Snowcase #30 • 10 September 2007 • The SnowBlog
Snowcase #30
Garan is from Pontypridd in South Wales. He spent ten years teaching English in Europe and South America and now lives in Cambridge. He is a freelance writer. Reglers is his novel and he says 'For best reading results, imagine a strong valleys of South Wales accent.'
Dai wants an independent Wales, Owain wants his old life back. The reely big news in my life is thah up until yesterday mornin I sold used books for a livin in The Dying of the Light Book Emporium at number 18 Penderyn Street. Came as a bih uv a shook ih did to geh the boot, I cun tell ew. Seems my good long years of service counted for nothin in the end see. Now, admittedly I'd gone in smellin foul of the night before an lookin like somein the cat ad asked the dog to elp er drag in. Buh thah was still no reason for Gab to jest snap like thah was ih? I mean, there's a certain way of doin these things. The decorum of dismissal. I should know like. Been sacked from a fair few jobs in my time I av. Buh people uv always gone about ih nicely see. Ih elps yew mind less yew know.
There I am though, only jest through the front door, fightin off a yawn an eyes bloodshot. Say mornin to Old Mrs Mason I do. She's in the corner as usual, lookin up the dirty bits in DH Lawrence an gigglin into er pearls. Then, quick sudden, Gab emerges from a dust cloud screamin the bluest of murders at me an my feet are sweatin somein rotten in my daps. For too long she says I been abusin er good nature. I doan care about anyone or anythin she says an ow cun she av ever trusted me to work in er shop the state I'm in? I dunno mun, the lies people tell. I find many of the people in my life exist almost pewerly within the realms of fansty. So I jest went c'mon mun Gab this is no way to start the week now is ih? Leh's jest press play on the kettle an I'll puh the Pratchetts into chronological an all will be well. Thah's when the darkness came upon er. Thought she was gonnuh it me I did. Honest now. Tampin she was. So I old my ands up in the traditional gesture of conciliation an pacification. Move back a step. Av to puh some distance between me an thah evil lookin clasp on er ambag like.
Thah was when she leh out the longest sigh an said she'd give me a month's pay to geh out. Right there an then. Ad no bloody option mun. Mean look she ad on er. Like I was some cheatin low life she was kickin out the door after years of anguish. At last er eyes said, at last. So I thought better of sayin ow I'd been suffrin profound an ungovernable torments of late, turned right on my eel an walked out. On eleven years of salesmanship mind! Out through the door I went, without so much as a keep in touch with Christmas cards or a watch ow yew go now! But then, thinkin about ih, I was only ever on ourlee pay at the Dying of the Light. So I spawse I should consider ih somein of a result to geh a golden andshake.
------------------------------
Author: Garan Holcombe
Email: garanh [at] gmail [dot] com
Emma
Garan is from Pontypridd in South Wales. He spent ten years teaching English in Europe and South America and now lives in Cambridge. He is a freelance writer. Reglers is his novel and he says 'For best reading results, imagine a strong valleys of South Wales accent.'
Dai wants an independent Wales, Owain wants his old life back. The reely big news in my life is thah up until yesterday mornin I sold used books for a livin in The Dying of the Light Book Emporium at number 18 Penderyn Street. Came as a bih uv a shook ih did to geh the boot, I cun tell ew. Seems my good long years of service counted for nothin in the end see. Now, admittedly I'd gone in smellin foul of the night before an lookin like somein the cat ad asked the dog to elp er drag in. Buh thah was still no reason for Gab to jest snap like thah was ih? I mean, there's a certain way of doin these things. The decorum of dismissal. I should know like. Been sacked from a fair few jobs in my time I av. Buh people uv always gone about ih nicely see. Ih elps yew mind less yew know.
There I am though, only jest through the front door, fightin off a yawn an eyes bloodshot. Say mornin to Old Mrs Mason I do. She's in the corner as usual, lookin up the dirty bits in DH Lawrence an gigglin into er pearls. Then, quick sudden, Gab emerges from a dust cloud screamin the bluest of murders at me an my feet are sweatin somein rotten in my daps. For too long she says I been abusin er good nature. I doan care about anyone or anythin she says an ow cun she av ever trusted me to work in er shop the state I'm in? I dunno mun, the lies people tell. I find many of the people in my life exist almost pewerly within the realms of fansty. So I jest went c'mon mun Gab this is no way to start the week now is ih? Leh's jest press play on the kettle an I'll puh the Pratchetts into chronological an all will be well. Thah's when the darkness came upon er. Thought she was gonnuh it me I did. Honest now. Tampin she was. So I old my ands up in the traditional gesture of conciliation an pacification. Move back a step. Av to puh some distance between me an thah evil lookin clasp on er ambag like.
Thah was when she leh out the longest sigh an said she'd give me a month's pay to geh out. Right there an then. Ad no bloody option mun. Mean look she ad on er. Like I was some cheatin low life she was kickin out the door after years of anguish. At last er eyes said, at last. So I thought better of sayin ow I'd been suffrin profound an ungovernable torments of late, turned right on my eel an walked out. On eleven years of salesmanship mind! Out through the door I went, without so much as a keep in touch with Christmas cards or a watch ow yew go now! But then, thinkin about ih, I was only ever on ourlee pay at the Dying of the Light. So I spawse I should consider ih somein of a result to geh a golden andshake.
------------------------------
Author: Garan Holcombe
Email: garanh [at] gmail [dot] com