Zeitgeist
by Jim Murdoch
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A forty-year-old man starts to realise that he’s not as in touch as he once was. (This story is one of four written in dialect in the forthcoming collection, Making Sense, which is due to be published in May 2013.)
_____________________________________________________________________
Ma wife sez Ah’m too serious.
“Whit d’ye mean, wumman, too serious?”
“Ah dunno, Ben, jist too serious.”
“World’s a serious place, hen.”
“Don’t Ah know it, but do yoo need tae be so serious?”
“Listen, hen, Ah’m ower forty noo. Ah ’hink it’s time Ah goat a wee bit serious noo an’ again.”
“Suit yersel’. Jist don’t come mopin’ t’ me aboot the meanin’ o’ life. Ah’m too busy gettin’ oan wi’ mine t’ worry aboot yoors.”
She had a point, Ah’ll gie her that but Ah doubt we wis keepin’ score that night.
Hae ye had a guid look at oor weans these days? Ah dunno. Mibbe it’s jist me. Ah foond masel’ ootside the big schuil yesterday or the day afore an’ they wur aw jist staunin’ thur, in clumps or oan their ain like wee zombies but they wurnae playin’. Noat wan of ’em. Thur wis nae skippin’ ropes or peevers or nuthin’. Ah asked oor Lynne aboot it.
“We don’t play games oanymare. No like that.”
“Since when?”
“Since Ah don’t know.”
“Nae skippin’ or that ’hing lassies used tae dae wi’ them rubber bands?”
“Naw. Ah’d get a right slaggin’ if Ah turned up wi’ a skippin’ rope.”
“So whit d’ye dae, jist staun around?”
“Aye, maistly.”
Y’know Ah cun mind everythin’ Ah did growin’ up. It wisnae aw magic an’ Boys Own crap either but some of it wis. We used tae go doon tae the rifle range an’ hae a mooch fer auld bullets an’ cartridges an’ thur wis the frog pond tae wi’ aw them millions o’ wee black whitdyacallums. Ah’ll no forget the day we punced T.C. in an’ he shopped us tae his mammy. Aye an’ Ah mind the leatherins Ah goat aff ma da. An’ ma maw tae come t’ ’hink of it if she could catch me.
“That’ll keep ye goin’ tae yer feyther gets hame.”
Ah’d get the jail if Ah laid a finger oan oany o’ ma lot noo. Did oor Callum no threaten me wi’ the European Court o’ Human Rights ower a pile o’ dirty dishes? Whit’s the world comin’ tae?
Ma Granny Betty said it wis comin’ t’ an end. She wis ancient Ah mind. Ah asked her wance how auld she wis an’ she said, “A hunner an’ fifty. Mind yer ain business.” She used tae tell me how she survived the sinkin’ o’ the Titanic but wished she’d gone doon wi’ it.
“World’s an evil place, wee Ben, an evil place.”
“Yes, Gran.”
“Sinners! Fornicators aw!” she’d bellow fae the tap o’ the stairs.
“Whit’s a fornicator, Maw?”
“Ask yer feyther, son; he knows aw aboot these ’hings.”
So Ah did an’ goat ma ear skelped fer ma cheek.
“Did ye read the paper, Ben?”
“Wumman, Ah’ve goat no time t’ read the blinkin’ papers. Thur’s a loaby t’ be painted.”
“The loaby’ll be here when yoo’re no.”
“Mibbe it will an’ mibbe it willnae but Ah widnae like t’ see ye rushin’ aroond the night afore ma wake wi’ a tin o’ gloss in wan haund an’ the Hoover in the other.”
“Let me worry aboot that when the time comes. Hae ye seen the paper?”
“Naw.”
“Here, take a swatch at this.”
So Ah made like Ah wis readin’. Ah knew it wis best tae. When she gets a bee unner her bonnet she cun be a nippy wee sweetie, Ah cun tell yoo.
“Whit am Ah supposed tae be readin’?”
“Gie it here! Are ye blin’?”
It turned oot wan o’ the lassies in oor Lynne’s class wis expectin’. Ah thought when the wife started readin’ thur’d be this big stooshie aboot it but thur wisnae. That wisnae even why she wis in the paper. It wis an article aboot some neu centre fer the support o’ ‘gymslip mithers’. Thur wis a photi of her posin’ wi’ that glaikit SNP cooncillor. Ah wis goabsmacked.
“Did yoo know aboot this?”
“Coorse Ah did, Feyther. The whole schuil knows. Ah mean she wis oot t’ here fer months. She let me feel it kickin’.”
“She did whit?”
“If it’s a girl it’s goin’ t’ be cawed Reagan an’, if it’s a boy, Ronin. Whit’s it t’ yoo in oany case? Ye don’t ’hink Ah’m up the spout tae d’ ye?”
“Ah’d bloody kill ye.” The cheek of her!
“Come aff it. Ye’d dae yer nut jist like Morag’s da did until ye get t’ see the ultrasoond an’ then yoo’ll go, ‘Aw the nice,’ an’ that’ll be yoo. But don’t yoo worry, Ah’m careful.”
“An’ whit d’ye mean by that, young lady?”
“Nothin’, Feyther.”
She wis teasin’ me—oor Lynne’s a guid lassie really—but thur’s some ’hings ye shouldnae tease a man aboot.
Ah don’t mind gettin’ auld. Ah know ma senses areny as sharp as they wance wur but Ah don’t mind goin’ t’ bed an’ wakin’ up daft. Is it jist me? Ah mean… Ah mean… Ah don’t know whit Ah mean, t’ be honest!
The world used t’ make sense, that’s aw Ah cun say. ’Hings used t’ cost the right price an’ the Neu Year sales wur somethin’ special. Ah used t’ get the jokes oan TV an’ the bands played music wi’ a tune. Jesus Christ! Ah’ve turned intae ma feyther. Ah guess Ah knew Ah would wan day. Ah jist thought it’d be later. Coorse when ye’re a wean ye’re the centre o’ the universe. Ah didnae listen t’ ma maw an’ da. Ah respected ’em an’ ’at but Ah know Ah never listened t’ ’em. Ah knew best. Ah ayeways knew best. Ah guess it’s why Ah put up wi’ the cheek Ah get aff ma lot—it’s the Catholic in me—the need fer penance even if it disnae make sense, jist as long as it hurts.
Whit makes ’hings make sense? Ah mean either they dae or they dinnae. Ah’m nae intellectual, no by a long chalk. Ah’m jist a workin’ man wi’ a crabbit wife, three whingin’ weans, a bit of a beer gut an’ an ulcer fer ma sins. Ah don’t own ma ain hoose. Ah don’t even own ma ain car. Ah shouldnae be troubled by the ’hings that trouble me but Ah guess that’s whit bein’ forty an’ the rest does t’ a man. It makes him ’hink. It makes him try an’ assess his place in the grand scheme o’ ’hings. Trouble is, these days Ah dinnae seem t’ fit. Ye don’t believe it’ll happen t’ yoo but who’re we? Ah guess even the grand scheme o’ ’hings canne staun still fer the likes o’ me.
Noo who’s feelin sorry fer himsel’? Ye know nostalgia’s an affy ’hing. Ah thought it wis a disease when Ah wis young. Ah thought ye caught it when ye goat auld an’ it killed ye. Ah wisnae far wrang at that.
“So’re ye paintin’ or staunin’ thur lettin’ aw the heat oot oor livin’ room?”
“Naw, the mood’s left me. D’ye fancy a cup o’ tea, hen?”
“Long as Ah’m no makin’ it.”
“Naw, hen, ye’re aw right thur. Ye’re aw right.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: A forty-year-old man starts to realise that he’s not as in touch as he once was. (This story is one of four written in dialect in the forthcoming collection, Making Sense, which is due to be published in May 2013.)
_____________________________________________________________________
Ma wife sez Ah’m too serious.
“Whit d’ye mean, wumman, too serious?”
“Ah dunno, Ben, jist too serious.”
“World’s a serious place, hen.”
“Don’t Ah know it, but do yoo need tae be so serious?”
“Listen, hen, Ah’m ower forty noo. Ah ’hink it’s time Ah goat a wee bit serious noo an’ again.”
“Suit yersel’. Jist don’t come mopin’ t’ me aboot the meanin’ o’ life. Ah’m too busy gettin’ oan wi’ mine t’ worry aboot yoors.”
She had a point, Ah’ll gie her that but Ah doubt we wis keepin’ score that night.
Hae ye had a guid look at oor weans these days? Ah dunno. Mibbe it’s jist me. Ah foond masel’ ootside the big schuil yesterday or the day afore an’ they wur aw jist staunin’ thur, in clumps or oan their ain like wee zombies but they wurnae playin’. Noat wan of ’em. Thur wis nae skippin’ ropes or peevers or nuthin’. Ah asked oor Lynne aboot it.
“We don’t play games oanymare. No like that.”
“Since when?”
“Since Ah don’t know.”
“Nae skippin’ or that ’hing lassies used tae dae wi’ them rubber bands?”
“Naw. Ah’d get a right slaggin’ if Ah turned up wi’ a skippin’ rope.”
“So whit d’ye dae, jist staun around?”
“Aye, maistly.”
Y’know Ah cun mind everythin’ Ah did growin’ up. It wisnae aw magic an’ Boys Own crap either but some of it wis. We used tae go doon tae the rifle range an’ hae a mooch fer auld bullets an’ cartridges an’ thur wis the frog pond tae wi’ aw them millions o’ wee black whitdyacallums. Ah’ll no forget the day we punced T.C. in an’ he shopped us tae his mammy. Aye an’ Ah mind the leatherins Ah goat aff ma da. An’ ma maw tae come t’ ’hink of it if she could catch me.
“That’ll keep ye goin’ tae yer feyther gets hame.”
Ah’d get the jail if Ah laid a finger oan oany o’ ma lot noo. Did oor Callum no threaten me wi’ the European Court o’ Human Rights ower a pile o’ dirty dishes? Whit’s the world comin’ tae?
Ma Granny Betty said it wis comin’ t’ an end. She wis ancient Ah mind. Ah asked her wance how auld she wis an’ she said, “A hunner an’ fifty. Mind yer ain business.” She used tae tell me how she survived the sinkin’ o’ the Titanic but wished she’d gone doon wi’ it.
“World’s an evil place, wee Ben, an evil place.”
“Yes, Gran.”
“Sinners! Fornicators aw!” she’d bellow fae the tap o’ the stairs.
“Whit’s a fornicator, Maw?”
“Ask yer feyther, son; he knows aw aboot these ’hings.”
So Ah did an’ goat ma ear skelped fer ma cheek.
“Did ye read the paper, Ben?”
“Wumman, Ah’ve goat no time t’ read the blinkin’ papers. Thur’s a loaby t’ be painted.”
“The loaby’ll be here when yoo’re no.”
“Mibbe it will an’ mibbe it willnae but Ah widnae like t’ see ye rushin’ aroond the night afore ma wake wi’ a tin o’ gloss in wan haund an’ the Hoover in the other.”
“Let me worry aboot that when the time comes. Hae ye seen the paper?”
“Naw.”
“Here, take a swatch at this.”
So Ah made like Ah wis readin’. Ah knew it wis best tae. When she gets a bee unner her bonnet she cun be a nippy wee sweetie, Ah cun tell yoo.
“Whit am Ah supposed tae be readin’?”
“Gie it here! Are ye blin’?”
It turned oot wan o’ the lassies in oor Lynne’s class wis expectin’. Ah thought when the wife started readin’ thur’d be this big stooshie aboot it but thur wisnae. That wisnae even why she wis in the paper. It wis an article aboot some neu centre fer the support o’ ‘gymslip mithers’. Thur wis a photi of her posin’ wi’ that glaikit SNP cooncillor. Ah wis goabsmacked.
“Did yoo know aboot this?”
“Coorse Ah did, Feyther. The whole schuil knows. Ah mean she wis oot t’ here fer months. She let me feel it kickin’.”
“She did whit?”
“If it’s a girl it’s goin’ t’ be cawed Reagan an’, if it’s a boy, Ronin. Whit’s it t’ yoo in oany case? Ye don’t ’hink Ah’m up the spout tae d’ ye?”
“Ah’d bloody kill ye.” The cheek of her!
“Come aff it. Ye’d dae yer nut jist like Morag’s da did until ye get t’ see the ultrasoond an’ then yoo’ll go, ‘Aw the nice,’ an’ that’ll be yoo. But don’t yoo worry, Ah’m careful.”
“An’ whit d’ye mean by that, young lady?”
“Nothin’, Feyther.”
She wis teasin’ me—oor Lynne’s a guid lassie really—but thur’s some ’hings ye shouldnae tease a man aboot.
Ah don’t mind gettin’ auld. Ah know ma senses areny as sharp as they wance wur but Ah don’t mind goin’ t’ bed an’ wakin’ up daft. Is it jist me? Ah mean… Ah mean… Ah don’t know whit Ah mean, t’ be honest!
The world used t’ make sense, that’s aw Ah cun say. ’Hings used t’ cost the right price an’ the Neu Year sales wur somethin’ special. Ah used t’ get the jokes oan TV an’ the bands played music wi’ a tune. Jesus Christ! Ah’ve turned intae ma feyther. Ah guess Ah knew Ah would wan day. Ah jist thought it’d be later. Coorse when ye’re a wean ye’re the centre o’ the universe. Ah didnae listen t’ ma maw an’ da. Ah respected ’em an’ ’at but Ah know Ah never listened t’ ’em. Ah knew best. Ah ayeways knew best. Ah guess it’s why Ah put up wi’ the cheek Ah get aff ma lot—it’s the Catholic in me—the need fer penance even if it disnae make sense, jist as long as it hurts.
Whit makes ’hings make sense? Ah mean either they dae or they dinnae. Ah’m nae intellectual, no by a long chalk. Ah’m jist a workin’ man wi’ a crabbit wife, three whingin’ weans, a bit of a beer gut an’ an ulcer fer ma sins. Ah don’t own ma ain hoose. Ah don’t even own ma ain car. Ah shouldnae be troubled by the ’hings that trouble me but Ah guess that’s whit bein’ forty an’ the rest does t’ a man. It makes him ’hink. It makes him try an’ assess his place in the grand scheme o’ ’hings. Trouble is, these days Ah dinnae seem t’ fit. Ye don’t believe it’ll happen t’ yoo but who’re we? Ah guess even the grand scheme o’ ’hings canne staun still fer the likes o’ me.
Noo who’s feelin sorry fer himsel’? Ye know nostalgia’s an affy ’hing. Ah thought it wis a disease when Ah wis young. Ah thought ye caught it when ye goat auld an’ it killed ye. Ah wisnae far wrang at that.
“So’re ye paintin’ or staunin’ thur lettin’ aw the heat oot oor livin’ room?”
“Naw, the mood’s left me. D’ye fancy a cup o’ tea, hen?”
“Long as Ah’m no makin’ it.”
“Naw, hen, ye’re aw right thur. Ye’re aw right.”
About the Author
Jim Murdoch was born in Glasgow and despite the fact he’s lived all his life in Scotland and occasionally writes in dialect, he does not have even a slight Scottish accent. He began writing poetry in the seventies and continues to this day. Somehow, in the early nineties, he found himself writing novels—five completed to date—but it wasn’t until the turn of the century he found the need to actually have a go at a short story. He has, however, written enough now to warrant a collection, Making Sense. You can read further examples on his website. He also maintains the literary blog The Truth About Lies.