Recently, while endeavouring to locate some important document or other, I stumbled across a bunch of long forgotten short stories I’d written during creative writing course attended in 2015.
Footnote – When saying stumble I mean inadvertently located; not I’d tripped over a pile of recklessly discarded A4 sheets.
Anyhow, I accidentally located six or seven yarns penned as part of speed writing exercises. Creativity examinations where students were required to create literary vignettes based on our lecture’s allotted topic.
I was intrigued to re-read these pieces of nine-year-old prose, which if truth be told had slipped my mind before 2016 had even dawned. Although in need of a polish, I enjoyed the hour or so spent revisiting these predominantly whimsical monologues. To my mind, these abandoned notions a pleasing balance of jocular and insightful observations.
My pleasant surprise at unearthing the journals leading to thoughts off buffing up these tales; sharing my newly amended pieces on my website Strachan.blog .
In addition to a level of contentment at finding these forgotten essays, I reflected on how much my life has changed since creating these offre litteraire.
Those last nine years witnessing significant life changing events for one GJ Strachan. A turbulent era in which saw both my parents pass, my marriage fail, me suffering a heart attack, enduring a life-threatening gastric bleed, stricken by recurring depression episodes, and (on one dreadful occasion) my local Sainsbury running out of marmite.
Sure, there have been some tough times and unwanted changes, the loss of my parents the most challenging. However, out of the chaos did come some order. For instance, my heart attack was the catalyst towards me living each day as if it were my last. A mantra which, along with my relationship changes, has seen me embrace life in a far more positive attitude.
When writing the original draft of this short tale, I was in a dark place mental health wise. Thankfully, my newfound positivity and realisation I’ve plenty to be grateful for means those stark episodes are now more fleeting.
Anyhow, below is a recently updated version of the tale yours truly originally penned in 2015. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did escribing it… After all, why should I be the only one to suffer?!
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During a recent creative writing course, we were asked to write a short story utilising ‘window cleaner’s secret’ s a topic. Upon receipt of this prompt the first notion wandering my neurological corridors was 1970’s film ‘Confessions of A Window Cleaner’.
The movie a tepid sexist affair. Bawdy ‘Carry On-esque’ comedy, whose smattering of nudity elevated it into a more solacious ‘18’ movie category; a piece of ‘art’ which doesn’t fit well with contemporary creative ideals.
I was only around ten years old when the film was spewed from a 1970s soft porn treadmill into UK cinemas. One of a series of screenplays whose artistic modus operandi were to titillate the more discerning members of the British public; stretching further the traditional seaside postcard humour upon whose waves ‘Carry On’ movies surfed.
Despite never witnessing this double entendre laden piece, I am kinda aware of its seedy plotline and am working on the premise you won’t have seen it either. This affording me carte blanche to pen any old hokum about the movie without fear of contradiction… Well, that’s if I utilise it in a short story.
You, of course, could contradict me if you feel moved to visit the cinematic offerings Wiki page. However, I am sure you have got better things to do than waste time on pointless research… For instance, returning my Alvin & The Chipmunks CD you borrowed over a month ago.
Anyhow, I digress… As I am keen at avoiding inclusion of clichéd and sexist claptrap deemed acceptable in my formative years in my prose, I’ll pass on ‘Confessions of A Window Cleaner’ as a topic.
So, the next notion dipping its toe in the ‘window cleaners secret’ pool was escribing a narrative relating to the George Formby song ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows’.
I expelled litres of brain sweat endeavouring to make Formby’s most famous refrain a literary fit. Unfortunately, as with ‘Confessions of A Window Cleaner’, the gap-toothed Lancastrian’s 1935 song led me down epiphany avenues not comfortably transferring into the current social zeitgeist.
At this point, a minor panic ensued… Think, Gary, think!… What secrets could our intrepid window cleaner hide?
I do not know about you but, never mind him having a secret, I would be happy if my window cleaner performed his role properly for starters. For instance, getting all the muck from the corners of the window frame and washing my sills. Not to mention, not irking me by eating my best biccies from the tin when providing him with aa cuppa.
My next epiphany was to pen a short yarn about a glass buffer inventing and seeking to patent a secret cleaning fluid which made windows gleam.
Despite not really having a great deal of confidence there was a story in there, I decided to run with that option.
Yes, I know I am waffling aimlessly here, but I not getting paid for this you know! My meagre recompense for writing this (especially after the window cleaner ate all my good biccies) was half a hot cross bun and a lukewarm cuppa… I am penning this for the love of writing, and (I guess) emotionally blackmail Hob Nob manufacturers into sending a few freebies.
Ok then, hold onto your socks and hose, here goes…
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Terry Abbott was an eccentric man, or so I was informed by his wife (who introduced herself as Jean) during a recent Family Fun Day at the Thacklethwaite Milk & Window Cleaning Festival. The couple standing just to my left as part of a fete stall’s modest audience.
As I did not know this woman or her husband, I was unsure why she felt moved to inform me of this behavioural snippet. However, as I like to think of myself as an approachable guy, I listened and offered her a warm smile, before returning my gaze to the stall.
Here my attention gripped by the stall owner juggling yoghurt pots; his act leaving the easier pleased among us awestruck.
However, Jean was a persistent lady who within a minute was roughly nudging me on the shoulder, as though kneading dough. Upon regaining my attention, she informed me her betrothed was a window cleaner. Glowing with pride, she added “He’s just invented a new cleaning fluid which leaves glass completely smear free.’
Scanning my head back and forth between the lady and the yoghurt juggler, I disingenuously informed Jean I was mightily impressed by her hubby’s innovation; however, was moved to sheepishly enquire ‘But, why tell me?”
“Aren’t you that grey-haired bloke off Dragon’s Den?’
“I haven’t got grey hair, and I am not on Dragon’s Den.” I politely informed her before averting my gaze back permanently to the juggler who, following a co-ordination mishap, now appeared crestfallen at being enveloped in Muller Lite.
However, the middle-aged lady was not for ignoring; tapping me once again to enquire “Irrespective of that, can you lend us half a million pounds to patent and market this invention?… With the right backing, I really think this has massive sales potential.”
Pulling out my wallet, I navigated past old receipts, ten Euros from last year’s holiday and an out-of-date condom. Eventually passing Jean my Tesco Reward Card.
“I think there is roughly that amount on the card… Fill your boots!”
“Blimey, you must have had an expensive Christmas shop!”
“Hey, incidentally what is the secret of this cleaning fluid affording such a pristine glass clean?” I yelled in her wake, as she headed for the exit and (I assume) Tesco.
Stopping momentarily a few metres away she looked back to reveal “There isn’t one. After my final warning of the consequences if I catch him gawping through women’s bedroom windows again, he merely cleans them properly now.”
As Jean and Terry left with their ill-gotten gains, I couldn’t help thinking my son had a look of the eccentric window cleaner… Right, now where’s my Jeremy Kyle DNA testing kit?!
Damn, I inadvertently went down the ‘Carry On’ route after all!!
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