Accordion stories

I agree to tell stories in a day-ward.
Only then do I ask what age they are, the listeners.
Not old, the youngest is 84 years old.
I arrive to find six patients matched with six minders.
The minders do not have much English and I tell local stories to listeners who are locals grown old who will recognise the references.
One man mistakes me for a country and western accordion player with the same first name. He asks me to sing his/my greatest hits.
When I say I am a storyteller he goes into a huff until I finish telling a story to a 90-year-old who thinks she is in nursery school and who would rather be outside playing in the rain.
When I don't sing requests, the man goes off to bed in the middle of my finale and the woman throws a plastic cup at a rival across the room before I leave.
The booker says they had a great time and will I come again?
Not until I learn to play the accordion I say as I step out into the real world.
storytelling here

Wild Times in Phoenix Park

I am on a radio station. Actually, I am on the national radio station at peak listening time.
It is a Monday at the beginning of a year when the Sunday is the public holiday and everyone is on a day off in lieu the following day, even if they are not.
Lots of people are travelling home in their cars and listening to radio when they would usually be doing something else.
I am being interviewed on my book: Phoenix Park: a History and Guidebook.
The interview goes well and I say there is a part of the national park in Dublin that is allowed to run a little wild.
When a branch falls or an old tree topples over it is left there if safe to do so. Natural woodland growth goes on around the fallen tree.
Next day, a listener rings me to ask where this wilderness area is located and is it safe to bring her children there while they are on school holiday?
I say it's wild in the sense that vegetation is allowed grow wild in a controlled way to create natural woodland.
She asks if there are many wild animals there that might attack her kids.
I say no and we finish the call.
Afterwards, I wonder if what she really wants is to find a place where wild animals can eat her school holiday children and she can get some peace.
A little knowledge for wild people is a dangerous thing and I wonder what she did with what I said.
Are there now feral kids in that area and would they attack me if I discover them?
park website

Stop that Barking

It seems like a good idea to self-sell my collection of original stories at fairs and exhibitions.
I decide a good name for the humorous nearly-true stories should be Barking Mad: Tales of Liars, Lovers, Loonies and Layabouts.
A fat man ask if it's a training manual for dogs?
No, it's a book of stories about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, I add in anticipation of a sale.
I need to train my dog, says my huffing customer.
Another wants to know if it will stop his neighbour's dog from barking. Only if you throw it at him, I say beneath my breath as he wanders away.
Who owns the dog a squinting woman asks of the cover model. I do, I lie wondering if that will make a difference?
I don't want to buy a picture of your dog, she says firmly.
Two lovers buy matching copies. I sign for both of them. The gorgeous girl can hardly breathe with excitement in the presence of her lover.
I sell the rest as gifts for your own true love.
I sell a dozen in a full day of blathering and re-load the remainder into my car breathless from hauling books to people who don't understand high literature.
Next time I'll call the book Tales of Mystery and Longing and print with a blank cover.
It might help.
buy the book yourself as a download

Mister Mister

I am crossing between lines of stalled buses and cars on Dame Street when I hear someone shout "Mister, Mister."
I wonder who the Mister is and why he is being called.

The student on the bike with no working brakes comes down the hill between the buses and catches me on the side and over I go in a short sleeved shirt.

The rider comes over the handlebars on top of me and slams my bare arm into the tarmac once more breaking a bone that is attached to other bones and disrupting the lines of communication to my hand as it snaps.
Nonetheless, I pick him and his bike up off the Dublin street and carry the bike with my working hand to place it beneath the Olympia Theatre canopy. I ask if he is alright and he says he shouted Mister to warn me. It seems he thinks it's my fault he ran into me.

I make my way to a busy city post office public phone.
I ring emergency to find where the nearest hospital is and he says he'll send an ambulance.

I say I only want directions. I'll walk, it's my arm that hurts like hell. My feet are working still.

But he insists and I am to wait.
There is nobody with me, I tell him when he asks.

While I wait for the unwanted ambulance I am dizzy and I prop myself against a wall in case I lose consciousness. That way they'll be able to see me, unconscious but upright, when they rush in.

The perplexed paramedic asks me where my bike is? I say a bike hit me, not me it.
He says I look alright and he can't take me in the ambulance for that.

I say I only wanted directions and to take it up with his dispatcher. I have been waiting too long for them and am now somewhat testy.

He says you better get in the ambulance then. I try to get in beside the driver but they insist I get in the back and be strapped into a stretcher.

The siren clears the streets of people.
I try to apologise to the people for the fuss; but they can't hear me inside the ambulance.

In the hospital, a nurse takes my jacket and tells me I am bleeding profusely and there is dried blood on the inside of my jacket.

I say it is a floral motif that is faded and she agrees and we wonder what the flowers were before they faded.

A doctor comes in and says I have a bad sprain to my elbow and to go home and take a warm bath.

I ask if I should stand on my head in the bath since it is my elbow that is hurting even more now and the bath water won't come up that high, unless I submerge and swim for it.
He pretends not to understand English and goes off looking for more polite excitement.

I leave without the promised aspirin for the headache.

I walk back down the street, against the wall, for the ambulance is gone for there is nothing wrong with me, according to medically qualified observers.

I take a bus to my home in suburbia. It is full with commuters.

I have to stand and hold on to the overhead bar with my good hand.

The other arm swings loosely on every corner like a demented scarecrow in a storm.

The next day I go to a different hospital and say I was knocked down and have a sore arm.

They say it's not sore, it's broken.

I knew that already.

Mister.

storytelling here

Walking in the city

A man sliding along on an icy city footpath puts out his hand to stop me passing by.
He has an unlit cigarette in his smoking hand and asks what does "sensible footwear" mean? On radio they say he is to wear sensible shoes for snowy conditions.
There is a parallel strip of grass beside us.
I say you could walk on the grass and not slip.
The non-smoker says he does not want to walk on grass; he is in a city. He wants to walk on the path. What are sensible shoes? He places the unlit cigarette between his lips and waits for an answer.
Well, you need shoes with ridges on them to grip the ice, I say.
I haven't got shoes with ridges, says the cigarette man. He waves a lighter in the other hand without sparking it.
I edge away and say you could wear rubber boots like farmer's boots. Ideal for anything.
The cigarette man walks away; I'm not a farmer. I live in a city. I still don't know what sensible footwear is.

storytelling here