The Isle of Man

                                                                                                Man in all its Da Vinci splendour

When you read the title of my blog, it probably brings back memories of exotic holiday destinations, islands, cocktails (a word whose origin I've always been curious about), etc. But I do not refer to the small isle you may have learned to associate with The Isle of Man. In my mind, it is Men Planet. Men Headquarters from which all secret operations are discussed and executed. You see, the way dogs mark their territory with a golden surprise, the territory of a man too can be easily recognised. There are certain similarities that should make an alarm of suspicion blare in your head. When comparing bacherlors' apartments, they all seem alike.

The greyness of their walls and coldness of their interior is a familiar sight for any woman lured to the predator's nest. A porn tape may be stashed away in a distant closet no female hand is allowed to touch (unless of course the high-quality work of filmmaking is to be enjoyed together), but small signs of perversion aside, all bachelor pads seem designed by the same person. There is a high availability of high-fi technological devices such as flatscreens, stereos and computers, which by the way, is a topic of conversation best left untouched if you do not wish to be bored to death by a lengthy speech on the subject (their inner nerd is shy, but when provoked, strangely enthusiastic).

When it comes to cultural miracles such as art, books and soothing, instrumental music, a man's apartment is oft completely devoid of these things. Men are more interested in a comfortable, practical home so they can lie on the sofa after a long day of work and watch TV (meaning sports, porn or action flicks).

These modern day bachelors are an odd breed altogether. Most consider a woman won the second her foot steps over the threshold of their front door. All ambition to seduce a woman properly and lead her down the sinful path of temptation is stifled once she agrees to have a cup of coffee at his place or however you wish to phrase it. As if agreeing to such a thing means consensual sex is a sure thing. For a man, showing a woman his home is the last step. And once a woman is seduced into his bed, what is next? Most relationships do not survive a night of passion - or five minutes of frustration in some cases.

So when you are brought to such an apartment, what does that say about you? After all, should a home not reflect the personality of its owner? Indeed, are women secretly attracted to the kind of man who would want to inhabit such a place? Do they want cheap thrills? We tell ourselves we don't. Yet the macho man in leather jacket often lures us to his trap. Opposites attract, but the macho man can only be bed, not wed.

With a one-night stand, we have no standards. But what do we look for, for a long-term relationship? Our expectations are unrealistic perhaps. That a dashing young man will approach us in slow-motion like in commercials and whisper some intellectually stimulating pick-up line such as: "You're hot. Are you new?" An image that does not correspond with our imaginary future boyfriend encounters. We romanticise men. Why? It makes reality a bit more bearable. Some of them must be decent. Surely. But they're all taken...Are they?

Poetry - Reluctant Princess

And with a solemn sigh I said: "No."

When you asked me: "Shall we wed?"
No ring on my finger or on thine
No stranger in this bed of mine

I shall not borne thee sons or daughters
Groomed like bunnies that one slaughters
A porcelain doll I refuse to be
For a man’s fleeting idolatry

To lead me down the aisle in white

And corrupt me come the wedding night
I shine and shall be seen by all
With suitors worthy, fine and tall

That awaits those who woo and chase
Only the most eligible face
I prithee, Father, help me flee
Make me princess of a nunnery

Regency Scene - A Bachelor Visits

Harley Manor was all aflutter that morning - the maids whispered of intrigue and bachelors. As usual, they were right. There was quite an uproar in the Hamilton residence - the eligible Mr. Sharpe had unexpectedly come to call and Audrey sat in the drawing room immaculately groomed and with all the awkwardness in conversation her pestering relations invariably inflicted through their incessant encouragements.

Although Miss Hamilton was of good family, education and sense, her mother had never regarded her notions concerning her marital state as of any consequence. Her disinclination to marry had been discarded as a folly of youth but as the years passed and she reached the age of two and twenty, she gained a reputation as a bit of a spinster.

But Audrey simply enjoyed the peace and quiet. She was a spinster without the characteristic lack of charm and means. Quite the contrary, when in her element and left to her own devices, Audrey could be described as lively, pleasant and sarcastic, though agreeably so. But with her mother looming over her petite figure, her personality shrinked in response and she grew taciturn, reserved - closed.

Mr. Sharpe, fashionably dressed and in possession of a fine pair of sideburns and brooding good looks, was received cordially, even graciously by the lady of the house. But as for the heiress of the family, she cast him simply indifferent looks and longingly glanced outside, filling his imagination with visions of Miss Hamilton engaged in all sorts of active employment such as horseback riding and archery. He sensed that her mother's presence affected her disposition and became only curious to learn more about his unwilling hostess.

"You live very comfortably. I daresay you spend your time tolerable well here," he said in an attempt to gain access to the inner workings of her mind. When the daughter gently sighed at the poor excuse of conversation, the mother took over.

"Oh, yes! It is very good of you to call and you are most welcome here. I shall certainly add you to the guest list of our little ball," Mrs. Hamilton remarked nonchalantly to steer the conversation toward a more intimate setting for their acquaintance.

"A ball? How delightful. And when will it take place? I have heard little about it," James Sharpe observed, having in truth heard nothing at all. Audrey roused herself from her thoughts to amuse herself by acting the part of the huntress.

"It is a great secret and you are the first to hear of it. You will come, won't you?" she batted her eyelashes and moved her fan to and fro to assume a more delicate manner befitting her new part. Josephine nearly squeaked with delight but covered up her pleasure by smiling generously at her tapestries.James shared her love for the theatre and quickly recognised the game she had entered and promptly followed suit.

"Napoleon himself couldn't stop me."

Audrey could barely contain her coquettish expression and smiled.
"Well, then I suppose you are the first confirmed guest. How marvelous. We must instantly look to the seating arrangements to accommodate Mr. Sharpe," she informed her daughter.

"You may seat him by me. There is nothing so stimulating as dinner table conversation. We shall bond over such subject matters as who wears the best pair of breeches and who tripped over his feet on the dance floor," she airily suggested, having only in mind her intention to avoid Mr. Beckham. Horrid man. Josephine, quite oblivious to her ill-founded dislike, deduced from the remark that her daughter had taken a fancy to a man at last. And an eligible bachelor, even! How splendid!

To Mr. Sharpe this merely meant he had now entered a more friendly sphere in Miss Hamilton's acquaintance and as he had no mercenary interest in the lady, he sought only to widen his social circle in seeking out her company - which was said to be entertaining and prone to diverting remarks.
"I shall look forward to such a comparative study," he assented, much to everyone's satisfaction.

Short Story - Motionless

I did not feel her mouth as she kissed me. Nor the raindrops feasting on my skin. But I remember how I used to walk down this narrow, cobblestone path. Glowing with the smile of youth and a dollop of ice-cream on my chin. I steal a glance at a distant football field and the past dances before my eyes.  I had the best kick of all the boys on the football team.

''The Tornadoes'' I had dubbed our team of which I was the leader. They handed me a shiny medal with a star on my last day of primary school. ‘’Most likely to be successful,’’ it read and my parents flashed their cameras and hung the pictures in the living room for all the neighbours to see.

‘’He’s got a bright future,’’ my mum would say over a cup of gossip and a slice of cake. My neighbours visited often.
‘’That’s what happens when women don’t work,’’ my father whispered.
‘’They stay home, do the dishes and turn into chocolate-eating soap opera enthusiasts. And that, my boy, is not what men want.‘’

I wanted to ask him why. But I didn’t. I liked chocolate and sometimes mum would let me watch the telly with her and we’d worry over the latest kidnap plot together. Would I end up like her? Inviting neighbours over for a calorie fest and indulging in brainless entertainment? A housewife. Apron strapped across my chest and the aroma of culinary delights slithering from the kitchen door. But I had my men activities.

Climbing trees, collecting toy cars and chasing the pig-tailed girls in the park. But everything was different now. Secondary school would make me a man. ‘’I am one of them now,’’ I thought as I strutted down this very path, the stones weeping beneath my feet.  I did not talk like them or walk like them, but I could try. I practised in front of the mirror, posing with sunglasses and a leather jacket from my father’s closet. With cool, macho strides I made my way across the room. It felt natural, intimidating and slightly theatrical – in a cool, masculine way of course.

I transitioned from tree house captain to class president and years passed in the blink of an eye. Study I rarely did, but this was hardly reflected in my grades, which ‘’was a sign of remarkable cleverness’’ according to Mrs. Millton, our English teacher. Parties were frequently abandoned for a night of teenage passion with one of the many girlfriends I had. Their mindless giggling and fashion tips bored me.

‘’I want three kids when I grow up,’’ Wendy, the first girl I slept with, informed me on the moment of entry. The useless piece of information weakened my resolve and we were forced to postpone our little adventure. Needless to say, every time we made love (well, it was love to her anyway and let’s leave it at that) I pictured Wendy as a middle-aged woman dressed in an oversized shirt, eating cake and organising tea parties to discuss the latest TV drama. Was I going to marry my mother?

My performances during that relationship were less that inspired. I was knocked off my feet, literally, when I bumped into Helen at the local coffee shop. A college student with fiery red hair and a devious personality to match, my heart leapt into my throat when our eyes met. I stared at her with a vacant expression for what felt like an eternity until she spoke and I was released from my trance.

‘’Hello,’’ she addressed me.  I grinned like an idiot and mumbled a greeting in return. We made out for the next hour and my lips felt sore when I finally reached my bed. Helen. Helen. She made me want to sing and dance and laugh and scream. All at the same time. She was Helen of Troy. The fairest of them all. And she was mine. For the first time in my life, I was in love. The forced poetry assignment took flight and earned me the nickname ‘’Will’’ after William Shakespeare.

It also spoke to Helen’s sentimental girly heart and her messages became more and more lovey. Either too juvenile or too mature to deal with it, I broke up with her and caused quite a scene when my next poem jumped from lovesick to heartbreak to murder.

It was the beginning of my career as a writer, a study I pursued at university and ended with a degree in journalism and a job at the local newspaper. Obituaries, not the kind of articles you pour your heart and soul into to sculpt the ideal linguistic piece of art. But it was a start. So, with my youth forgotten like yesterday’s caramel-coated donut, what now?

The path is no fluffy mattress – its embrace painful rather than loving. I know that now. The past is gone. And I am here. The fresh smell of blood is clinging to my lips. I wait for them. Surely she’s called them by now. Her kisses tickled me. She’s a tease, always was. But caring.

Here they come, stretcher in hand. I feel light-headed as they lift me and I close my eyes so the world may stop spinning.
I awake. That familiar beeping of a heart monitor trespassing dreams.

‘’Where am I?’’ My voice sounds different yet the same. Weak yet strong. Confused.
‘’You’re safe now.’’ It is her and it takes me a moment for my brain to register that she’s holding my hand.
‘’They kicked you because you got in their way. They pushed you out of your wheelchair.’’ There is sadness in her voice but her smile only grows wider to conceal it.

I steal a glance at the object in the corner and remember – I am cripple. I cannot walk and it’s many years since I last played football. One fall down the stairs and life as you know it – gone. Forever.
''The Tornadoes'' they called us. And I was their leader.