Tag Archives: usefulness

Sofa So Rubbish – Short Story

A seagull pecked at the open stitch on my arm, removing food left by baby. It gobbled down the biscuit, pecked at my frayed fabric more before flying off, out of sight, into the cloudy, blue horizon.

It was busy, the dump usually was. Large machines worked to break down the rubbish, moving methodically around the yard. Skips came in at one end, pulled by mud encrusted trucks, and were turned out at the other, onto an already huge pile.

Iron machines then gather around the edges, and eat.

This scene, which I look upon now, is different to how I’ve spent most of my time. Rarely I’ve been so wet, or the glue between my joints felt so soft. My struts and bindings hang loose and slack but I still remember when I was taut and strong; my springs young and full of bounce. Now they are rigid with age, they hold the frail fabric, stretched across me. Fabric which was once deep grey, Teflon coated and hid every stitch I had.

All my dignity has gone. It faded with the material that clothed me, replaced with years of memories of bums, bodies. Colourful lives lived on, off and around me.

Before my family found me I stayed with other sofas. If I try really hard, I can remember the smell on the shop floor. It had had an odd odour of acrid fire retardant chemicals, a mixture of nice and nasty which made people sneeze. The gleaming windows smelled strongly of vinegar that would permeate the air. This is mixed with memories of the families who trailed past me with their children crying, and sometimes laughing.

I’d watch those parents clutching their offspring’s tiny hands. My young springs enjoyed the challenge of little feet jumping on me. There are echoes of scolding voices travelling in the air around me, recalling the parents’ wary, caring warnings.

The day my owners found me was a special day, an adoption of sorts. I stayed with them and served them until the paramedics came and found them without any warmth left within their bodies. There was half a century between the day the bought me and they day they left me. Fifty glorious years that went too fast.

Mr and Mrs Gold, not long married, came into the shop one cold, bright spring day. They’d saved money from their wedding day and, as they were expecting their first child, decided to buy a sofa. They saw me, looked at each other and sat down. As we touched the joy which swept through me was intense. I understood my desire and purpose was to serve them. Then, worryingly, they got up and walked away.

Devastated, I watched as they spoke with the man who walked around with the clip board. He and I had a strange relationship. He didn’t sit on me. He used to come up, almost sneaky like, push on my pillows then poke me. Perhaps he’d write down something on his clip board before walking away and doing the same to another of the waiting sofas.

They all sat together around the shop desk, and according to the wall clock, it was an hour before Mr and Mrs Gold stood up again, shook hands with Clipboardman and left the store. Afterwards, Clipboardman laid a notice upon me and no one else sat on me for the rest of the week.

On Saturday morning, the rosy cheeked packing women came with a large trolley full with bundles of packaging cardboard. Laughing and joking they moved around me. I felt special as they pulled up my cushions to place them in plastic bags. I was being protected. They wrapped the plastic from my cubed feet up over my back by running around me with massive roll which was almost as big as they stood!

Still chatting loudly, they heaved me up onto a trolley and wheeled me out of the shop. The light outside was harsh but the air smelt different, fresher and sweet. The sun heating up the plastic and I soon felt uncomfortable standing on the hard, dirty ground.

Then a noise I’d heard often before, suddenly, loudly surrounded the air around as the furniture truck backed up to the warehouse loading bay. I was hoisted up and slid ungraciously onto it. Clipboardman gave the truck driver a nod as he took the trolley away and pulled down the heavy metal door, leaving me in the dark.

My fear at being bundled off the dirty truck and manhandled through a doorway, which, at first, was seemingly too small, was forgotten when I realised I had arrived at the home of Mr and Mrs Gold. This was my family. They had chosen me! At full price too. Their home smelled of vanilla and roses.

Very different to now.

The smell of the decreasing pile of garbage, I am currently part, wafts up my nose and makes me want to vomit. The seagull is back tugging at something buried deep in my back. Squawking loudly, it’s attracted four others. Hungrily they rip me open. I feel the half-eaten chocolate, still partly covered in foil, jerked out from between my springs. I feel sad, as I’ve lost my treasure.

Remembering the intense feeling of devotion I breathe in the memory of how I used to feel, there was no furniture in The Gold’s house as important as I. The mother would sit to feed and cuddle the baby. The father would sit playing with mother and baby for hours, days and weeks. They’d sit together watching television or reading books day after day, week after week, month after month, then years and onto decades.

The baby had grown to a child. She’d felt so safe, so secure that her dropped snacks would be secure. She trusted that I would I look after them. For twenty years I did guard them with my soul. There were times when I thought she’d come back after she grew up and moved away but she never did. Too late now. Perhaps she’ll never know how I failed her.

The gulls fight over their prize. Squabbling in the sky. Teasing me with their cries. As if I wasn’t aware of where I was. I see their freedoms. The machines are getting closer. Beneath my left foot is nothing but air. I hang on. I see men with orange, hard hats pointing up at me and see their mouths move in serious speak.

This was the last place I can stand. Soon I will tumble down the pile and be pulled apart by the metal mouthed monsters. I defy gravity and hang there, just for a moment longer, swinging freely in the wonderful air. I view the world in one glorious flash as I fall.

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris

This Little World of Mine – England

BBC Bias Media Representation and Coverage – Rich People Are Doing My Nut In
By Samantha Harris, formerly Spetch, formerly Tucker born of Rogers

I recently made myself sit through one of the most cringe worthy shows ever screened. First, I thought it was some sort of satire but apparently it was serious.

During this program a BBC presenter had four other grown men carry him and his wheelchair up a rickety wooden staircase. It had proper regal tones. Apart from the obvious fact that everyone was pretty scared. But the BBC are good at lauding it over the poor folk.

But then this BBC presenter just had to go a step further and some.The interviews with the children were strong. You could say it was emotional – yes, those kids were bloody scared.

The fearless BBC were talking to them – in the open – with loads of soldiers around you. They probably even asked them their names in front of the man with guns. They had guns. It is likely those children know very well what those guns do and yet the BBC ask them to risk their security this way??? Why???There was militia at both ends of the street.

Many of these people have been told, by the fashionablefaithgroups and other dubious groups, that invalid people are devils… that disabled people sap good people energy and load of other rubbish – so yes, they were defo scared. They are scared of vampires – it is the era of misinformation.

Perhaps the BBC presenters could work on a more humble attitude to those less fortunate and not wave their bloody degrees and righteousness upon too many poor people – it can feel a little queezy. I did think that from my cosy flat in London.

I expect being able to research is probably a necessity if you are going to go into journalism but not if you work for the BBC. It seems many of the programs are not well researched and do not represent who they are broadcasting to.

Your willingness to show animals is distress is also rather worrying. The dinosaurs really don’t need grown men sitting on female alligators – in the name of some weird fashionablefaithgroups so called science program to show TRex had a strong bite.

This sort of thing is distressing to watch and unnecessary – I can assure you of that it also send out the wrong message was so unnecessary. Thankfully science has come a lot way since that sort of thing. It has become more humane and kind.

Very fed up of paying the BBC to abuse me. The licence is expensive. In the UK we have to pay. By court order if we and refuse we get fined. It is a must do thing. I do not support the BBC. I do not like their politics.

I then made myself sit through a misleading program on how black nurses saved the nhs what sort of racist reporting is this? This is against equality laws – and even if you were allowed to say it, which you are not, it isn’t even true. How can anyone save anything which was only just made…?

The BBC need to start getting responsible with their broadcasting. Just what is their agenda?

I am a woman in a wheelchair, screwed by the NHS and I would like something which reflects who I am and the wonderful life I had led rather than the dribble you keep churning out. I would be a wonderful study of just how bias the BBC is as I drove my car to Israel in the 1990s.

From Brighton I drove my car through Europe to the middle east.

I would love to see things which reflect my life and culture. Fed up of the BBC being racist and lying about our countries history. Fed up of the BBC following other countries interests and lying about ours.

Sort it out. You ruined my childhood with your disgusting broadcasting – and now I will give you my point of view. I watched the program called Rainbow in the 1970s. I got a beating for repeating some of the things you broadcast.

I also read some pretty strange books at a young age – Shakespeare and Steven King, both authors the British elite are determined to shove on us – it’s weird stuff and it’s underage and it should not be happening.

The BBC have a responsibility to be responsible. You have our money. You have the nations souls so you have control. Please play nice.
Innocence should be protected not worshipped or hurt.
Friends in the right places re funding
Friends in the right places re housing
Friends in the right places re medical treatment

The programs this evening were so ill informed that BBC is painful to watch but you make me pay for a licence or go to jail, I have no option but to see what you are trying to brainwash UK with.

So now we know – No more dribble – proper telly please – and stop editing things weird, leave women and children alone. Stop trying to push fashionable faith agenda – we don’t need it, we are just normal folk.

Crafting Pagan Style

The Bridget Cross


The intricately woven straw decoration that brighten churches throughout Britain at the time of Harvest Festival have their origins not in the christian religion but in the beliefs and the ideas stretching aback into prehistory.

The celebration of the harvest is steeped in legend and mythology, and centres around the story of Ceres the Earth Mother, goddess of all that grows out of the earth.

This is based on the theory that women once had complete control over production of food and distribution of services and supplies. As this legend is the same in every country around the globe it is probably more than a theory.

In 1973 in England is was still the custom in some areas of Britain for farmers to leave a row of wheat standing in the fields at the end of the harvest in the belief that bad luck will befall them if it is cut. The legend is that Ceres hides in the corn and to avenge what happened to her.

In some parts of England at least until 1900 as sheaf of corn would be left in the fields, and while it stood there no one was allowed to go into the field. When the sheaf was taken out, women and children were allowed to enter and glean through the stubble.

In another part of the country the last row of corn used to be beat down to the ground by the reapers who shouted, ‘There she is! Hit her.” And, “Knock her to the ground” – also “Don’t let her get away” – basically attempt to make the female creative energy from the remaining corn go back to the earth so the field would be abundant the following year.