all we can to supply it.
Olive Rogers

There's a young man from the Shaw Street dosshouse champing in the corner of the doctor's waiting room. Grease thickened hair drools down his forehead like lard on a cold morning plate. With nearly closed eyes he looks down his nose through the grey portcullis of his chin and lives only in the narrow arc around his chair. He sits huddled, one leg crossed, shoulders forward there, as it to unfold would send a vapour of urine and diseased sperm steaming from his damp thighs. There is a shoe clinging to the toes at the end of his twitching crossed leg. You can see a patched hole in the sole - cardboard from a Quaker Oats packet.
There's a hole too in the heel of his dirty yellow nylon sock and all around the hole yellow is giving way to brown.
He coughs and you hear the catch of phlegm in his throat and see his cheeks puff out to spit - a flicker of the webby lids - and you watch his jagged adams apple through the stubble and you see him swallow the phlegm. He has a stump to smoke so he clears his nose - a thumb up to cover one nostril as he blows, blows, blows through the other and hears the rattle of an air hole at last. Then he lights his compressed ciggie.
With one leg still crossed he takes an ecstatic drag from the stump; then his head goes forward bobbing up and down like a strutting cock busily seeking his feed in the arc.
Crouched forward, head bobbing, had in an unlined pocket, he sits there, playing with himself, a battered hulk of rattling snot.

Jimmy McGovern is a member of Scotland Road Writers Workshop.

I shouldn't have been aware of the sounds, after all, it was finished; the job was done, but the clock kept ticking, the fluid kept dripping, the box kept buzzing, the wires were still in place.
I tried so hard to love you but you'd become detached from me, four minutes earlier we'd both been happy, together.

It was a strange feeling looking at your face, I liked it, I knew it was a nice face, everything was there, a nose, two eyes, just where they should have been. Ten fingers, ten toes, elbows, knees, I re-checked, yes you were complete.
Then they grabbed you, put you in the box, turned the heat on.
"We'll make him nice and warm". That's what they said. They treated you like a turkey being got ready for Christmas. That was the moment of realisation, if there had been any feeling there at all, it was now all over between us.

I was a robot, that' s what they saw me as, a reproductive robot, wired up.
You were the product, the only thing they weren't sure of, was what to do with the product. You weren't like all other products, not a game, not food, not a piece of furniture and your great difference changed nothing, you got thrown in a box just like any other kind of product does.
Later on, the one who put you in the box came back to me.
"Put that child down, don't you know it's against the rules to walk around holding him, it's positively dangerous".
Couldn't she see how hard I was trying to make it work? I couldn't tell her how I felt, it would only have made it more difficult for me. I put you down, you cried out, it was as if you knew, as if you found it hard too, we both wanted it to work but they wouldn't let it.
They didn't come much in the night, I thought we would be able to spend some undisturbed time together but on the second day they started to take you away at night.
As I was leaving the hospital, the nurse insisted on carrying you to the doorstep, as if to say: "He still belongs to us, even though you're taking him away". They were right, you did belong to them, as much as I tried, I couldn't see you as mine.

For the first few months, I breast fed you, I thought it would help me to love you, make me feel closer, more attached. It didn't work, it was painful, my breasts felt sore. When you were four months old I put you on a bottle, I'd failed.'
I questioned myself, why didn't I love you? was I a bad mother? who did you really belong to? At the time I didn't know the answer, which made the problem worse, because without the answer, I couldn't possibly solve the problem.
When you were eight months old, I took you to the clinic, the doctor wanted to examine you, I hadn't, taken a nappy with me, so on the discovery of a dirty bottom, I found myself at a loss for anything to change you into. The pram sheet was clean, I'd only put it on the pram half an hour before coming to the clinic so I dragged it off the mattress and proceeded to put it on you instead of a nappy, only to hear horrific screams coming from the nurse.
"You can't put that on your child's bottom, that's been on your pram". I told her that I didn't have much choice, she didn't listen, she just kept repeating herself. I didn't put the sheet on you very well, my hands were shaking, I was embarrassed.

The event at the clinic made me realise what was wrong, I'd been trying to match up to the standards of doctors and health visitors, instead of trying to do things in a way that suited me and you.
The thought of getting you adopted had often crossed my mind. I'm glad I kept you and worked on the relationship.
The love is there now. Now you know how it started. Let's work on the future in our own way, not in anyone else's way. Let's make it work for both of us.
Mum xx

Kim Rogers is a member of Liverpool 8. She now has a second child.

I would like to explain in my own words what effect the unemployment is having on the mothers of the young, unemployed in Liverpool.
There are not many homes who have not got one or two young ones not working, and it's Hell watching them trying so hard and getting nowhere .
We have tried our best to help them get a better education than we had, believing they would get a better job in life than what we had if they had qualifications. We also told them (not in so many words) we expected big things from them because they had all the chances we did not get.
We believed they had the chance to try for what they wanted to do and to find a job and profession they would be happy at doing. We told them they would have many years working so to choose something that they liked doing (that was the biggest joke of all).

We have now had to change our tune and tell them they must take any job going if they like it or not and be thankful if they get one. It doesn't matter how good an education they had. Is it no wonder there's a hell of a lot of mixed-up and frustrated kids around.
Lots of mothers, fathers and families are keeping their young ones subsidised to help them survive on the dole or Social Security money.

My son, who is twenty-one years old, gets nineteen pounds thirty pence to live on. He is supposed to pay his keep at home, put clothes on his back, try and have a night out, and pay bus fares and stamps to try and get work out of that amount. They are supposed to be the best years of his life or so he was told to expect.
My son is a proud lad and he hates to take anything for nothing even from his mum and dad, so we have to try and get the extras to him without him feeling he still owes us, and it's hard work.

Some people will say we are lucky to be able to do this for him. Yet he wants to be independent from us and pay his own way and get on with his own life and let us get on with ours, which none of us can do at the time and about the future. We have to believe there is a job for him somewhere, even after he has tried for five jobs in the last few weeks and had five refusals and feels like there's something wrong with him and it's not the situation he's in.
My son is one of the lucky ones. He's had two jobs after he left the Technical College he was at. Some of my friends' young ones have never worked since leaving school. It is now eighteen months since my son worked. I have suggested to him to go back and get more education but he feels he has had enough. He wants to be part of the working world of adults. They feel once they get this they have got their rights and are treated like adults and are not looked down upon by some stupid people who think because they are out of work they have no rights and are just "no marks", one of my son's expressions.

When my son loses hope and is really down at rock bottom we have to pick him up again and make him fight back once again for survival. We smile and laugh when our hearts are broken. Most mothers I know cry an awful lot when their kids are not around, then we wipe our tears and pretend we're not worried. Our kids are going to make it. If we did not portray this to them they would lose their confidence and God help us when that happens to them.
They have got no future our children today; they cannot think of courting or getting married. What have they got to offer each other? It takes them all their time to survive themselves. It's only their loved ones who keep them going. My heart goes out to the young ones who don't have parents who understand.
I believe it's my son's right to be independent. I object to the state having to give my son money to live on, as much as he objects to having to take it to live. I told my son when he was young it was his right to have his independence. Will someone please tell me what to do. I tell him today he has no right to this.

Marjorie Jones, Old Swan, has just completed a New Opportunities for Women Course, after working as a dinner lady, for a pools firm, and running a charity shop.

A swift glance at my old watch tells me it's time for my fortnightly right-hand exercise, time to go off and sign on the dotted line. Gratefully acknowledging the fresh air I stroll, but still find I'm early again.
After having my scrawl frowned upon by Hitler in drag, I move from the counter to the latest vacancies board. As usual unless you want to make conversation with a typewriter all day or serve meals to three hundred of the 'bowler hat and brolly' brigade, there's not a lot you can do, besides which I never measure up to their standards anyway. Either I'm too young or too old, or not enough qualifications, or I've got enough but not in the right subjects.

"My Guardian Thunder Cloud accompanies me to the bus stop, hovering just above me all the way. I turn to the corner and see my bus pulled in at the bus stop. Now here I am faced with two alternatives:
(1) walk quietly up and catch the driver unawares, then hop on; (2) start running now, hoping he doesn't see me.
Number two seems the most reasonable. I start running. Just as I get to the backend, he sees me, shuts the doors and drives off, eyes streaming with laughing. People waiting for other buses stare (God! How embarrassing). There's only one thing for it - keep on running past, they they'll think I didn't want that bus at all. I crash out knackered round the corner three streets away. After getting this far I may as well walk the rest of the way home.
One and a half hours later I stagger up to the door and just about manage to muster the strength to push the door bell. The door flings open and I'm greeted with open arms and roses. Actually the last sentence was a lie. Really Karen opens the door with her little finger because the rest of the hand is taken up by a butty and the other hand holds the phone. Fulfilling my promise never to make a mess on the carpet, I crawl straight out into the garden to die. Distant "mmm's and she didn't even.....no", roll to my ears.

Nearly an hour passes and presently I feel more able to manage a small amount of sustenance, say a Ling Wow's special, consisting of three sausages, two portions of chips, peas and coated in gravy (in turn the gravy is coated in dust).
The phone returns to its former resting place and Karen presently looms in the door frame. What manner of gracious welcome shall emanate from her delicate lips? I wait with baited breath,
"What's wrong with your gob?"
(It wasn't worth waiting for)
"I'm hungry," I say pitifully.
(The pity doesn't come)
"Come on then. We'll go to the chippy."
She helps me up, picks up her jacket and we set off down the avenue, Karen ahead and me limping pathetically behind. The smell of chips spurs me on and I soon catch up.
"Two specials please?"
Mr. Wow looks up incredulously wondering if we're strangers in town, but he doesn't care and puts them in to be warmed up.

We arrive home ready for the ensuing battle. Karen sets the table: knife, fork, ant repellent, salt and
vinegar. We sit down, take off the wrappers and the battle begins. On Karen's plate I'd say the ants just about got the better. On my plate I am the only victor. Satisfied we crawl to the lounge to sleep it off.
Presently I regain consciousness so I go and make us some coffee. Obviously the effects of the special haven't worn off completely because I keep missing the cup with the spoon. At last it's ready and I go to revive the "Sleeping Beauty".
"Karen! Karen!"
She unfolds like a butterfly and swears like a trooper.
"Oo thanks".
She begins to look more human with every mouthful of coffee.
"You know I've just had the weirdest dream."
(I'm amazed. We haven't had conversation for at least two pages.)
"Yeah war was declared and there was only you and me left on earth."
I'm sitting on the edge of my seat waiting for her to carry on, but she doesn't seem to be going to. She's just sitting there staring, so I ask:
"Well how did we survive?"
"We didn't. We died. It was really funny."
"Pardon me if I don't laugh."
I look around expecting boredom to set in like rigor mortis.
"Come on. We'll go for a jog."
"Oh Tracey you're not serious are you? I mean remember last time. I was so embarrassed."
"Well we might get a different ambulance driver this time. No, seriously we just won't go as far. It'll do us both good. Just round the block."

We go upstairs to get changed and ten minutes later emerge from the house more like lumpy spuds in sacks than humans in tracksuits.- We jog out of the gate and head up the avenue. We seem to be a little better this time. Well at least we haven't gone into oxygen debt by three doors up. Continuing this nice slow, steady pace we reach the main road, although it's now nearly six-thirty the roads are surprisingly empty. We peep around the corner to make sure nobody's watching. What cars there are are too busy trying to hit as many old ladies and dogs as possible to notice us, and there are no people at all. We jog on.

We're still jogging five minutes later when Karen utters famous last words:
"I feel great".
O God here it comes! Bang and down she goes.
"Karen get up someone might be watching."
"It's no good. It’s happened again. I can't move my legs and I’m not going back to the be laughed at again."
"Well try and move then."
Her face begins to go with the strain.
"It's no good, I'll just have to sit here for a while until my legs get going again."
"We'll have to move over and sit on a wall then, because I think we just might look conspicuous sitting in the middle of the pavement." There's a garden wall a further on so with a struggle we get there and sit down. After a while she tries again to move her legs but they still won't go. Just then a voice shouts:
"Oy, sod off you hooligans, geroff me wall."
If we tried to explain he probably wouldn't believe us anyway, so I begin to drag her off.
"Look stoned," I whisper, "it won't look so conspicuous."
The possessive wall-owner goes back to his house muttering under his breath. We sit down further up the road, this time under a tree. Visions of us sitting there in pitch darkness begin to loom up, thus we get to the drastic measure.
"Give me the keys to the house." "Why? What are you going to do?" She looks worried as she hands over the keys.
"Don't move!"
I shout back as I'm running off. I don't think she appreciated the humour.

Ten minutes later I return accompanied by the wheelbarrow from the back garden.
"Oh no! No way. I'm not getting in that. There's still manure in it anyway."
"Be realistic dear. You are sitting under a tree and there are a lot of dogs in this area."
"O.K. I'm convinced, but empty it out first please."
"Great. Hop in."
"Oh come on. Leave out the jokes. Give me a hand."
After a struggle we're finally ready to set off. All I've got left to do is to muster the strength to get us both back home, when the inevitable happens. Now men, especially young teenagers, have the most annoying habit of mocking the afflicted with gammy legs, and I was afflicted with Karen, so we definitely qualified.
"When you pick up manure you're supposed to leave the pig behind luv."
I grabbed hold of the handles and ran. They were only just beginning, but I didn't want to stick around for the finale.

With good wind and luck we finally made it to the front door. Karen hops out and begins to open the door.
"What are you doing?"
"About half way home I realised my legs were all right again. Come on, I'll make you a cup of coffee."
She walks off into the house leaving me dumb-founded at the front door. Still standing there I walk after her.
"Well you could have bloody told me."
She doesn't make it any easier by shouting back:
"Well I was tired. Come on, it's nearly ready."
Later that night when we're tucked up in bed, I glance over at Karen, fast asleep in her Micky Mouse pyjamas, a thought begins to bloom between my ears. One day I'll have to write this down on paper.
Only trouble is nobody would believe it.

Tracie Heaton is 19, unemployed, and a member of Old Swan Writers Workshop.

I tried to write a poem about my fantasies, producing three lines which were at the least erotic, at the most pornographic. I scrapped it: it wasn't me, or people's picture of me, and so came...............