Swan Songs

by Swan, Tarn

  His wrist is fractured, but thankfully it’s a simple fracture with no complications. He has to wear a cast for about four or five weeks until it heals. The ordeal become more bearable when he discovered the casts came in a choice of colours and patterns. He treated the hospital plaster room like a department store and the nurses as sales staff aiding him to make a choice about what colour would suit him best. He was disappointed that a glamorous glittery version wasn’t available to compliment eveningwear and then couldn’t decide between neon pink and sky blue. Could they possibly mix and match? They kindly did. He’s now snugly tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle getting over his shock. He’s demanding lunch, something turkey free. He’s famished, so can I stop dancing attendance on my laptop keyboard and dance it on him instead, immediately please. I sometimes wonder just who rules who around here.

  28th December 2005:

  A Round Of Plink Pong

  I’m back again, doing a double entry…there’s a rude joke there somewhere, but I won’t pursue it. Him in frocks is currently sound asleep. It’s snowing heavily now and it looks beautiful whirling past the bedroom window. I like to watch it falling, though I think I’ll have to close the blinds and draw the curtains soon to keep in the heat. Snow may be pretty to look at, but I’m glad I didn’t have to venture out in it to collect him from work this evening. Some of the roads between here and the market town he works in are pretty basic and easily blocked by snow and ice. There’s been a few times when, despite all precautions, I’ve almost driven off the road into a ditch.

  I made him soup for lunch which he ate and promptly brought back up again. Poor love. It’s a hell of a shock when you break a bone. I think it suddenly caught up with him, as did the fact that the cast will bring restrictions he’ll find annoying. It extends above his elbow and though it’s mainly comprised of fibreglass it has a kind of plate on the underside of the arm to make sure the bone is held rigidly while it heals. He’ll have another x-ray in two or three weeks time and if it’s healing well they’ll replace the present cast with a smaller one below the elbow which will give him a greater range of movement. He was brave when it was set. He refused a painkilling injection, fearing the needle more than the pain when the doctor realigned the bone. They gave him a strong oral painkiller and a mild sedative. Even so it still hurt.

  After he’d finished being sick at lunchtime I helped him get comfortable by placing a pillow under his arm to support it and then I lay down with him and gently scolded him to sleep with talk of the rewards reaped by bad temper. The doctor at the hospital advised a couple of days off work to rest the injury, but said Twinks should be able to manage alright after that, seeing as it’s his left arm and not his right. I’m not due back at work until after the New Year, so at least I can be here for him.

  Mum rang this afternoon. She’s having problems with her washing machine and wants me to look at it. She’d look herself, but she still isn’t allowed to do any heavy lifting. From the sounds of it one of her bra wires has escaped and lodged itself in the pump. It’s something that frequently happens in our house. I told her what I always tell Twinks, underwired bras should be hand washed not flaming well machine-washed. The wretched things get everywhere and cause untold damage. I asked why Priscilla couldn’t fix the machine for her? She said because he had recently fixed her toaster and she needed a flak jacket and a hard helmet to make toast because the bloody thing shot out rounds of burning bread like an ack-ack gun shot out rounds of ammunition. She didn’t want him poking around in her front loader. I told her I’d come over as soon as I could and broke the news about Twinkles early morning accident. She immediately declared her intention of driving over with goodies so she could offer sympathy and make sure I was looking after him properly. I reminded her that she wasn’t allowed to drive again yet, stated that we still had a houseful of goodies leftover from Christmas and I was looking after him perfectly adequately, thank you. I put the phone near his peacefully snoring person to prove that he wasn’t lying neglected and writhing in agony under my cruel care.

  We chatted about Christmas and she said again how much she loved the necklace and earrings and the dressing gown we had given her and how much she and Prissy had enjoyed Christmas Day. It really was a nice day, despite the turkey taking far longer to cook than anticipated. Everything else had to be put on hold until it finished off. At one point the bird had an audience of seven prodding at it and speculating as to whether its juices were running clear yet. The sprouts and chestnuts were a tad overdone, but it all came right in the end. We ended up with an extra guest in the guise of BM. I met him at the hospital when I was visiting Barry and he let slip that his plans had fallen through and he’d be spending Christmas on his own. I invited him to lunch with us. Barry was unwell and hardly spoke a word. Not even flowers and gifts could raise interest or a smile from him. It was sad.

  Christmas comes but once a year and with it brings good cheer, which of course, depending on how much cheer one imbibes, leads to hellish hangovers, as proved the case with the guests who stayed over at our house on Christmas night. Our kitchen resembled Death Row on Boxing Day morning, well, noon actually by the time Twinks, Lulu, Brian and Big Mary roused themselves. I made tea and dished out alka seltzer. It was plink-plink-fizz all round and complaints about why I couldn’t hand out quieter painkillers. The sound of stomach-settling medication loudly dissolving in water was as nothing compared to the sound of overloaded digestive systems loudly exuding pent up gasses. There’s something about Christmas and all its indulgences that does something hideous to the digestive system resulting in particularly foul expulsions. I had a kitchen full of men who were all grumbling, scratching their balls and exuding this annual poison gas. I felt in danger of suffocation and had to open the back door, not just for fresh air, but in order to reduce the risk of an explosion when I put the grill on to make toast. I swear several blackbirds thudded from a tree and expired as the outpouring noxious fumes contaminated the outside air. The men responsible all yelled at me to close the bloody door before they froze to death, unpitying swine that I was. They then claimed the pong was my fault for overcooking the sprouts. Folding my arms I shook my head, tut-tutting in mock disapproval, smugly grinning as four pairs of bloodshot eyes sourly fixed themselves on my face and told me that if I didn’t desist with the Skippy impersonation there would be horrible repercussions.

  Brian said he’d had the weirdest dream about being a Tiller Girl. I broke it to him gently…it had been no dream. He had indeed donned exotic headdress and high heels and along with his fellow drunks performed an arm-linked synchronised high-kicking dance routine that would have graced the stage at the London Palladium in days gone by. I had the videophone footage to prove it. He groaned and demanded to know why I hadn’t saved him from the drunken antics of bloody drag queens. I gave an assurance about not letting the phone fall into the wrong hands, by which time of course Twinks had relayed the pictures to friends everywhere and was talking about uploading it to You Tube. As I surveyed the motley crew before me I decided that being the official lift giver on Christmas Day had definite advantages. I was as fresh as a daisy while all others wilted.

  From a personal point of view I thought Christmas was going to lose its glitter before it even got properly underway. On waking Twinkles presented me with a gift that I knew exceeded his set budget. It was a costly piece of Swarovski crystal, a big polar bear ornament. It was indicative of the kind of thing he would like ‘me’ to collect over the coming year; much in the tradition of the Clarice Cliff teapot he presented me with last year. I think he hoped, it being Christmas Day, I might be imbued with enough genial goodwill to allow it to pass. I wasn’t and we had stern words. I wanted an explanation as to how he’d paid for it. He hadn’t paid for it. He’d just taken it from the shop. WHAT? I had a flashback to an earlier Christmas when he ‘borrowed’ a valuable necklace from stock. He hastily went onto say that he’d asked Don for permission to take the ornament to show me on th
e proviso that if I liked it then he would pay for it after Christmas or return it to stock. I asked how he thought he could pay for it after Christmas anymore than he could before? He hoped when I saw how lovely the ornament was I’d allow him to use his Christmas Bonus to buy it for me. Didn’t I know that Swarovski was all the rage again after being a feature of Jordan and Peter’s wedding fest? All the big celebrities were into it, even Elton John. I said I didn’t care if Swarovski crystals studded every part of Elton John’s wedding trousseau including his condoms. The ornament was to be returned to stock ASAP and we’d be having a little discussion about the matter at a more appropriate time.

  I went downstairs to make tea and preheat the oven ready for the turkey while feeling less than festive. I’d just poured the water into the teapot and was waiting for it to brew when my mobile rang. It was Twinkles. Could we start Christmas morning over again, as if the polar bear had become an extinct species? I said I wasn’t normally one to celebrate the extinction of a species, but on this occasion I would make an exception. I took a tray of tea and toast up to the bedroom. He had another present waiting for me. It didn’t have wrapping paper on it, but it did have a ribbon tied round it. It was magnificent and it brought a smile to my face. By the time I’d untied it and enjoyed it the tea and toast were stone cold. Still, nothing could wipe the smile from my face. He went on to give me a new tie and a CD, the Jeff Wayne musical version of War Of The Worlds. I was delighted. It was as much as I needed.

  I had given him one of my gifts on Christmas Eve, the peacock feather boa he had coveted while shopping at the MetroCentre. Seeing how much he loved it was as good as receiving a present for myself, better in fact. It made his evening and as such I could hardly wait to give him his main present on Christmas Day. His reaction didn’t disappoint. He was over the moon with it. I was plastered in kisses and drowned in squeals of delight. It’s a 1920’s Peacock feather fan that I discovered in a local antique shop. It was hideously expensive, but I had to buy it for him. It doesn’t quite match the feather boa, but it’s close enough. It’s a beautiful thing that exudes all the glamour of the era. He adores it and no one was allowed to touch it, though he did permit Lulu a small stroke.

  Speak of the devil! Lulu is bellowing for help. He’s making supper and is having some kind of kitchen crisis. Honestly, living in this house is like living in a zoo sometimes.

  29th December 2005:

  Journal Milestone

  Who would believe it? It’s exactly a year to the day that I started this Journal about life with Twinkles. Like most years it’s been a mixture of the mundane, the happy, the sad, the fearful and the downright irritating, our hate mailer springs to mind. Let’s hope that the coming year sees an end to that particular nonsense. The time has flown by. It’s scary. The older I get the faster the world seems to spin on its axis, unravelling the thread of my life as it turns. When I was a little boy my Nana told me that all human beings had an invisible thread that linked them to the earth’s axis, or spool as she called it, and as the world turned the thread of your life unravelled. Everyone’s thread was a different length so you never knew when it would run out. I think it’s a story that has its origins in classical mythology and the idea of the Three Fates, one of whom determined the length of a man’s life, another who wove the pattern of his destiny and the third, Atropos, who was the cutter of the final thread. I made the mistake of telling Nana’s thread story to Twinkles. It spooked him. The very idea of his life being unravelled day by day onto some great spool disturbed and upset him, especially as there was no telling when the thread would run out. He had nightmares for several nights afterwards. I cursed myself for misjudging his level of sensitivity and swore to be more circumspect about what I told him in future. I suppose in my own defence it was in the early days of our relationship and we still had a lot to learn about each other’s emotional workings.

  When I first started my scribbles in this diary Twinks opined it would be a five-day wonder and I’d soon give it up. He now claims I’m obsessed and I pay it more attention than I pay him. I said if he so wished I would stop writing it. He immediately said no he wouldn’t dream of making me give up my little hobby. While I’m busy tapping away on the keyboard at least I’m not nagging and he gets some peace and quiet. Besides, he wants people to know what a hard life he leads as the submissive partner of a domineering civil servant. The truth is he loves having an adoring slave (me) writing about him. It makes him feel like a celebrity.

  Keeping a journal has been a great stress reliever for me. It’s like talking to a confessor. I’ve found that putting something down in print can often take tension away from a situation and even help me view it from a different angle. On the other hand writing a personal diary that can be publicly viewed has some disadvantages. I’ve had nice notes and emails from folk who have stumbled across my diary, but I’ve also had some unpleasant ones and in addition I’ve had what I call ‘interference’ emails. These are mails from people who feel obliged to put me right about things. They might live a similar lifestyle, or at least have an awareness of power exchange relationships, which leads them to suppose that they are somehow experts in the field and therefore qualified to tell someone when they are getting it wrong.

  For example, someone wrote to me a month or so back and told me I couldn’t call myself a Dom or Top, because I’m not strict enough. I don’t fulfil the correct criteria. I let Twinkles get away with too much. I also let him speak to me disrespectfully and allow him to swear. I gave it serious thought for at least two seconds and concluded that I couldn’t give a damn. At the end of the day what Twinkles and I share is unique to us as a couple. I will not have our relationship compared to others and be found wanting. I will not be told that I am in contravention of some kind of Dom/sub code of conduct. We know what works for us and frankly it’s all that matters. If it doesn’t suit some people’s perceptions of what a power exchange relationship is or should be, then I’m afraid it’s just tough. We’ll interpret our roles our way and make rules that suit us, while respecting the right of others to do the same, as long as it harms no one else.

  I’m being informed that I’ve gone quite red in the face and need to calm down and keep an eye on my blood pressure, as in these modern times men in their thirties are falling like ninepins.

  Talking of blood pressure. Mine just about shot off the gauge last night when I discovered that Lulu had tried to boil eggs in the microwave, with the result of course that they exploded. He was lucky not to have been badly injured. I read a case about a little girl who suffered terrible eye damage as the result of an exploding egg. They don’t always go off inside the microwave. If they have a tougher shell, like the organic free range ones tend to have, they explode when you take them out. That’s what happened to dizzy Lu. He’d just set them into eggcups and was getting his toast from under the grill to make soldiers with, when his eggs went off like hand grenades sending shrapnel all over the kitchen. I gave him a piece of my mind. God knows he doesn’t seem to have many of his own. I mean when it comes to fast food you can’t get much faster than eggs of any description and trying to hurry the process further along by resorting to the microwave is just ludicrous. He was very sheepish and apologetic and once he’d stopped shaking he cleaned up the mess. There was egg everywhere, even on the light fitting. He’s a darling man, but he doesn’t always engage his brain before acting. He’s gone to spend a few days with his parents. His mum wants to fuss him and make him another Christmas dinner.

  I’m being roundly scolded. Twinkles has just discovered I pinched the Crunchie bar out of his Cadbury’s selection box when he was sleeping yesterday afternoon. ‘What kind of selfish greedy man pinches his partner’s Crunchie bar when he’s sick with a broken wrist!’ I’m unrepentant. Subterfuge is the only way I get anything when it comes to chocolate.

  He’s getting bored bless him. I can tell by the way he’s flicking rolled up sweet wrappers at the baubles on my Christmas tree. It’s time for
me to close my laptop and give my attention elsewhere. He wants to try out the present that mum gave him for Christmas, which for once he really likes. It’s one of those chocolate fondue fountain things and he’ll need a hand to set it up. It should be fun. It’s amazing what you can dip in chocolate once you put your mind to it. Au revoir!

  More Stardust Diaries:

  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/11218