A Day in Court – Observations from Real Life

I was wearing my best clothes for I did not own a suit then. I sat swilling bad coffee around a greasy mug contemplating whether by 2pm I might be doing the same thing behind bars under contempt of court.

When my Barrister arrived we sat down for the briefing. As his Superman ringtone went off I squinted at him over the melamine laminate table. He cleared his throat and stared at the portfolio before him. 

Of course the obvious game was people watching which was better than that of the English beachfront in the height of summer. I spent the time constructively glaring at the back of the Defendant’s head hoping to wither his resolve.

He showed a glimmer of strength in a weak ratio with life’s atrocities. He wore glasses that were too large and he was perpetually pushing them up on his elderly beak with a shaky finger. He was not turning to look at me but I could tell he was not sure how it had come to this. He was hard of hearing and the judge himself stood up to adjust the acoustics of the room by opening and closing windows, doors, moving barriers of stacked books and an alarming quantity of bibles. His Barrister, who actually looked like the type of girl I would get to know at a family wedding, turned occasionally to look at me.

The older man’s story was muddled and his concentration waned as the length of each answer was drawn out and diminished with every word. My own voice wavered also and I stumbled over my words, he and I, together in this party for the brave and soulless, with a blonde angel looking on from the back of the room.

He held his head in his hands briefly as the Judge made his ruling and as we all filed out of the room I found myself silently apologising to the defeated being who made one last gesture by holding the door open for me. “Thank you” I whispered, to the man who had once almost killed me.

Setting the Scene – A Short Story of an Artist at Work

Her beautifully painted red toes gripped the concrete floor as she padded across it’s iciness at 6.15am. Kicking an overthrown cardigan from the only seat in the room, she sat between two offensive rips on the brown leather upholstery and sucked in a sharp breath of hot steam from her coffee cup. Condensation attempted to saturate the window pane in vain and instead, on accepting defeat, rolled to the floor, drip by drip, off the edge of the sill. Her small dog licked the puddle away and looked at his owner bashfully.

The time had come for the morning routine a la frenzy. She pulled her long sleeves back from being wrapped around her chilled fingers and coffee mug, which was quickly discarded upon the floor in a careless fashion. Its life-giving qualities were forgotten in but a moment. Clothes were thrown from the wardrobe, hitting thirsty houseplants and the little dog in their wake as he gazed up at her, the whirling dervish of scent, fortitude and panic driven by the thought of waiting yet again for another unnecessary hour at the bus stop. The chilly air hit her body as she moved, her white limbs looking chalky white and contrasting sharply against her dark mane. As she dressed, her cold fingers trembled and she gripped her own waist fleetingly to enjoy the sensation, almost as though a lover had snuck up behind.

Eventually there she stood in the hallway, perfectly painted toes now cosseted within fine leather shoes, stockings free from ladders leading up to too-short-skirt and jumper and really little else. Like a chaotic Madonna with child, she held the dog under her right arm whilst the left one skimmed the top of the door frame for a key, ready to make her exit. And then she was gone.

Female artist

The familiar creative process began on a Friday night when upon returning home from work with renewed enthusiasm and she picked up a small brush playfully dabbing the dog’s nose, streaking him a Celtic warrior with forget-me-not blue. She chicaned around furniture gathering her crop of tools, the discarded coffee jars for water, the empty tubs for mixing large quantities of paint, pallet knives, battered looking teaspoons, pencil sharpening surgical scalpels and well loved brushes, all dumped in a big pile in the middle of the floor. Then she ran to the kitchen and pulled out some essentials; a jar of coffee, some less battered looking teaspoons, a stale box of cornflakes and a clean ash tray which she admired in awe of her own cleanliness for at least twenty seconds before ploughing back into the studio to her almost complete nest.

And so it began. Hour upon hour she worked the canvas and with each hour she smoked more, the now forsaken empty bottle of decent red wine and the once pure ash tray littered with deceitful butts. It was beginning to resemble a mass burial with those thin white bodies disposed of in a heap, rings of red lipstick around them as if blood soaked and grey ash ever falling to cover their sins.

She crouched on the unforgiving cold floor, a square tipped brush behind each ear. Bare feet as always, with loose trousers revealing the edges of pink lace lingerie like icing on a cake, there she was, peering at the picture before her and blissfully unaware of the quantity of yellow ochre on her face which made her look liked a jaundiced pixie. Moments of serenity hung in the balance always with her. Like a landmine with the potential for annihilation she was merely in constant suspension between this world and the world she could create, should she wish to.

Muse-ic and the Rhythm of Literacy

Physically, music could be understood as nothing more than a series of vibrations and waves of rhythm, but it has the ability to penetrate the molecular spaces of our very make up, touching us in places where nothing else can.

It can be transcending and life changing as by this very method it fuses with us and becomes part of us, sometimes apparent and sometimes subtle and to it, we are mere puppets on a string.

Rhythm begins life in the form of the Mother’s heartbeat to the listening infant within, the deep vibrations of melodic voices heard through amniotic fluid and when born, the patterns of all the Worldly sounds around them. The written and spoken word becomes intertwined with notes and tempo and tone.

The oldest living concept born from mysticism itself, nothing is more powerful or influential than music followed closely by literature. Both have the capacity to embody all emotions (and sometimes many emotions in one piece) depending on how well composed it is.

Literature was born out of a necessity to translate the rhythms of our heart and minds.

Those who have an ‘ear’ for music, and not necessarily people who can play an instrument well, but people who really hear these omnipotent hidden messages within the notes that are played, have the awareness of the complexity of dozens of drum beats played together in harmony and the aptitude to pick these out one by one and know the purpose of each for being there.

And to go further, the act of dance is the gateway into complete transcendence through music. The bounce of the guitarist feeling the riff, the nodding head of the drummer and the sway of the vocalist are all forms of dance, allowing the music to swirl through them like a hurricane. The music is not around us, it is inside us, and makes our bodies act in devotion.

So how, I argue, should music and literature not be worshipped as idolism? It is more than simply that, it is far more. It is more than love and more than hate, it is the very essence of our being and it is the only thing we truly know.

Perfectly Polite Penguins and the Use of Alliteration

Alliteration. The perfect tool for capturing a toddler’s attention – and trust me, that is no mean feat. I have read a lifetime of children’s books. Next to a good sing-song rhyme, the use of alliteration has the potential to keep kids coming back to the same story time and time again.

When looking for ways to capture an audience we can do worse than taking inspiration from the way children’s fiction is written, for alliteration helps form the building blocks to making words memorable. And who doesn’t want this for their brand?

Perfectly Polite Penguins is a book I purchased for my three year old to help him navigate those turbulent tantrum years. In the story, Polly, a naughty penguin who likes to throw fishy snacks and really needs to get her shit together finally comes to the realisation that it’s not all about her and is able to reintegrate into a society of Perfectly Polite Penguins.

Another favourite is Fussy Freda, a terrifying tale with box office potential about a young girl who refuses to eat what her parents cook until she begins to shrink and is eaten by the family cat. It’s perhaps still a little more censored than the story of a cannibalistic old lady who lives in a house made of gingerbread, but for me (and my three year old) the additional use of alliteration gives this story a impactful double-whammy.

A quick glance at pop culture shows that it is literally littered with alliteration. ( See what I did there? ) Coca-Cola and Mickey Mouse are now clever literacy devices that evoke nostalgic emotions for many. The rhetoric of politicians and the most memorable phrases of the greatest minds known to human kind have all used this memory-tool.

Is it sometimes over-used, dare I say it, cliche? Yes. It won’t suit all brands so proceed with a degree of caution. However if like me, you’re still a fan of the good old-fashioned flipchart and marker pen brainstorming method, then by all means go mad. Next time you pass a book shop pop in and browse the selection of early years fiction for you may just be picking up a valuable business tool. Remember, the same rhythmic patterns of our pre school years still resonate with the psyche of adulthood.

The best piece of advice I can give above all else and however you decide to use alliteration for your content, always, ALWAYS be a perfectly polite penguin.

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