All over again

The scallops were every where. Many were swimming, with their jerky snappy

motion, amongst the drifting clouds of jellyfish. Matt’s goody bag was full to

overflowing with dozens of the delicacy. All he had to do was to gather the brightly

coloured, fan-shaped shells from the sandy bottom or grab at a passing mollusc Later

he would get a good price from the smart London restaurants for this bumper catch.

He was safely attached to the anchor of his inflatable by a tether that was now

stretched taut by the increasing tide. His boat was bobbing up and down some fifty foot

above. This motion was made by the wash created by the Ullapool to Stornaway ferry as

it hit the boat, passing by less than a stone’s throw away.

Earlier he had pulled himself down this same anchor line to where he knew the

undisturbed bed of scallops lay. He was breaking all the rules diving alone but he had

always been a loner and a bit of a maverick. The thought of easy money for an hours

work was not to be missed.

He realised he was getting a little long in the tooth to be diving in these cold clear

waters off the Summer Isles, but he also knew he wouldn’t pass the mandatory medical.

He had often been told that he wouldn’t make old bones. Oldish bones anyway he’d

always hoped.

Over the years, he’d had a devil may care attitude to any decision that affected

his purpose. Any time Matt had been faced with a serious choice a mental penny was

tossed and an immediate judgement made with no second thoughts. At least the Dice

Man only had a one in six chance of screwing it up.

Matt automatically checked his air supply. It was way below the quarter reserve

when any cautious person would head for the surface. He was, however, beginning to

feel the chill and what with a full haul it was well over time to make tracks. Then it

would be full speed to get the shell fish off to the Soho gourmets.

Matt was about half way up the shot line when it happened. The chest pain was

first. He thought it was a touch of the bends but the pain swiftly spread down his left

arm. Nausea filled his stomach, then a gasping for breath, then a feeling of anxiety, then

a light headedness, then nothing.

Then, aeons later, something, he seemed to still have all his senses but no

substance. He'd heard amputees had phantom limbs, but a phantom body. How weird

was that? This awareness was interrupted by a voice that appeared to float within him.

"Everything’s fine. Don’t worry", it said, followed by, “You’ve just reached the

end again. This time it was a fatal heart attack, quite quick really. You were lucky."

Matt had tried LSD on a few occasions in his lifetime and this had all the hall

marks of a hallucinatory trip.

“Fatal you say, well if that's lucky I hope I don't ever get unlucky. By the way

where am I? Are you St. Peter? , Where are the Pearly Gates?”

"No that's just an old wives tale. No such thing as Pearly Gates. There is a kind of

debriefing however. Your previous memories will be run past you and you can then

agree that they’re a true account of your time on Earth or you can get to edit them. It’s

really a bit like having your own personal Youtube “, the voice added.

“I don't want to spend a lifetime reviewing my lifetime ", thought Matt.

“You won’t, time is timeless up here and has no meaning. I must admit I had a devil of a

job explaining that to Einstein, he would keep showing me equations."

Matt was puzzled,” so if I get to change my mind about a few escapades what

happens then?”

"Well that becomes the latest version of your existence and you’ll get sent back

to journey through it again. Then I see you in about three score years and ten and we

have this conversation all over again".

“I've been here before then, have I?”

“Yes, quite a few times actually, you’ve always seemed to want to change your

mind, you're really quite fickle. You’ll have no idea that you're reliving your journey, it

will all seem quite new .You’ll probably have the occasional 'déjà vu' moment but it’s all

pretty seamless and every incarnation is slightly different. Anyway, I must get on, I'm

expecting a couple of Buddhist monks shortly, and at least they’re a bit more clued up".

The voice faded away and Matt was suddenly aware that his previous time on

Earth was flashing past him. He found he was able to stop the flow any when he wanted,

reconsider the action he taken all those years back and then fast forward. He vaguely

remembered a few of the earliest memories when he was a toddler but he supposed that

previous reviews up here must have edited out any bad experiences. It was only when he

saw the brown envelope that his old primary school had posted that he thought about a

revision. It had contained the offers of the choice of a distant grammar school for boys or

the local mixed comprehensive. How he had hummed and arred when his parents had

left the decision to him .In the end the local school won since he would then be able to

do that early morning paper round and be with most of his mates.

That choice set up another crucial event when, five years later, he found two

Valentine cards tucked in his desk. He remembered the angst that had caused. Then a

long forgotten quote came to mind, 'happy with either dear charmer with t’other dear

charmer away'. Had he then chosen the right charmer?

On went the memories. At eighteen two college offers needed a reply, he’d then

rejected both and that marked the beginning of his wanderlust years. Then Matt had

taken any job to be able to save for the next trip abroad. He soon acquired a c v of which

Hemingway would have been proud, Life Guard, Bar Steward, Diving Instructor, Butlin

Red Coat, Encyclopaedia Salesman, Hop Picker, English Tutor, Masseur, the list was

endless. Most jobs he had drifted into when his money had run out while on his travels.

Excerpts of all these vocations appeared before him now giving him the chance to erase

and replace any unpleasant episodes. But he didn’t feel the need. They had all been good

preparation for the niche that had become his profession, of sorts. He had always been

haunted by an overheard remark his mother had once made to a neighbour about Tom,

his younger brother. The remark had always rankled him. Just four words, “My son the

Doctor.”

He'd realised, in his wanderings, that the sea and sailing were in his blood and this

resulted in the niche he‘d made his own, that of marine transportation. The nouveau

riche with their suspect money had to have a yacht and a Caribbean villa. Fortunately,

for Matt, they had no sea legs and the European boatyards were a long way from their

Cayman seafronts. He was soon a must-have master to get those sailboats and

catamarans across the ocean.

The flash-backs in his mind’s eye were coming to an end and when they were all

over he was surprised. All those snap decisions through out his life turned out mainly to

be spot on. Even the last few hours of his last existence he might not change. He'd had a

good innings and if he wasn't careful he could, in another future, end up with Parkinson's

or Alzheimer’s in some Care Home, unable to fend for himself.

Just as the memories faded the voice returned. “Well have you checked out every

thing? Are you ready to go back? I see there are still one or two episodes in your life that

could do with a make over. Or are you ready for the next step? You know, Eternity?

Have you ever thought about it? It’s not all about sitting at God’s Right Hand you know.

As your Woody Allen once said when he was here, Eternity’s a long time especially

towards the end.”

Matt now realised that he had to weigh up the choice of a repeated round robin

Groundhog-like journey or the new challenge of an adrenaline rush of a trip into the

everlasting unknown with what ever fears that might bring.

He mentally tossed that well worn penny.

Click and Tell.

My contemplation was sparked by the spherical shaped ceramic , about the size of

a melon that had been inspired by the mysterious Moeraki beach boulders found

near Dunedin, New Zealand. Impressed into the surface of this artefact, were haiku-

like poems by Sue Spencer :

layer upon layer

time may stop here

then move us onward

sea smoothed stone

caressed by time

Feeling the glazed texture of the surface I began to recall the time when we were

on that beach in Dunedin with the half buried boulders surrounding us. From a

distance they hinted, surreally, of a game of Chinese checkers of Brobdingnagian

proportions.

A few days later we were north of Greymouth on the west side of the South

island, east of the Goldmines. This time, again on a lonely beach, we found the

wondrous Pancake rocks. As the name suggests they looked like cow pat sized pizzas

stacked all higgledy-piggledy and seemingly defying Newton’s Apple Theory.

Looking back, as we left in the Caravanette, they resembled a half finished

gargantuan game of Jenga .

Across the sea to Wellington and a drive up the east Coast brought us to Rotorua

and the hot mud pools . Here pockets of super heated steam rose to the grey surface

causing circular ripples to spread out evenly in all directions before fading away to

nothing. What pastime would you say that this scene mimicked? Well, watching the

endless cavalcade of random eruptions it was as if a gigantic game of ‘ Whack the

Mole ‘was in progress.

Shakespeare wrote ‘All the world's a stage ‘but in truth ‘All the world's a game’.

Ceramic Boulders

Cinquain Help

Line1: Two syllables I’m down.

Line2: Four syllables Some other guy.

Line 3: Six syllables I just don’t understand.

Line 4: Eight syllables Got to get you into my Life,

Line 5: Two syllables Michelle

Desert Island Discs

The presenter, Kirsty Young, had just commenced Desert Island Discs, by announcing the week’s guest. “Today we

have in the studio, Jack Alton, whose distinctive voice and nimble fingers have entertained us royally over the decades”.

Then starting with a few questions and answers about Jack’s early career Kirsty soon got down to the nitty gritty

interrogation for which she was so famous.

“Jack, you have made and squandered many millions, you even have your own desert island but what you would say is

your most precious possession?” “It must be the blanket made out of scrap woollen squares knitted by my grandmother

who brought me up when I was small. It has been a cover for every bed of mine ever since.” he replied.

“Yes I’ve seen pictures of it over your notorious bed. I suppose it must have been some kind of security blanket,

perhaps a substitute for your mother. I wonder if you could describe this bed of yours for our listeners”.

“Well it is quite an antique. One of the few bits and pieces my now ex wife has allowed me to keep after yesterday’s

divorce. It’s a four poster used, so they say, by Edward VII when Prince of Wales, to entertain quite a few of his female

subjects”. Kirsty countered, almost in disbelief, “Maria is now you’re ex wife?; well you certainly kept that quiet.,

would you say that she fell out of love with you ? “

“I don’t think either of us really loved each other. It was really a marriage of convenience. I think our American cousins

would have called her a ‘beard’ ”.

Kirsty, now quite inquisitive, queried. “So who did love you, do you think?”

“Looking back it could only have been my grandmother. I never really knew my mother. For years I believed she was

my big sister before the fatal car crash”.

“So all those rumour and innuendos about you perhaps have some credence, I wonder if you can confide to the listening

millions what your greatest secret is “, she asked audaciously, scenting a scoop.

“Well you’ve just hinted at it. For years I’ve kept my orientation to myself and a few friends and it was always my

greatest fear that some one would out me before I felt comfortable with sharing that particular aspect.”

“I see you’re getting a little uptight now Jack, fiddling with your pockets and spectacles is such a give a way.” Then

seeking to change the subject Kirsty asked, “What do you have in your pocket that’s so interesting?”

“Well if you must know just some loose change and a damp handkerchief. “

“Is it damp because of perspiration or could it be, perhaps, due to some tears? When was the last time that you cried “.

Jack answered reluctantly, “It was just before this show actually when I suddenly realised that Maria and I would no

longer be together. In spite of everything we did have many good times together over the years even if the marriage was

a sham.”

Kirsty, looking at the studio clock, spoke, “Well our time is nearly up and I’m sure all the hacks will be outside

wanting some quotes as you leave Jack. But after these revelations, tell me, where will you go now?”

“Straight to the Airport for a month’s relaxation”, Alton uttered.

“So Jack, where will you be this time tomorrow? “, she questioned.

“I think that will have to be my greatest secret now Kirsty, and so if you‘ll excuse me I’ll wish everyone goodnight and

God bless”. And with that parting remark Jack made his hurried exit.

Talking to the Producer, once the dust had settled, Kirsty said, “Well I think that should make tomorrow’s papers “.

“There’s only one small problem Kirsty “, he replied, “You never played any of Jack’s records

Frozen in Time

B A Harms May 2013

The shell, the rock and the drift wood were lying side by side in the form of a

small triangle near the high water mark when the Artist found them.

He had been invited to provide an entry for this year’s Turner Prize and was

now avidly seeking inspiration. The finds from his beach combing had never failed, in

the past, to give rise to unusual ideas and concepts. Being currently pre-occupied by

the ephemeral nature of the passing of time he immediately saw the possibilities that

these disparate objects had to offer.

Musing on the whys and wherefores of how this odd mishmash of inanimate

potpourri had come to be present on that lonely Dorset beach he placed them carefully

in his goodie bag that already contained an ancient insect embedded in translucent

amber.

The spiral ammonite shell had sunk slowly into the primordial ooze where,

over inconceivable centuries, it had become covered with the detritus of eroding

mountains. Then Earth's hiccups caused it to surface but only to be hidden again and

again by kilometres of ice which, over the ages, waxed and waned. Finally a land slip

exposed the fossil once more to the lapping of the tides and the gaze of the sun.

The meteorite, after its forever and a day odyssey, had become a shooting

star as it

exploded into smithereens after having collided with Earth’s atmosphere. Fragments

showered down towards the sea bringing to an end their multi-zillion year journey.

One such chunk narrowly missed shattering the spiral shell before halting half buried

in the shingle.

The termite was foraging for food in the Cambrian forest when a drop of resin

scored

a bulls eye. Melted by the overhead sun more beads soon descended entombing the

struggling bug. It was not to be seen again for millennia when it luckily caught the

eye of the Artist.

No where near as old as these first three artefacts the drift wood had its own

story to tell. The tree from which it came had been felled after a thousand years of

growth to be used in the building of the ill fated ‘Mary Rose’. In the raising to the

surface of the ship’s skeleton hulk, after five hundred years, a piece had broken away.

It had been bobbing about in the English Channel before beaching that morning near

to the shell and the rock.

The Artist’s exhibit, ‘Frozen in Time’, of the original three ageless objects

within cast translucent amber was an instant success. The simple message of

timelessness they invoked was easily understood by a public grown tired of

formaldehyde sharks and unmade beds.

Seeds for Dreams

I remember the doctor smacking me with his leather gloves.

I remember the headmaster giving me three pennies on my birthday.

I remember my mum saying he did this when she was at his school.

I remember Great Aunt Nancie’s front room.

I don’t remember drowning her duck.

I remember not pulling the chain.

I remember my grandfather putting black pieces on black squares and white pieces on squares

when playing draughts.

I remember tanner bars of chocolate.

I remember throwing stones and bleeding.

I remember Mr Frost squirting out paraffin and liteing it.

I remember the kids who were hit by the train.

I remember Uncle Sam spending my Dinky money.

I remember leaving home.

I remember the pram boat that sank when Francis tried it when returning

From Sunday school.

I remember Dad riding home with a bag of coke tied to the bike.

I remember peeing in the school shower and being told off.

I remember M.A.C. foster, my form master, saying how young my mum was.

I remember Dawson saying how useless I was at football.

I remember three equal halves.

Babe in the Wood

Tim thought it was about time he took stock of his life. Up to now he had just been

drifting along aimlessly from one year to the next. He'd dropped out of college and

then got the travel bug. On each trip abroad he would try various extreme sports such

as bungee jumping in New Zealand, underwater cave exploring in Mexico, hang

gliding in the Rockies and other similar activities. Was it that he was just an

adrenaline junkie? Not really since between each of these turbulent periods of his life

he returned home to the U.K. and did some quite mundane jobs such as shelf stacking

or call centres for six months or so just to chill out and raise the money for his next

trip. The calm before the storm so to speak.

He had just booked his next flight to Australia where he wanted to go hot air

ballooning in Alice Springs and dive the Great Barrier Reef from Cairns. To get some

experience for Queensland he now found himself in an inflatable just off Old Harry

Rock near Swanage. He wanted to experience a drift dive from there to Kimmeridge

Bay. A diving friend he had met while attending Scuba classes had said that it was

one of the scariest twenty minutes you could ever have. Briefly you and a buddy had

to enter the sea at slack tide just before the rip tide started. Then going down a line to

the bottom with full gear you hitched up to each other, played out a surface marker

buoy like a kite to the surface. This was to show the boat that followed your progress

roughly where you both were under the water. The thrill was to let the tide take you in

its grip along the coast hovering about a yard above the sea bottom all the time.

Tim was going to dive alone and should have know better but at the last moment only

he and his friend could make the trip and someone had to work the boat.

So Tim found himself alone at the bottom of the English Channel and about to begin

this hairy drift dive along the South Coast. Even going down the anchor line he was

swept horizontal by the speed of the current. Letting go of the anchor he was

immediately taken westward by the force of the tide. Like an old sock in a washing

machine he was buffeted all over the place and his speed seemed magnified as he kept

just above the sandy bottom. He had the illusion that he was still as the pebbles and

sea shells raced away behind him. Looking ahead through the murky waters he saw

oncoming boulders and at the last moment the slip stream swerved him to the left or

to the right. He flew over deep crevices that reminded him of helicopter trips he had

taken down the Grand Canyon. It certainly was exhilarating.

Then came the disaster. At the last moment he saw ahead what seemed to be an

impenetrable wood. It was a forest of giant kelp growing vertically to the surface.

Soon he was in the thick of it. He zigzagged through the outer kelp and was deep in

the middle before he knew it. Soon he was completely entangled in the branch like

fronds. At the same time he noticed how low on air he was. How could he find his

way out of this wood of kelp? He could try and go up vertically but his way was

blocked by even bigger fronds that also stopped any sunlight filtering through. One

thing was in his favour, the rip tide had slowed and would be calm for the next few

hours but he only had enough air for twenty minutes tops.

Calming himself he reviewed the situation and an old cave diving technique came to

his rescue. His surface marker buoy cable trailed out from him like an umbilical

chord. He just had to follow this in reverse and hope that the float had not been

dragged under in the flight through the kelp. In this he was fortunate. He managed to

get back to the edge of the kelp forest and looking upward saw the outline of the boat.

He was never more relieved than he was now after ascending to the boat.

"Had a good dive then" his friend said as they motored eastward back to Swanage.

"Not bad" was Tim's response.

Elbow the Guy with the Fat Lips

“I’m going to the Island now”, said Pete “as he dropped me off the back of his

Triumph 350. “Are you coming with Jennifer?”. “Later “, I replied, “but it’s all over

now with me and Jennifer, I’m just waiting on a friend “. It was Eel Pie Island he’d

referred to and the friend was Angie who was probably going to bring her twin sister

Ruby. Tuesday night at Eel Pie was for the bands yet to get their fifteen minutes.

Weekends were for the big names playing all night sessions, with us going home

when the little red roster crowed and then trying to convince parents we’d not spent

the night together.

The three of us had a lot to catch up on as we were all home from our first

term at college. When we arrived at Eel Pie that night’s group had already reached the

interval.” What are they like, Pete?” I asked. “Well it’s mainly ‘I woke up one

morning….’ Blues numbers with a little Chuck Berry, and then the singer goes hyper

with his tambourine, a proper jumping Jack. Flash with his harmonica, I’ll give him

that.” She’s good on the piano too, a real Honky Tonk woman. That’s the band over

there drinking coffee.” I walked over in their direction to get our drinks and couldn’t

help a bit of ear wigging.

“I hope the van gets us back tonight “, the singer said, “Cos if it breaks down

again we’ve no tax, insurance, mot or driving licence. Those psychedelic colours

always attract the cops. We should paint it black. We were lucky the last time with

that cop just saying, “You’d better move on”. At least I won’t be done for being over

the limit, although this coffee is lousy without brown sugar.” He finished the cup and

then said, “By the way you’re a lady, Jane, for jamming with the piano .Anyway I’ve

been thinking that we really need a catchy name that rolls off the tongue for the band,

has anyone any ideas?” He then idly looked at his muddy coffee grouts and said,

“Hey, what about that old Muddy Waters song title…” At that point some one

switched on the sound system and the screech of feedback drowned the rest of the

revelation.

Later, in the taxi back to the girls’ home they asked what I’d thought of the band.

I replied, “I can’t get no satisfaction by saying this but they really need to elbow the

guy with the fat lips”.

I Remember when..

There it was on the screen staring out at me like some Pacific lagoon. I was

idly surfing, trying out Google Maps aerial view. Starting with an image of Earth

from the Moon I had just homed in and hovered over an old haunt from the past. It

was an island surrounded by a doughnut pond. All at once a million memories queued

up vying for my attention. I was soon in the mother of all brown studies reliving times

of some three score years ago.

It all began when Mum, Dad and me moved to a new home built by the

council on a rundown country estate just after the war. It was a small boy’s paradise.

Empty outbuildings such as stables and follies, a decrepit mansion and old ruined

landscaped sites were my playground. This estate had fallen on hard times when the

local Lady Bountiful, known with affection as Fanny, had died just before the War.

In stark contrast to these wrecked relics were rows of new and half formed

houses where recently demobbed soldiers, sailors and airmen would all be making a

new start.

One of the attractions to our gang was the inland island that now filled my

screen. A few clicks on the mouse and the island become half sized bringing into view

the surroundings. At the same time a few of the competing memories made

themselves known, some for the first time since they had happened. It would be easy

to pinpoint on the screen where these long forgotten events had occurred. Each with

its own story…..

Bob Francis sinking in the pram in the middle of that pond.

My first smoke with an acorn pipe (and last).

Throwing stones at rival gangs.

Climbing the Fir Tree and grooving the bark above the old record, inches

from the top.

Being chased by the Council watchman.

Hide and Seek in the old mansion cellars.

And many more, especially when we were in our teens and discovered

other interests

So it had finally happened. I’d reached the ‘I remember when…’ years of my life

although I’d no idea what I’d had for breakfast.

AA SSppeecciiaall DDaayy

MMeeggaann wwookkee tthhaatt mmoorrnniinngg aanndd ssoooonn rreemmeemmbbeerreedd tthhaatt tthhiiss wwaass ttoo bbee aa ssppeecciiaall

ddaayy.. IItt wwaass ttoo bbee hheerr ffiirrsstt ddaayy aatt sscchhooooll.. NNoott tthhee pprriimmaarryy sscchhooooll ffoorr bbiigg ggiirrllss wwhheerree

hheerr ffiivvee yyeeaarr oolldd ccoouussiinn JJeennnnyy wweenntt bbuutt tthhee nnuurrsseerryy sscchhooooll ffoorr tthhrreeee yyeeaarr oollddss.. SShhee

kknneeww tthhaatt ffiivvee wwaass bbiiggggeerr tthhaann tthhrreeee.. SShhee aallssoo ttoolldd aannyyoonnee wwhhoo wwoouulldd lliisstteenn tthhaatt sshhee

wwoouulldd bbee ffoouurr nneexxtt bbiirrtthhddaayy.. SShhee ssaaiidd tthhaatt sshhee wwaass aa bbiigg tthhrreeee nnooww aanndd nnoott tthhee ssmmaallll

tthhrreeee sshhee wwaass wwhheenn JJeennnnyy hhaadd hheerr llaasstt bbiirrtthhddaayy ppaarrttyy.. TThhiiss uunnccoonnsscciioouuss uussee ooff ‘‘bbiigg’’

aanndd ‘‘ssmmaallll’’ ssoollvveedd hheerr pprroobblleemm wwiitthh ffrraaccttiioonnss ooff aa yyeeaarr

LLooookkiinngg aatt tthhee ccllootthheess llaaiidd oouutt iinn ffrroonntt ooff hheerr sshhee ssaaiidd ttoo MMuummmmyy,,”” II tthhiinnkk

tthhiiss ttoopp iiss aa bbiitt bbooyyiisshh ““,, bbuutt ffoorr aa cchhaannggee ddiidd nnoott aarrgguuee tthhee ppooiinntt bbeeiinngg ttoooo eexxcciitteedd bbyy

tthhee bbiigg ddaayy aahheeaadd.. MMuummmmyy ssmmiilleedd.. WWhheerree ddiidd sshhee ppiicckk tthhaatt wwoorrdd uupp?? IInnddeeeedd wwhheerree

ddiidd sshhee lleeaarrnn hhaallff tthhee wwoorrddss sshhee wwaass nnooww uussiinngg??

DDaadd hhaadd lleefftt ffoorr wwoorrkk mmuucchh eeaarrlliieerr bbuutt hhaadd pprroommiisseedd hhee wwoouulldd ddoo hhiiss bbeesstt ttoo

mmeeeett hheerr ffrroomm sscchhooooll llaatteerr..

““YYoouurr ffrriieenndd MMyyrraa wwiillll bbee tthheerree aanndd II’’mm ssuurree yyoouu’’llll mmaakkee lloottss ooff nneeww ffrriieennddss

iinn nnoo ttiimmee aatt aallll””,, ssaaiidd MMuummmmyy aass tthheeyy ppuutt oonn tthheeiirr ccooaattss aanndd ppuutt MMaaggnnuuss oonn tthhee

lleeaadd..

MMaakkiinngg ffrriieennddss wwoouulldd bbee nnoo pprroobblleemm ffoorr MMeeggaann.. SShhee wwaass aa vveetteerraann ooff

nnuummeerroouuss nnuurrsseerryy ggrroouuppss aanndd bbiirrtthhddaayy ppaarrttiieess aanndd hhaadd lloonngg aaggoo oovveerrccoommee aannyy hhiinntt ooff

sshhyynneessss.. OOnn tthhee wwaayy ttoo sscchhooooll tthheeyy mmeett MMyyrraa aanndd bbyy tthhee ttiimmee tthheeyy aarrrriivveedd tthheerree wweerree

aabboouutt aa ddoozzeenn eexxcciitteedd cchhiillddrreenn iinn tthhee ppllaayyggrroouunndd wwaaiittiinngg ffoorr MMiissss SSccootttt ttoo ooppeenn uupp

tthheeiirr ccllaassssrroooomm.. MMiissss SSccootttt hhaadd mmaaddee aa ssppeecciiaall ppooiinntt ooff vviissiittiinngg aallll tthhee nneeww cchhiillddrreenn iinn

tthheeiirr hhoommeess tthhee pprreevviioouuss wweeeekk ssoo tthhaatt tthhee cchhiillddrreenn wwoouulldd kknnooww wwhhoo sshhee wwaass aanndd

hhooww kkiinndd sshhee ccoouulldd bbee.. IItt wwoorrkkeedd.. TThhee cchhiillddrreenn eenntteerreedd tthhee ccllaassssrroooomm wwiitthhoouutt aa

bbaacckkwwaarrdd ggllaannccee aatt tthheeiirr ppaarreennttss wwhhoo wwoouulldd hhaavvee ttoo wwaaiitt uunnttiill 1111..3300 ttoo qquuiizz tthheeiirr

cchhiillddrreenn aabboouutt hhooww tthheeyy hhaadd ggoott oonn..

AAss tthheeyy aallll ccaammee iinnttoo tthhee ccllooaakkrroooomm tthheeyy ssaaww aa rrooww ooff ppeeggss,, eeaacchh wwiitthh tthheeiirr

nnaammeess oonn aanndd aa ssmmaallll ppiiccttuurree ooff tthheeiirr ffaaccee.. MMiissss SSccootttt qquuiicckkllyy sshhoowweedd tthheemm wwhhiicchh

wwaass tthheeiirr ppeegg aanndd ccooaattss wweerree ssoooonn hhuunngg uupp lliikkee ssoo mmaannyy ccrroowwss oonn aa tteelleepphhoonnee lliinnee..

TThheeyy wweerree uusshheerreedd ggeennttllyy iinnttoo tthhee ccllaassssrroooomm ll.. MMoosstt hhaadd bbeeeenn tthheerree aatt tthhee

OOppeenn DDaayy iinn JJuunnee wwhheenn tthhee wwaallllss aanndd wwiinnddooww ssiillllss hhaadd bbeeeenn ccoovveerreedd wwiitthh ppiiccttuurreess,,

mmoobbiilleess aanndd ccllaayy mmooddeellss ooff aanniimmaallss mmaaddee bbyy tthhee pprreevviioouuss ccllaassss.. NNooww tthhee wwaallllss wweerree

eemmppttyy ooff aallll tthhoossee ccoolloouurrffuull iitteemmss bbuutt wwoouulldd ssoooonn bbee aaddoorrnneedd bbyy tthhee aacchhiieevveemmeennttss

ooff tthhiiss nneeww ggrroouupp ooff eeaaggeerr cchhiillddrreenn..

OOnnccee iinnssiiddee MMiissss SSccootttt sshhoowweedd tthheemm aallll wwhheerree ttoo ssiitt.. TThheerree wweerree ffoouurr ttaabblleess

eeaacchh wwiitthh ffoouurr cchhaaiirrss aarroouunndd tthhee ffoouurr ssiiddeess ffoorr ffoouurr cchhiillddrreenn.. MMeeggaann ttooookk hheerr sseeaatt aanndd

MMyyrraa ssaatt nneexxtt ttoo hheerr.. TThhee ootthheerr ttwwoo sseeaattss wweerree ttaakkeenn bbyy ttwwoo ssmmaallll bbooyyss,, ssmmaalllleerr eevveenn

tthhaatt MMeeggaann oorr MMyyrraa.. MMeeggaann ccoouullddnn’’tt bbeelliieevvee hheerr eeyyeess.. AAss sshhee ttoolldd MMuummmmyy llaatteerr,,

““TThheeyy wweerree bbootthh tthhee ssaammee"".. SShhee hhaadd ccoommee aaccrroossss ttwwiinnss bbeeffoorree bbuutt nnoott iiddeennttiiccaall oonneess..

TThhee bbooyyss wweerree aa lliittttllee sshhyy bbuutt MMiissss SSccootttt ttoolldd tthhee ttwwoo ggiirrllss tthheeyy wweerree ccaalllleedd IIaann aanndd

RRoorryy..

WWhheenn eevveerryy oonnee wwaass sseettttlleedd tthhee tteeaacchheerr ccllaappppeedd hheerr hhaannddss aanndd ttoolldd eevveerryybbooddyy

tthhaatt wwhheenn sshhee ddiidd tthhiiss sshhee eexxppeecctteedd eevveerryyoonnee ttoo ssttoopp ttaallkkiinngg aanndd ppaayy aatttteennttiioonn.. AAllll

wwaass qquuiieett.. TThheenn iinn ccaammee aann oollddeerr llaaddyy aanndd MMiissss SSccootttt ssaaiidd tthhaatt tthhiiss wwaass MMrrss TTrriimmbbllee

wwhhoo wwoouulldd bbee hheellppiinngg.. MMrrss TTrriimmbbllee ssmmiilleedd aatt aallll tthhee cchhiillddrreenn aanndd mmaaddee IIaann kkeeeepp

qquuiieett.. ““SShhee’’ss mmyy ggrraannnnyy””,, hhee hhaadd wwhhiissppeerreedd ttoo MMeeggaann.. ““AAnndd mmiinnee””,, ssaaiidd RRoorryy..

MMrrss TTrriimmbbllee wwaass ssoooonn bbuussyy ppuuttttiinngg ttrraayyss ooff ppaaiinntt,, bbrruusshheess aanndd wwaatteerr oonn eeaacchh

ttaabbllee wwhhiillee MMiissss SSccootttt ggaavvee eevveerryybbooddyy aa sshheeeett ooff ppaappeerr wwiitthh tthhee oouuttlliinnee ooff aann aanniimmaall

pprriinntteedd oonn iitt.. ““II wwaanntt yyoouu ttoo ccoolloouurr tthhee ppiiccttuurree wwiitthh yyoouurr ffaavvoouurriittee ccoolloouurr bbuutt bbeeffoorree

yyoouu ssttaarrtt pplleeaassee ppuutt oonn aann aapprroonn ootthheerrwwiissee yyoouu mmuummmmiieess wwiillll tteellll mmee ooffff ffoorr ggeettttiinngg

yyoouurr nniiccee ccllootthheess ccoovveerreedd wwiitthh ppaaiinntt””.. BBootthh aadduullttss wweerree ssoooonn bbuussyy ttyyiinngg bboowwss aanndd

ttuurrnniinngg sslleeeevveess iinnssiiddee oouutt aanndd tthhee 110000 aanndd 11 ootthheerr ttaasskkss nneeeeddeedd ttoo ggeett tthhee ccllaassss ggooiinngg..

MMeeggaann hhaadd ttoo ccoolloouurr aann eelleepphhaanntt aanndd aatt tthhee mmoommeenntt hheerr ffaavvoouurriittee ccoolloouurr wwaass

ppuurrppllee ssoo tthhee ppaaiinntt bbrruusshh wwaass ssoooonn ffuullll ooff tthhiiss ccoolloouurr,, mmoosstt ooff wwhhiicchh eennddeedd uupp oonn tthhee

fflloooorr..

TThhiiss wwaass ffuunn aanndd tthhee cchhiillddrreenn wweerree bbuussyy ffoorr tthhee nneexxtt hhaallff hhoouurr oorr ssoo.. TThheenn tthhee

ttaabblleess wweerree cclleeaarreedd aanndd cclleeaanneedd.. MMiissss SSccootttt ggaavvee eeaacchh cchhiilldd ssoommee bblluueettaacc aanndd aasskkeedd

tthheemm ttoo ssttiicckk tthheeiirr ppiiccttuurreess oonn tthhee wwaallll.. MMrrss TTrriimmbbllee hheellppeedd bbyy ppuuttttiinngg ssoommee ooff tthhee

ppiiccttuurreess nneeaarr tthhee ttoopp wwhheerree tthhee cchhiillddrreenn ccoouulldd nnoott rreeaacchh aanndd aatt tthhee ssaammee ttiimmee tteelllliinngg

IIaann aanndd RRoorryy ooffff..

WWhheenn tthheeyy ggoott bbaacckk ttoo tthheeiirr ttaabblleess eeaacchh ttaabbllee hhaadd ffoouurr ggllaasssseess ooff oorraannggee jjuuiiccee

aanndd aa ppllaattee ooff ggrraappeess,, sslliicceedd bbaannaannaass,, rraaiissiinnss aanndd aapppplleess.. TThheenn tthheeyy hheeaarrdd ““OOKK

eevveerryybbooddyy,, oonnccee yyoouu hhaavvee hhuunngg uupp yyoouurr aapprroonnss yyoouu ccaann ssiitt ddoowwnn aanndd hhaavvee aa ppiiccnniicc

tthheenn yyoouu ccaann ggoo oouuttssiiddee aanndd hhaavvee aa ppllaayy..””

MMeeggaann aanndd MMyyrraa wweerree bbaacckk aatt tthhee ttaabbllee aanndd sshhaarreedd oouutt tthhee ffrruuiitt bbeeffoorree IIaann aanndd

RRoorryy ccoouulldd eeaatt mmoorree tthhaann tthheeiirr ffaaiirr sshhaarree.. TThheenn tthheeyy wweenntt oouuttssiiddee aanndd wweerree ssoooonn aatt tthhee

ttoopp ooff tthhee cclliimmbbiinngg ffrraammee wwiitthh IIaann aanndd RRoorryy.. ““WWhhyy aarree yyoouu bbootthh tthhee ssaammee””,, MMyyrraa

iinnqquuiirreedd..”” WWee wweerree bboorrnn aatt tthhee ssaammee ttiimmee ““,, ssaaiidd IIaann.. ““BBuutt II’’mm oollddeerr””,, ssaaiidd RRoorryy..””

TTeenn mmiinnuutteess ddooeess nnoott ccoouunntt””,, hhiiss bbrrootthheerr rreepplliieedd lliittttllee kknnoowwiinngg tthhaatt ffoorr tthhee rreesstt ooff hhiiss

lliiffee hhee wwoouulldd bbee hheeaarriinngg tthhiiss bbooaasstt.. ““DDaaddddyy ssaayyss wwee wweerree bboorrnn iinn TTeessccoo’’ss aanndd tthheeyy

hhaadd aa ttwwoo ffoorr oonnee ooffffeerr hhee ccoouullddnn’’tt rreeffuussee””,, ssaaiidd RRoorryy wwiitthh aa ggrriinn oonn hhiiss ffaaccee.. MMeeggaann

tthhoouugghh tthhiiss mmuusstt bbee aa jjookkee.. SShhee wwaass bbeeggiinnnniinngg ttoo uunnddeerrssttaanndd jjookkeess.. DDaaddddyy mmaaddee jjookkeess

aanndd tthheenn ssaaiidd hhee wwaass ppuulllliinngg hheerr lleegg..

““II’’mm ggooiinngg ttoo wwaattcchh BBaallllaammoorryy oonn tteellllyy wwhheenn II ggeett hhoommee””,, ssaaiidd MMyyrraa,, ggeettttiinngg

ddoowwnn ffrroomm tthhee cclliimmbbiinngg ffrraammee.. ““WWee hhaavveenn’’tt ggoott aa tteellllyy””,, ssaaiidd IIaann aanndd RRoorryy ttooggeetthheerr

aass tthheeyy jjuummppeedd oonnttoo tthhee ggrroouunndd.. ““YYoouu mmuusstt bbee jjookkiinngg””,, ssaaiidd aann aassttoonniisshheedd MMeeggaann..

AA sshhaarrpp wwhhiissttllee ffrroomm MMrrss TTrriimmbbllee bbrroouugghhtt ppllaayyttiimmee ttoo aann eenndd aanndd bbaacckk iinnttoo

tthhee ccllaassssrroooomm tthheeyy ttrrooooppeedd.. WWhhiillee tthheeyy hhaadd bbeeeenn oouutt MMiissss SSccootttt hhaadd ppuutt aa llaarrggee bbooxx ooff

LLeeggoo oonn eeaacchh ttaabbllee ““II wwaanntt yyoouu ttoo mmaakkee aa hhoouussee oorr aa ccaarr ffrroomm tthhee ppiieecceess””,, sshhee ssaaiidd

““TThheenn MMrrss TTrriimmbbllee aanndd II wwiillll hhaavvee ttoo gguueessss wwhhaatt iitt iiss tthhaatt yyoouu’’vvee mmaaddee””..

QQuuiicckkllyy aallll tthhee rroooomm wwaass bbuussyy,, ssoommee hheellppeedd eeaacchh ootthheerr aanndd ssoommee rruubbbbiisshheedd

eeaacchh ootthheerrss eeffffoorrttss.. WWhheenn tthheeyy wweerree ffiinniisshheedd tthheeyy sshhoowweedd tthheeiirr wwoorrkk ttoo bbootthh tteeaacchheerrss

aanndd llaauugghheedd wwhheenn tthheeyy gguueesssseedd wwrroonnggllyy aabboouutt wwhhaatt tthheeyy hhaadd mmaaddee..

AAfftteerrwwaarrddss aallll tthhee LLeeggoo wwaass ppuutt aawwaayy aanndd MMrrss TTrriimmbbllee aasskkeedd tthheemm aallll ttoo ssiitt

iinn ffrroonntt ooff hheerr iinn aa sseemmiicciirrccllee.. ““NNooww wwee’’rree ggooiinngg ttoo hhaavvee aa ssttoorryy.. TTooddaayy iitt’’ss aallll aabboouutt

aa lliittttllee ggiirrll wwhhoo ggooeess ttoo sscchhooooll ffoorr tthhee ffiirrsstt ttiimmee,, jjuusstt lliikkee yyoouu,, bbuutt iinn aa ffaarr aawwaayy ppllaaccee

ccaalllleedd CChhiinnaa””..

MMrrss TTrriimmbbllee hhaadd aa nniiccee cclleeaarr vvooiiccee aanndd ssoooonn tthhee cchhiillddrreenn wweerree lloosstt iinn tthhee

aaddvveennttuurreess ooff LLaayy LLiiaann LLeeee aanndd hheerr ffiirrsstt ddaayy aatt sscchhooooll..

TThhee lliittttllee hhaanndd wwaass nnooww oovveerr tthhee eelleevveenn aanndd tthhee bbiigg hhaanndd oovveerr tthhee ssiixx wwhheenn

tthheeyy hheeaarrdd nnooiisseess iinn tthhee ppllaayyggrroouunndd.. LLooookkiinngg tthhrroouugghh tthhee wwiinnddooww tthheeyy ssaaww cchhaattttiinngg

mmootthheerrss,, ssoommee ffaatthheerrss aanndd aa ffeeww ggrraannddppaarreennttss..

MMiissss SSccootttt,, wwhhoo kknneeww wwhhoo bbeelloonnggeedd ttoo wwhhoomm,, ppaaiirreedd uupp aallll tthhee cchhiillddrreenn wwiitthh

aa ppaarreenntt aanndd nnoo oonnee wwaass lleefftt oovveerr.. MMeeggaann wwaass lluucckkyy,, bbootthh hheerr MMuumm aanndd DDaadd wweerree

tthheerree ttoo ccoolllleecctt hheerr aanndd oonn tthhee wwaayy hhoommee sshhee wwaass aabbllee ttoo tteellll tthheemm aallll aabboouutt hheerr ffiirrsstt

ddaayy aatt sscchhooooll..

Fly on the Wall

Sweeping the grey curls from her eyes Gill said in her gentle scolding voice,

“There’s a parcel here for you all the way from China. Whatever have you bought

now? “. She’d subconsciously performed that toss of the head ever since we’d first

met as teenagers all those years ago. I was at the kitchen table with my favourite

breakfast. Two boiled eggs, buttered bread solders and a mug of tea.

Opening the parcel I saw that it was my must-have ebay toy. It had been

advertised as the latest all singing, all dancing, Ipad lookalike, cheapo from a Chinese

company I’d never heard of. After buying it I could find no trace of the company

anywhere and the phrase ‘A fool and his money are soon parted ‘had come to mind.

But here it was in all its glory.

Taking it to my den I quickly put it through its paces. It had all the usual

applications and software. But wait, what’s this one? FlyontheWall.app?

Clicking on it caused an aerial map view of the UK to appear. Just like Google

Earth I thought. What a rip off. Playing with it I zoomed down to get a street map

scene of all of Guildford. More zooming and I was soon viewing its High Street. Then

I noticed on the screen another touch control showing time and date. This display was

now acting like the rewind on a video player with the years rolling backwards until it

finally stopped.

All of a sudden the strangest sensation came over me. I felt virtually

disembodied and just as in the “Beam me up Scotty“Star Trek episodes I slowly,

ghostly, materialised. But where was I? Quickly I realised, I was hovering above what

had been my favourite toy shop in the High Street. How weird was this?

Below me, staring into the window display was a little girl, with her mother,

coveting a pink dolls pram. Suddenly a little boy came out of the shop clutching a

brand new model Dinky car. His dad was outside reading the Daily Sketch. The

headline being , “Butter Ration increased to Two Ounces “.

The boy brushed past the little girl without a further glance, absorbed in his

new toy.

Flicking the brown curls from her face the little girl questioned her mother. “Why

has that little boy got egg on his face?”

FlyLeaf

Each tale in this collection of ten short stories tells of the consequences that the

delivery of a letter has on ten two up and two down terraced houses that share a post

code. Because of the constant referring to other houses in the street in each story we

soon learn that the occupants are:

A one parent family.

A student house.

An elderly widow.

A young bachelor.

A gay couple.

Somalian refugees

A stand up comedian.

A professional footballer.

A confidence trickster.

A new M. P.

Some of the stories take the form of a monologue a la Alan Bennett (widow and

comedian).

There is a two person one act play (gay couple)

First person (parent, bachelor, M.P, footballer, con man)

Third person (students, somalians)

Some letters bring good news, some just chatty but most are harbingers of ill

tidings.

The remarkable achievement is how these differing styles bring a cohesiveness

to the whole collection although each stands independent of the others.

Foreign Devil.

I’ve lived in five cities up to now so the idea of choosing just one required

some thought. The choice was tempered by the proviso that certain words should

trigger some memorable moments from my time there. This, itself, conjured up a

vision of word association sessions in some psychiatrists’ chair.

Eventually I decided upon Hong Kong and that means Guildford, London, St

Albans and Newcastle will have to wait.

Five minutes before landing at this city you pass over the River Pearl. It

always invokes a feeling of apprehension. It’s an unforgettable landmark seen from

two miles up. It’s dotted with small islands as the estuary meets the South China Sea.

Then Hong Kong itself, like a transposed version of the Isle of Wight, comes into

view.

What was I letting myself in for? It’s too late to have a change of mind.

Certain boats had been burnt. Then, pre 1997, the landing at Kai Tak itself was a

stomach churner. The 747 seemed to use the road below as a marker with tenement

blocks on either side through the windows of which passengers could see the glowing

television sets.

The apprehension soon went after a couple of months and the scents and

sounds of the city soon became second nature. So what sound invokes this city for

me? There is quite a choice. The roar of flights arriving and departing the runway that

stretched into the harbour was an obvious choice. However, personally, it is the

strident discordant raucous decibel clashing of cymbals that mark the beginning of an

open air Chinese opera. The noise seems to fill the air for an eternity as it heralds the

entrance of the high pitched vocalists in their elaborate masks and red costumes. It’s

reminiscent of banging your head against the proverbial brick wall. It’s great when it

stops.

The sight of the harbour when landing in no way prepares you for its actual

reality. The scent (smell) can be what lingers in the mind. Hong Kong is Chinese for

Fragrant Harbour. What a misnomer. There is a five minute ferry ride I often took

from mainland Kowloon to Hong Kong Island. When taking this trip it is a blessing if

it’s windy to help disperse the overpowering stinking stench. During the Chinese New

Year celebrations there are Dragon boat races in the harbour and the crew of any

upturned boat are immediately taken to hospital and inoculated against a plethora of

plagues.

These celebrations take place in the month of February about six weeks or so

from the Gweilo New Year. Then the four word greeting of ‘Kung hei fat choy

(happy Chinese New Year) marks the beginning of another ‘Year of an Animal’ that

make up the twelve year Chinese Zodiac cycle chosen from Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit,

Dragon, Snake, Horse, Goat, Monkey, Rooster, Dog or Pig.

There’s no getting away from the colour Red. Together with the number ‘

eight ‘ and the shishi lions they form an auspicious trinity of good luck symbols that

almost guarantee good Feng Shui. Every where, especially the restaurants , there are

red lanterns, candles, decorations, masks, silk cloaks and the red envelopes

containing gifts for the children at New Year, hopefully with red hundred dollar notes

inside.

However it wasn’t all lotus eating indolence during my time in the East. Body

and soul had to be kept together for the seven years I was there. A friend at my

previous employment in a UK college had put in a good word to a Hong Kong

colleague saying what a good chap I was. Soon early retirement and the offer of a job

saw me on that 747 ready to do sterling work in ‘the colonies’.

So far it’s been ‘I this’ and ‘me that’ but keeping me on the straight and

narrow during the time out East, as always, was my wife. We’d always said that once

the kids were off our hands we would have a gap year not knowing that it would turn

out to be a different kind of ‘seven year itch’.

Green Eyed Monster

“Have either of you two guys got a light?” Looking up from my pint I saw

this stunning girl that I’d seen just before I’d entered the club. Two stools away was

another man I’d not really noticed. I should have done since even his designer labels

had designer labels. My labels were care of TKMax and Matalan. A gold chunky

necklace, numerous yellow rings and a Rolex helped to further define him.

Now the vision was seated between the two of us expectantly waiting

for us to oblige.

I didn’t smoke but had a Bic lighter from a Pound shop in my pocket for

lighting the gas to heat the tins of beans in my student flat. I took it out just as Mr

Bling placed a Cartier on the bar top together with a set of keys with a Ferrari tab. My

10 year old Fiesta with 3 months MOT left on it before the trip to the scrap yard was

small beer compared to this.

Talk about jealousy, the green eyed monster. I wouldn’t stand a chance in the

chat up that was bound to follow.

The girl placed her open bag by the side of the keys and her credit cards, a fat

wad of notes in a wallet and what looked like a Prada label were visible.

Bling then took out a platinum cigarette case and offered her one. “These are

Turkish “, he said,” I have them shipped over every now and then from Ankara “.

Taking one she replied, “I’ll have to take it outside to smoke, look after my bag and

ignore my ipod if it rings “. Picking up the solid gold Cartier she quickly disappeared

through the entrance.

After about ten minutes Bling was getting a little anxious. Ten minutes more

and still no sign of her. Then he did an ungentlemanly thing. He picked up her bag

and emptied it on the bar.

The credit cards were the property of the Bank of Toyland, All the ‘fifty’

pound notes had a picture of Shearer on them and unless Alan was now the Governor

of The Bank of England were worthless. It was a Made in China Praada label and

there wasn’t an Ipod in sight.

Not a bad swop for a Cartier.

If at first you don’t succeed.

As she put the phone down Jo wondered just what sort of pen name was Accusy Apple anyway that her

agent, Andy Toolmaker, had suggested yesterday . That can’t be his real name either. He’s probably got

a fixation on some minor Hobbit character she though as she put on her yellow laced Doc Martins.

Toolmaker had just phoned to say to forget the pen name as he was having second thoughts about it. Also

he wanted to see her as soon as possible about the draft of her first novel that he‘d been touting around the

publishers. He‘d told her to drop every thing, get a taxi to the ‘ Laverna Romeliss ‘, Camden, where an

informal ‘Come as you are’ party for the Booker prize judges was being held at short notice. Being a

striving zealous young wannabe author she needed no further persuading. Hob knobbing with Booker

people might just get her on the first rung of the literary ladder. She arrived at the restaurant just as

Toolmaker was parking his Harley Davidson.

He wore all the gear you’d expect of a weekend Hell’s Angel right down to the Death’s Head skull on

a yellow helmet. When he saw her he tried one of his weak jokes, “Am I in the right place for the

Writer’s group?” he said in his soft Irish lilt, quite the Father Ted actually. She buttered him up with a

brief laugh, really he wasn’t so bad and seemed to be doing his best in placing her work but with no

results as of yet.

Once inside the restaurant she rubbernecked the whole scene. People she’d only seen in magazines,

talk shows and the TLS were knee deep every where. She could easily get used to this and saw no reason

why in a few years time she couldn’t be one of these glitterati.

“Before you work your charm on these unsuspecting scribblers let’s go to that corner table and chat about

progress, he said apologetically. “Has there been any?” Jo said uncharacteristically, usually being half full

rather than half empty.

Andy, with some vacillation, said, “I’m not sure, I think Penguin might have been interested but their

editor thinks that this genre might be played out. Virago made a few suggestions that might improve your

chances. Gollancz didn’t offer much hope. Bodley Head didn’t even reply. “He carried on in this vein for

about half a dozen more publishers becoming more hesitant as he hummed and harred with each piece of

bad news. Looking dejectedly out of the window Jo noticed a Double Decker stopping just outside with

the legend of its destination on the front. After a pause she said, “Did you try Bloomsbury?”

“I could get in touch with them Monday if you like but I don’t feel all that confident.” he said. “Why

don’t you give them a ring yourself, but on the other hand , perhaps not” With this last conflicting piece

of advise he handed back her draft but caused the first page to slowly flutter to the floor where it landed,

right side up, disclosing the title: ‘H. P. and the Philosopher’s Stone’.

Help.

I’m down.

Some other guy.

I just don’t understand.

Got to get you into my Life,

Michelle

Hieronymus Bosch, The Prodigal Son c.1510

The large foreground figure immediately attracts attention. There are many

interpretations of its symbolism, the painting’s title being one. Others include ‘The

Vagabond’, ‘The Wayfarer’, ‘Der Landloper’, ‘The Wandering Jew’, ‘The Fool, (a

card from the Tarot set)’.

Once the central character has registered the devil in all the detail becomes

apparent, a tribute to the artist’s skill.

The smell invoked are dichotomous, the stench of the animals and the scent of

the tree compete for mastery.

Overhead the rustling of the leaves, like the raucous ripple of river rapids, are

masked by the sound of merrymaking. It is coming from the dilapidated tavern,

attracting the attention of the tramp. Should he about turn and join the debauchery or

continue his journey?

A sense of time would place the hour at early evening just as the inn begins to

ready itself for yet another bacchanalian revelry.

Luckily for the vagrant the elements are in his favour since the castoff shoes

and clothes would be poor protection in the cold and the wet. It would not always be

so as he viewed the darkening sky.

Glancing back the way he had come he saw a man tethering his horse to a

post. Is this the visitor the woman at the window awaits?

In a moment the equestrian would satisfy his curiosity.

Red

Dusk is always at about seven in Hong Kong. This month the city would start

to take on its annual reddish glow. The extra neon signs on restaurants, hotels and

shop fronts were all helping to proclaim the coming Chinese New Year and causing

the crimson hue in the sky above. The twelve year cycle had returned to the Year of

the Snake, lucky colour red.

Ah Ching opened his suitcase full of ripped off cd’s, dvd’s and computer

software ready to sell to the tourist’s along with a few fake Rolex watches. He had a

pitch near the old Walled City, the most crowded six acres on Earth and a magnet for

the qweilos seeking a touch of local colour, in this case red. The sound of the

ubiquitous red fire crackers never seemed to abate, competing with the overhead roar

of the Jumbos as they landed in nearby Kai Tak.

Was it really twelve years ago that he’d left his boyhood village and, taking

his life in his hands, had half floated; half sculled the few miles from main land China

to this capitalistic enclave? That night he had launched himself on a child’s red

plastic lilo into the sea hoping to avoid the ship patrols and sharks. His gaol was the

faint blushing red halo in the sky that seemed an eternity away.

He had left his wife of a few months back in the village hoping that later she

would join him. His only memento of Lay Lian was a wedding photo in her red

cheongsam figure-hugging dress. Like all Chinese he believed red to be the most

auspicious of colours.

To him red felt like a fire in the belly driving him on to succeed. He could

almost taste red and was reminded of the village custom of red eggs and ginger when

new parents gifted eggs to family, an odd number for a boy and even number for a

girl. These days it was nearly always odd.

Red now smelt of freedom after all those years in Red China. No kow-towing

to minor officials which caused the red mist to rise. He still crossed to the other side

of the street when he saw policemen or squaddies approach but he had long since

bought from the triads all the official legal documents needed to stay in Hong Kong.

He even had a red wine British passport.

To him red also had its own sound. He could hear it now. From a

neighbouring street he could hear the opening crescendo of a Chinese Opera. The

clash of the symbols was pure red complemented by the red costumes, red facemasks

of the high pitched singers and the red lanterns that illuminated the makeshift stage.

In a way he had lived the dream. At first he’d picked up labouring jobs,

restaurant work, and taxi driving all with no questions asked so long as he paid a little

protection to the gangs. His wants were few. For a few years he slept in the unfinished

mushrooming flats he was helping to build. Now he was the proud possessor of a

nearly finished shanty shack he’d built on bamboo stilts on the side of Lion Rock

complete with corrugated iron sheets and plaster board filched from many a building

site.

Over the years he had managed to return to his village taking with him some

of his savings. The red Hong Kong hundred dollar notes were readily accepted, more

so than the official currency. Both sets of parents were now dead and Lay Lian had no

need to stay. Ah Ching knew that a full set of unimpeachable documents and an

overland smuggle for Lay Lian would just about take his remaining savings. He had

earmarked them for a half share in a concrete delivery lorry.

How could he finance both without a triad loan? He would never escape their

clutches if he took that route. So while unknowingly selling a counterfeit ‘Simply

Red’ cd to a punter he contemplated his trip tomorrow to the casinos of Macao. One

bet only. Faites vos jeux. Red to win.

Sherlock Holmes and the Dowager Duchess

"Come to the window Holmes and tell me what you make of this". The rain was

running rivulets down the outside panes like a just opened magnum of cascading

champagne. The pitter-patter of the rain was reminiscent of the murmur of

innumerable bees.

Down below the level of the window a hansom cab had just drawn up. This vehicle

was as ostentatious as Cinderalla’s coach before it turned back into a pumpkin. It had

two drenched top hatted flunkies, erect as meerkats, perched on the back. The driver

was now strutting like an ostrich around the team of horses. He was preparing to open

the carriage door. A young lady emerged and at the same time the driver unfurled a

large umbrella. "Thank you, Milburn ", her voice, as musical as a set of wind chimes,

said. With the servant shielding the worse of the hurricane-like weather she hopped

like a grasshopper over the puddles that looked like the landscape of the Lake District

viewed from afar. Her footwear was as suitable for this task as those glass slippers

worn by Cinderella. The horses were soon tethered to a lamppost, standing as tall as

a spruce, with its gaslight at our window level. This lit our rooms like the dawn of a

summer equinox.

Mrs Hudson quickly opened the door and the girl swept in. Our housekeeper took her

multicoloured silk cape. It was glistening with shimmering raindrops that

continuously changed colour like a demented chameleon. As she entered our upstairs

quarters the aroma of her perfume evocated a field full of fragrant

fuchsias……………………….

I know what I’m doing.

“How do you add a speech bubble?” asked my granddaughter of her mother .

I was busy relaxing in an armchair watching her work at the computer. She was busy

composing her own version of ’Little Red Riding Hood’ using Microsoft Office and

Power Point slides were to be the book pages. Her work so far had resulted in three or

four slides of concentrated effort. Each page consisted of a title at the top outlining

what was on that page followed by one or two paragraphs of prose developing the

story. Under this was an area for pictures to illustrate the above sentences . She had

reached the stage when the wolf first meets Little Red Riding Hood in the forest on

her way to visit Grandmamma.

Looking at her work I had to resist the temptation to point out an understandable

spelling mistake. I’d spotted that ‘while’ was typed ‘wile ’and the spelling checker

had not red lined it. Earlier, when I’d chipped in, she had said ‘I know what I’m

doing’ in her Little Madam voice so I was suitably chastised. Anyway she would

learn more from her mistakes later than me doing instant copy checking.

Now she was clicking on all sorts of buttons and tiny squares causing the

current slide to change colour, fancy fonts to appear and disappear and clip arts of

wolfs and trees to materialise until she was satisfied with their size. Her next job was

to add a speech bubble from the wolf inquiring as to where the little girl was going.

Obviously she thought me a complete Power Point dummy and that only her

Mum knew about the intricacies of Mr Gates ‘Office’. How different was her

approach compared to how I would have had to have tackled the same problem fifty

odd years ago.

Then the scene would have involved writing in a ruled sixpenny exercise

book with a scratchy pen dipped into black ink from a gungey ink well in a desk with

the initials of previous pupils carved on it. Visions of high collared clerks from a

Dickensian novel come to mind.

Back another fifty years and it would have been slate and chalk, if you were

lucky. Even further back, eight hundred years or so, it would take a monk two weeks

to finish the first character in ‘The Book of Kells’. Now stories can be as

professionally prepared, illustrated, edited and uploaded on the spot to reach potential

Facebook critics half a world away.

What would Mr Gutenberg have made of it all?

The Offer

If only I’d known, in retrospect, of the events that would unfold a year later I

wouldn’t have awaited the arrival of that morning’s post so eagerly.

The postman was a little late but there amongst the junk mail and Christmas

cards was the letter with the transparent window with my name and address showing

through. That week I’d already received four similar letters and these were stacked

under a marble paperweight on the mantelpiece. Quickly I read the contents of this

latest letter and the n spread the set of all five on the kitchen table.

BCC, CCC, BBC, CCD and now another BBC. Cryptic you may say but they

were only the grades I would need to pass that summer to get into these Uni’s where

I’d applied to do a media degree in journalism. I would now have to accept two of

these, a first choice and a backup, and say thanks but no thanks to the other three.

However in this matter I would have no choice. Caitlin had received her offer

from this last University a few days earlier and this was the one she’d set her heart on

going to. Her acceptance had been emailed straight away even though the required

grades were the highest of the five. That wouldn’t worry her, it would be a walk in

the park getting BBC and even then there would be some to spare. It would be

different for me. I’d really have to burn the midnight oil for the next few months to

stand a chance.

I really ought to explain what’s going on here. For a start Caitlin has no idea

who I am or if I exist. We have got a friend in common though, Myra, who goes to the

same all girl’s school with Caitlin. That’s how I know what she had put on her UCCA

form. Also what uni she had accepted.

To any sane person the idea of opting for the same five uni’s as a girl you

fancied would be a little over the top. At the time, to me, it was as good a way as any

since I had no career in mind and journalism seemed to offer a challenge. Fortunately

English was one of the ‘A’ levels I was taking and this was needed by all five offers.

As luck would have it one of the set books for English was |Hemingway’s ‘The Old

Man and The Sea’ and he had originally been a newspaperman and his biography

charted a charmed life. That midnight oil I’d been burning included checking out his

background since my tutor had said that mentioning some relevant unexpected facts in

your answers might just up a borderline grade.

How’s this for a piece of Hemingway trivia. I’ll get it into an answer

somehow. When asked to write a six word story he wrote:

‘For sale, baby’s boots, never worn’.

In a year’s time however could go one better:

‘Five choices, wrong one, oblivion’.

In Praise of Greasy Spoons.

The Railway Café, Guildford served me my first Belt Burster. Steak pudding,

peas and mash with a penny change from two bob. Half the hourly working

rate. The juke box was blaring ‘Wake up Littte Susie’ by the Everly Brothers. But

do not glance up at the Teddy boys while scoffing the jam tart and custard for it was

their club, and you may be accused of ‘looking at them’. There were drainpipes, DA’s

and brothel creepers every where.

Next, the Fish Shop, Riverside, same City deserves a mention. The evening

special gave four pennies change from a shilling. These were useful for the

telephone booth just outside. Press Button A to talk, Button B for your money back.

We were for ever pressing button B, in hope, all over town.

The Institute for chilli con carne was half a crown well spent. There were

pinball and foosball tables to play, chess by the fireside or you could learn to foxtrot

upstairs, also for half a crown. So did we eat or did we wallflowers learn a Valeta for

next Saturday night?

The Lido café on a hot summer’s day sold staff discounted Pepsi and a Lyons

apple pie, a steal for a tanner. Stale unsold sandwiches were to be scoffed at the end

of the day.

A dead ringer for Kathy’s East Ender’s café is now remembered. It was

situated in West London near The World’s End, King’s Road, Chelsea, being famous

for its beef stew and dumplings followed by spotted dick. It was a welcome mid day

break from all those morning theorems that we undergrads were sleeping through.

Digestion meant we drowsed the afternoon away as well.

A cafe in Praed Street, Paddington dished up faggots with everything with

small change from a dollar. Afterwards it was back to programming the 2001 Hal

computer with its flashing lights, vacuum tubes and punched cards.

Chungking Mansion, Nathan Road, Hong Kong was a never to be

forgotten experience. Floors and floors of one room restaurants that cheaply catered

for Indian, Chinese, Vietnamese, Thai and other Asian tastes. Chicken fried rice and

free green tea for the unadventurous. Chickens feet and sea slug for those seeking

local colour, all for a couple of quid. The hot green tea is used for surreptitiously

cleaning the counter cutlery. Once a group of English, French, German, Turkish,

Indian, Pakistani, Vietnamese, Burmese and Filipino men were refused entry as the

owner said they couldn’t come in without a Thai.

Now Full English Breakfasts served all day are a temptation to resist being a

one way ticket to Cholesterol City. But, as the Pinball Wizard said;

From Soho down to Brighton I must have tried them all.

Those short order chefs sure fry a mean meat ball.

So far all the praise has been meted out to cafes from the past but if you

google ‘Best Greasy Spoons?’ they are still out there. For cheap and cheerful local

fare try Shields Road, especially ‘Shirley’s Café’: Mince cobbler, carrot and peas,

roast and mash potatoes all covered in dark gravy for three pound, half the hourly

working rate. Also for Greasy Spoon read Wetherspoon. That’s where I am now, as I

finish this odd ode, having just tucked away cod, chips and mushy peas plus a coffee

with a penny change from four quid.

A Dog Day Afternoon

It seemed to me that the days had never been as beautiful as these.

The feeling of freedom, now the ‘A’ levels were over, was almost orgasmic. Not that I

knew much about that then, but before the summer was over…

But I get ahead of myself. I need to set the scene. I’d just finished school with

nearly two months to fritter away before the results. I had money in my pocket from

the summer job I’d just started at the local swimming pool. In the car park outside

was my prized Lambretta and a new license to drive it in my wallet. It was the best of

times.

The pool that afternoon had never been so busy. We poolies had to be extra

vigilant as the water was crowded with swimmers cooling from the unceasing sultry

sun. Out in the middle an air bed with a bikini clad girl on it was just about to be

swamped by a bevy of boys jumping from the high board. The girl was swept from

her watery lounge into the deep end. It was soon obvious that she couldn’t swim. This

was going to be my first rescue so with a quick plunge and a few strokes I was at her

side. Once there, it was no trouble getting her safely to the edge.

Once she was over the shock I started to scold her for being so stupid. She

looked at me blankly showing no signs of understanding. She then spoke softly and I

recognised a French accent. The last time I’d heard such an accent was the previous

week during my final oral. I then surprised myself by carrying on the castigation in

her own language. Her reply to this was just an enigmatic smile followed by,” Why

are you so cross? And why are you are talking so funnily?” It was difficult not to

smile back at her. Then she said, “I am really so grateful for what you did; now could

you get my lilo then perhaps for your reward we could have a coke together at the

café”. Luckily I was due a thirty minute tea break and we were soon supping sodas as

I tried out more of my fractured French.

She was here for Juillet et Août as an exchange student and on the long

summer evenings and my days off we became inseparable. When I was working she

would be lying languidly on her lilo on the lido lawn, never more than a wave away.

Those were the days my friend, we thought they’d never end. But they did. It was the

worst of times.

In reality, without saying, we both knew it could only end in tears. There was

the sad leave-taking and the memory of the night before as my mademoiselle boarded

the coach bound for Paris. We promised to write and phone and future visits were

verily vowed.

But, in retrospect, how fickle we young can be. Soon the charms and allurement of

home grown girls caused these pledges to fade. Was that time just a rite of passage for

the both of us?

And then the summer was over.

Postscript:

How often, over the next fifty odd years, were the memories of that summer replayed

and embellished in ‘what might have been’ moments. Then, a bolt from the blue, a

message from Facebook: ‘You have a Friend Request from a Madame Chantal de

Villeneuve, Accept or Reject?’

Do Not Pass GO

B A Harms June 2013

http://harms1940.wix.com/monopoly

“Don’t you go playing with that Barry Wilson ", was always Mum's mantra to me. Barry

was always getting into trouble at school or with the Police or with just about anybody. Somehow he

always came up smelling of roses. Just a knack I suppose.

Here I was a few years later with Barry at the Old Kent Road car auction site. As I'd just passed

my test he wanted me to drive him in a vintage car he just bought for an American client who was

staying in Mayfair who was going to renovate it. "He's paying two thousand pounds for the privilege of

staying at the hotel so he must be loaded.” he said. “I reckon we should be able to collect two hundred

quid for the delivery.”

In the auction yard I started the engine and soon noticed none of the instruments were working

and that the engine was misfiring. Getting out I could see that the tyres were bald and half of the lights

weren’t working. I said, “You had better put some petrol in the tank, it’s most likely nearly empty".

Barry replied, “No, we won't be going far, I’m sure there’s enough".

I was beginning to regret the whole business but Barry has always been very persuasive. Leaving

the Old Kent Road we were in Pentonville eight minutes later and all that time I was on the look out for

cop cars. If we were stopped they would throw the book at us.

Out of the blue I recalled those Monopoly games we played at Christmas and all those

Community Chest and Chance cards. In our situation they might have read:

"You have no MoT, go to jail, move directly to jail, do not pass GO".

"You have no Tax or Insurance, go to jail, move directly to jail, do not pass GO”.

"You have faulty lights, go to jail , move directly to jail, do not pass GO "

“You have run out of petrol, miss two turns”

and others in a similar vein.

Ten more minutes saw us in Vine Street when the engine started to steam. I was on tenterhooks

waiting for the car to give up the ghost. Another five minutes and we were in Trafalgar Square. This

would be no place to breakdown. A pigeon crapped on the windscreen. Was this a sign that our luck was

changing for the better? Five minutes later we were circling around Picadilly when I realised that the

brakes were all spongy, having just missed knocking over a jaywalking tourist. Another five minutes

and, in trepidation, we were crawling up Bond Street.

I can't take much more of this ", I said to Barry. Three minutes later we turned into Park Lane

and Barry replied, "A couple more minutes and we'll be there". Then our luck finally did run out. A

police car stopped in front of us and out got two officers. "Hey, I know him ", said Barry, "He was in my

class at school".” Hello Tom ", Barry said, " I see you're a Sergeant now, how's Sarah and her Inspector

husband?” The sergeant who had already noted bald tyres, defective lights and no tax disc stopped in his

tracks. He recognised Barry and looking at the other officer pulled out a breathalyzer kit. “Would you

mind blowing into this sir ", he said. I did and it obviously registered zero." On your way then sir “, Tom

said.

Soon after, we delivered the death trap to a delighted American and collected the two hundred

pounds. “That was a bit of luck with your mate Tom", I said later on the bus back to the Old Kent Road.

"Tom’s no mate of mine", Barry replied, “but he quickly cottoned on that I knew about him seeing Sarah

and that I might have to anonymously blab to her husband. He had to do something to satisfy the other

copper and being over the limit was about the only motoring offence we’d not committed.”

Joan's grandson was due to visit her after a two year stint in Hong Kong. Her first thought for

a treat was a Sunday Dinner with all the trimmings. But no, from six thousand miles away he said

all he wanted were buttered Marmite soldiers. " You can't get it here ", he said , " and I really miss

it".

Marmite. she could take it or leave it.

So her shopping list now included this ‘delicacy’. As she entered the supermarket

she remembered that they had reorganised it last week and she had taken ages to find all her usual

needs. “ I wish they wouldn’t keep doing that “. she had thought at the time.” “I’ve no idea where

I’m going to find that Marmite “.

Then she saw the man who had helped her get the stuck pound coin from the trolley last week. He

was stacking one of the shelves with tins of chopped tomatoes. “ I’ll ask him for directions “.

Waiting for him to finish she then asked, “ can you tell me how to get to where you keep the

marmite ?”, she said. “ Oh, it’s you again”, he replied “ I was hoping you’d be back. Marmite?

Let me think,”.

After a brief pause he started to give directions. “ Go along this aisle and turn left by the

two for one offer on six pack coca colas, then just before the big pile of PG Tips go down towards

the fish counter and …….

Already her eyes had started to glaze over but she nodded sagely as he added yet more detail

on finding the elusive Marmite.

He could see her confusion and he added yet more detail. She was just about to thank him, “ and

leave the marmite purchase to the local corner shop when he said. “ I was just winding you up I’ll

take you there myself “.

So, with him pushing the trolley, they took the scenic route to the Brown Stuff. It brought back

memories of shopping with Jim not too many years ago. As they went up and down the aisles she

spotted many of the items on her list and added them to the trolley. As they toured Tesco’s she

found out that he was a retired teacher working here part-time and that he remembered her

grandson. After what seemed like ages they arrived at rows and rows of bulbous dark jars with

yellow screw on tops. “Here we are “, her guide said. “ But this is where we started from “, she

said. “ I know but I wanted to get to know you so I could’nt let the opportunity slip away “, he

replied. “ Is that what my daughter calls ‘being chatted up’ “, she replied. “I guess so . By the

way it’s my dinner break now so how about a coffee? I get a staff discount ”You really know how

to impress a girl don’nt you “, She laughed “ Marmite was’nt so bad aftereall.

The Inheritance

Yesterday had been the hottest day of the year so far. The Art Deco open air

Lido had been packed solid meaning that we poolies had had to be extra vigilant. I’d

pulled out two kids who’d swum out of their depth in the cloudy water that afternoon.

Overnight the filtering system would have restored the milky water to clear.

I hope so anyway because that would make my morning swim more profitable. Let

me explain. The pool had a well used cafeteria at the top of the sloping lawn that led

to the shallow end. People would buy all the usual drinks and snacks such as Bovril

when the weather was cold and ice creams when hot. But only wearing swimming

costumes they would put change from their ten bob notes into trunk pockets and

forget all about it. Later they would dive into the water and the coins would scatter all

over the bottom.

So if I arrived at work the pool an hour or so early I could open up with my

keys. Then I could swim up and down the lanes with snorkel and mask picking up all

of yesterday’s loot. Sometimes it looked like Rome’s Fountain of Trevi.

An extra incentive was based on what I’d overheard last night when getting

the free tea the café owners gave the pool attendants. I’d heard Anna, the new young

waitress, telling her boss about what she had lost in the pool.

“They belonged to my Nan”, she had said. “We always shared everything.

She’d left me a jewellery box with all her treasures in it and now I’ve lost what was

most valuable in that pool. I wish I’d never had a swim in my break”.

I‘d heard that she had inherited some earrings recently and even though I

could only see the back of her from a reflecting mirror advertising Coca Cola her ears

were earingless.

Being shy and gawky I’d been wondering how I could get to know her better.

Now if I could find her jewellery and return it even I should be able to take it from

there.

I quickly donned all the scuba equipment and started the search. Mr Avery, the

Superintendant, let us keep any cash we found but anything else went into the lost

property box. Rings, necklaces and bracelets were always being found together with

hearing aids, spectacles and other bric-a-brac.

The water was still warm from yesterday’s sun so trawling up and down the

lanes was no hardship. The water was now crystal clear and I soon had a collection of

copper coins, twelve sided threepenny bits, tanners, bobs, two florins and one half-

crown. Other bits and pieces included a sodden wallet, a tube of Rowntree’s fruit

gums and a set of false teeth. But, as yet, I had not seen any jewellery and only one

lane to go. As I approached the deepest part of the pool I saw a glint under the diving

boards. Taking a big breath I duck dived down and right in front of me were the

earrings not eighteen inches apart. Holding them firmly I surfaced, gathered up my

goodies and placed them on a tray in the staff hut.

I’d just changed into my tennis shorts and white T-shirt ready to start the day’s

work when Anna passed on her way up to the café. Shouting out to her to stop I

showed her the tray. “What’s it worth now that I’ve found your earrings, will you

come to the cinema on Tuesday night with me?”

Anna looked puzzled and said, “I haven’t lost any earrings but I see you’ve

found my Nan’s teeth. They fit me a treat”, and then she popped them in her mouth.

I Wish I'd Written That.

Certain memorable lines and scenes from books and films stay with us for no reason other than they are

unexpected, apt or we just wish that we'd written them. If asked to list such examples I'm sure most of us

have our own favourites. Without too much trouble here are a few that quickly came to mind.

"You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!”, The Italian Job.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times", A Tale of Two Cities.

"I coulda' been a contender", On the Water Front.

“The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune ", Hamlet.

A quote that could be added to those above just about sums it all up succinctly and is from the master of

the one liner.

“Oscar, I wish I'd said that “to which Wilde replied, “You will, dear boy, you will".

A slight variation might be “I wish I'd written that". This has been a suggested topic for us to consider

along the lines of ‘Show and Tell’. So without further ado here's one of my favourite scenes. It's an excerpt

from a Galton and Simpson classic, “The Blood Donor”. It is set in the blood donor department of a large

London Hospital where Hancock has offered to give blood.

TONY: I’m ready when you are squire.

DOCTOR: Good. Nurse. (The nurse brings a kidney bowl, a needle, a long thin tube). Hold your hand out,

please. (Tony holds his hand out. The doctor takes the needle). Now, this won't hurt. You'll just feel a

slight prick on the end of your finger. (Tony winces in readiness, eyes screwed shut. The doctor jabs the

needle in).

TONY: (gets up as doctor smears the drop of blood from the needle onto a slide). Well, I'll bid you a good

day, thank you very much, whenever you want any more, don't hesitate to get in touch with me.

DOCTOR: Where are you going?

TONY: To have my tea and biscuits.

DOCTOR: I thought you came here to give some of your blood.

TONY: You've just had it.

DOCTOR: This is just a smear.

TONY: It may be just a smear to you, mate, but it's life and death to some poor wretch.

DOCTOR: No, no, no, I've just taken a small sample to test.

TONY: A sample? How much do you want then?

DOCTOR: Well, a pint of course.

TONY: A pint? Have you gone raving mad? Oh, you must be joking.

DOCTOR: A pint is a perfectly normal quantity to take.

TONY: You don't seriously expect me to believe that? I came in here in all good faith to help my country.

I don't mind giving a reasonable amount, but a pint - why, that's nearly an armful. I don't mind that much

(holds out his finger). But not up to here mate, I'm sorry, (indicates just below his shoulder). I'm not

walking around with an empty arm for anybody. I mean, a joke's a joke……….. The complete episode is

arguably a masterpiece of this comic genre and well worth chasing up on Youtube

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pC1-Mrlm3TU

Lion Rock

The phone was ringing again. I could hear it like some peal of bells from a far

distant church. But now everything seemed so remote, dreamlike and unreal even

time. My wife was there to answer the phone as quietly as she could, not wishing to

disturb me even though she was now aware that, for all intents and purposes, it didn’t

matter.

She had phoned our eldest son earlier once the doctor had confirmed the

worst. She would call my friends later. He was returning the message on his voicemail

. Straight to the point and not believing what she was saying she said" It won’t be

long now; the doctor has said that it is in its final stages. Dad's asleep now but he still

keeps waking every now and then”.” Don’t distress yourself anymore Mum, just make

sure Dad is as comfortable as possible. I'll tell the others and we'll get over there as

soon as possible. Would it be good idea if my boys came as well?” I think they are old

enough to make their own minds up but I know Dad would like to see them."

This conversation did not register with me at all. At that moment I was

recalling happier days. In my muddled mind we were both at the top of Lion Rock

looking down at a panoramic view of Kowloon stretching away in all directions.

Across the harbour the Star Ferry appeared minute as it crossed from the Mainland to

Hong Kong Island and back again endlessly. Planes, resembling wasps, were landing

and jostling for takeoff at Kai Tak airport whose runway jutted famously into the

harbour. Planes in holding patterns were circling below us. On the tops of skyscrapers

we could see the tennis courts.

The next day we were leaving for good from that same airport, the contract

was over. Kai Tak now appeared so huge as the taxi skirted the perimeter. Where

were the wasps? In their place were 747's, DC10's, and the occasional Lear jet. How

good it would be to be back home again with family and old friends.

Was it that thought of family that caused me to open my eyes? Anyway my

wife took advantage of this moment to let me know that they were all here except my

daughter who was expected any minute.

As she spoke well loved faces appeared into the bedroom. These faces filled

my mind like the rocky sculptures of the Presidents on Mount Rushmore. Then the

morphine took hold and I drifted off into unconsciousness again.

The next I knew it was like being on top of Lion Rock again. This time I was

looking down on the panoramic view of my bedroom and family. There below was

my wife and the rest of the family including my daughter. Also completing the picture

was the bed with its occupant. The telephone was off the hook. Soon it would be

busy.

Looking after Granddad

In looking back at times past we so often put a rosy glow on events especially

those reminisces of family incidents. Occasionally the reverse is true and the Monty

Python line “We all lived in a brown paper bag on the M1” is an example of

exaggerated poverty.

I suppose a few lines recorded now when events are fresh in our minds would

be useful for when or if we ever write about days gone by. So here are some

observations about the one day a week when I collect granddaughter Katie from

school and look after her until her mum or dad get home.

Its three thirty and year two come streaming out. K and her friend rush to get

their scooters and are soon weaving in and out of the other years towards the crossing.

Stopping there they wait for us to catch up before pressing the button to arrest the

traffic, arguing as to who did it yesterday. Then a final scoot and we’re home. In the

kitchen I read a note outlining what to cook for tea, not too much television and when

bed time should be. K sits herself down on the sofa with a plate of Jacobs’s crackers

and I ask her about her day. She informs me that they had a Show and Tell at school

with her talking about an old Chinese Knick-Knack and disclosing a gory tale about

its history. Also she’d had Pizza for dinner with jam tart and custard for ‘Afters’. A

birthday boy had given everyone a tube of sweets including the supply teacher as Mrs.

Judd was ill. Then, using up some of her precious TV allotment, she chills out

watching ‘Peppa Pig learns to Whistle’.

After this rest it’s “What shall we do now, Granddad”. In the summer it’s

swimming or Hide and Seek in the play park but now it’s getting darker the choice is

more limited. Playing ‘Hide and Seek’ in the sitting room is tricky. “Coming, ready or

not”, I cry. I have to look at a spot where she’s not hiding. While my back is turned K

tiptoes from where I say I will look next, to place where I’ve just looked. This goes on

for some time. Then it’s my turn to hide.

After a while this pales, so what next? I suggest some paper and pencil games

like Boxes, Noughts and Crosses, Sprouts or Hangman. After twenty or so minutes

she’s had enough of this so she suggests we play ‘Shops’. That’s fine by me since K

takes ages to set this up. Soon Post-It notes having ‘For Sale’ written on them with

fantasy prices like 2p or £1000 are stuck on objects all around the room. Out comes

the toy cash register and she gives me some Monopoly money with some ‘brown’ and

‘silver’ coins so I can make my purchases. She duly collects the cash, sorts out any

change and makes a note of what’s been bought.

A new twist on ‘Shops’ is when K gives me an Argos catalogue. I then have

to’ phone’ in a page and item number which she then checks in her copy and says

whether it is in stock or not. When ‘Shops’ is over she uses up the last of her

television quota while I cook pasta and chilli con carne for tea followed by a jelly that

I made yesterday.

It’s now past six and she’s tired so we agree that I read a few Rupert Bear

stories from her collection of twenty or so annuals gathered, on her behalf, from

myriad jumble and boot sales. Then a few card tricks that I’ve shown her that she’s

nearly mastered. Unexpectedly dad now walks in as he managed to get away early

and after a cup of tea I leave K in his capable hands.

In fifty years time, if Katie puts pen to paper, how will she remember such

evenings when she looked after granddad?

Lost and Found

“At home”, said the invitation. It had been on the mantelpiece for over a week . It was too

late now to phone through and offer some feeble excuse. I’ve always wanted to use Peter

Cook’s snub to an invite from Princess Margaret, “I find I shall be watching television

that evening “.Still there's always another time.

So here I was knocking at a door in a seedy alley way that I had had difficulty in

finding. When it was eventually opened I gave the host the six pack and red sangria

that the manager of Yamina’s had let me have when earlier I had popped in for a

quick one. The host at once added the Spanish red wine to the big bowl of punch on

the sideboard. Once inside I was pleased to see that I wasn’t among the first arrivals.

Only saddos get there first. If there’s one thing worse than saddos it’s rich bastards

and the room seemed to be full of them.

In a way it was a case of the kettle calling the pot black. Or was it the other way

around? Let me explain. I’m an up and coming accountant and it’s my job to make

these party people even richer. That’s why I had been invited in the first place. My

host wanted me to meet socially a client with whom I would be having a breakfast

meeting in a few hours time. This would help explain why no one seemed to be

drinking. Negotiating tomorrow’s deals with a hangover was not the best preparation.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw mine host opening the door again and heard her

say, “ Darling, your shoes “ and then asking everyone to look at the new guest's feet, a

Nigel apparently.

Nigel! It couldn’t be the same Nigel Todd from the village from which I had escaped.

I tell all my new London friends that I'm from Llareggub and they believe me. By

coincidence it was also St. David’s day. Then I obeyed the hosts command to look at

his feet. Yes it was Blodwen’s grandson. As a boy I had delivered newspapers to her

for more years than I cared to remember and was always grateful for the Christmas

tip. Even at school Nigel was a bit of an exhibitionist. He once wore to school a pair

of high heeled leather boots he'd found at a jumble sale. He'd painstakingly adorned

them with red sequins that he had somehow glued together, super glue most likely.

From a distance they looked like a pair of welsh dragons.

In those days I was one of a small group of younger boys trying to get in with the

older ones mainly for self preservation.

I was sure that this self same Nigel would not recognise me after all these years and

once his entrance had been made I watched him. He waited until the music had

stopped and quickly went over to the hifi system, took out a CD from an inside pocket

and it began playing. From the cover in the plastic case I could see that it was an Etta

James album.

Straight away this track evoked another trip to the past. I was with friends from my

year patiently waiting to use an ice slide formed near the kitchen block from water

that had dripped from leaky guttering. The boys in Nigel’s year had monopolised this

slide all morning. Nigel walked over playing the only Walkman in the school.

Coming from it was a tiny tinny haunting blues number also by Etta James. The music

must have put him in a good mood since he got the big lads to let us have a go on the

slide. I expect they were getting bored anyway. Later we wished he hadn’t since two

of us boys fell awkwardly each breaking a wing-stick arm.

This tune on that Walkman was now being repeated at the party after all these years.

Strange how sounds and even scents recalled past times. I can always see visions of

my Nan's front parlour or 'the Room' as she called it whenever I smell furniture

polish. Shall we go into 'the Room', birthdays and Holydays only.

Still watching Nigel I saw him settle into a sky blue leather sofa where he started to

spoon the fruit from the sangria punch that nobody was drinking. It could be that it

was the cheap wine from Yaminas that had tainted it. Nigel didn’t seem to mind and

had helped himself to one or two glassfuls by now.

It was at this point that he looked up at me and after a while smiled. Knocking back

my glass I went over to get a refill. I wasn’t really going to drink it remembering the

morning meeting ahead. It was just an excuse to strike up a conversation. It was

obvious that he had no idea who I was. There was no hail-fellow-well-met look in his

eyes. I did however recognise another, more suggestive look that he gave me. The

electricity flowed.

He uncrossed his legs and, sitting next to him on the leather sofa I remarked “What

wonderful shoes “.” Yes”, he said “I like a little frivolity at the feet “.

Two lost no good boyos had found each other.

Marmite

Joan's grandson was due to visit her after a two year stint in Hong Kong. Her first thought for a

treat was a Sunday Dinner with all the trimmings. But no, from six thousand miles away he said

all he wanted were buttered Marmite soldiers. " You can't get it here ", he said , " and I really miss

it".

Marmite. she could take it or leave it.

So her shopping list now included this ‘delicacy’. As she entered the supermarket

she remembered that they had reorganised it last week and she had taken ages to find all her usual

needs. “ I wish they wouldn’t keep doing that “. she had thought at the time.” “I’ve no idea where

I’m going to find that Marmite “.

Then she saw the man who had helped her get the stuck pound coin from the trolley last week. He

was stacking one of the shelves with tins of chopped tomatoes. “ I’ll ask him for directions “.

Waiting for him to finish she then asked, “ can you tell me how to get to where you keep the

marmite ?”, she said. “ Oh, it’s you again”, he replied “ I was hoping you’d be back. Marmite?

Let me think,”.

After a brief pause he started to give directions. “ Go along this aisle and turn left by the

two for one offer on six pack coca colas, then just before the big pile of PG Tips go down towards

the fish counter and …….

Already her eyes had started to glaze over but she nodded sagely as he added yet more detail

on finding the elusive Marmite.

He could see her confusion and he added yet more detail. She was just about to thank him, “ and

leave the marmite purchase to the local corner shop when he said. “ I was just winding you up I’ll

take you there myself “.

So, with him pushing the trolley, they took the scenic route to the Brown Stuff. It brought back

memories of shopping with Jim not too many years ago. As they went up and down the aisles she

spotted many of the items on her list and added them to the trolley. As they toured Tesco’s she

found out that he was a retired teacher working here part-time and that he remembered her

grandson. After what seemed like ages they arrived at rows and rows of bulbous dark jars with

yellow screw on tops. “Here we are “, her guide said. “ But this is where we started from “, she

said. “ I know but I wanted to get to know you so I could’nt let the opportunity slip away “, he

replied. “ Is that what my daughter calls ‘being chatted up’ “, she replied. “I guess so . By the

way it’s my dinner break now so how about a coffee? I get a staff discount ”You really know how

to impress a girl don’nt you “, She laughed “ Marmite was’nt so bad aftereall.

Mr. Punch

Only ten seconds to go. The last few moments on Ebay, when bidding for an

item, always caused my heart to race. 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1,0 ……. I’d won; the

other bidders had opted out leaving me the victor

At long last I now owned a copy of a magazine I’d been looking for all my

life. I’d first seen it in W. H. Smith’s and, at the time, merely browsed it without

buying. I had tried all the second hand book shops and dealers since but without

success. Now this winning bid on Ebay had brought my search to a finish. The

magazine in question was a 1960’s copy of Punch, a satirical periodical. It was the

front cover of this one particular issue that flashed before my mind’s eye every now

and then as I climbed the corporate ladder. The page was in the form of a comic strip

highlighting the day in the life of a company boss and his handyman.

The first squares of the strip show the Boss driving through country lanes to

the railway station to commute to his office in London. At the same time the

Handyman is about to start work in the garden.

A few hours later the chain smoking Boss is shown taking a phone call with

other phones on his desk also ringing. His lunch, a sandwich and polystyrene cup of

coffee remain untouched. Balance sheets are strewn all over the desk. Handyman is

eating his ploughman’s lunch under a tree in the quiet of the garden.

Mid afternoon the Boss is in the thick of an acrimonious four hour meeting

with Heads of Departments. Handyman, after pruning the rosebush, is seen shooting

the breeze with some passing friends.

Tea time and the Boss is on the train with a brief-case full of status reports and

the morning’s mail. He is preparing a to-do list a yard long and reading the obituaries

of fellow company directors. Handyman is slowly cycling home to a cooked meal

followed by jam tart and custard.

Late evening and the Boss is back home, slumped in an armchair, after an 18

hour day. Outside is the rose bush he is too tired to notice. Handyman is shown in a

pub with a pint playing a game of 501 with his friends of the afternoon.

It took a few days for the Ebay purchase to arrive at my office and after all

these years I quickly scanned this Punch front cover to remind myself of its message.

Had I become the cartoon character portrayed by the boss in this comic sequence? I

didn’t exactly have a permanent handyman but for any job that needed doing in my

country house I would just phone up a local business found in the Yellow Pages.

These artisans, plumbers, gardeners, electricians etc would turn up, according to my

wife, at about ten and leave at three pleading that they had to get this, that and the

other for the job at hand. In most respects I could see the parallels in my day with that

satirised on the Punch cover. Realising this for certain after all these years made it all

the more prophetic. The message at which it hinted was more frightening than any

warning the doctors gave me after the firm’s annual medical checkups. To these I just

paid lip service to the requests to stop smoking, eat healthier food, take more exercise

and delegate some of my responsibilities.

Now I was a carbon copy of the Punch boss. Had I ever mirrored the lot of the

handyman? Yes, I had sat my A levels early and decided to have what is now known

as a gap year. I got a job at the local open air swimming pool as a life guard. It wasn’t

just a case of patrolling the water’s edge looking out for troubled swimmers. It

involved turning up an hour before opening time, sweeping up yesterday’s mess,

hosing down the toilets, cutting hedges and restoring the paint work when business

was slack and a hundred and one other non taxing tasks. Two World War One

Veterans used to open lockers, a job I also did on their days off. In the evenings I

caught up with old school friends at the youth club and on Friday’s payday sank a few

pints at the village dances and pubs.

The cover had me hypnotised and gradually a resolve came over me about

this all work and no play life of mine. I could cash in my stake in the company and

what with all my other assets I would be comfortably off. I don’t think it was a notion

born on the spur of the moment. The gestation period had been my whole working

life. The cover had served its purpose.

On leaving the train home that night I did an out of character action. I called

into the Red Lion as I just about had time for a quick one and the village window

cleaner, surprised by my presence, challenged me to a friendly game of dominoes .

Next morning I slept in before going to the pool to see if they needed any one

to open the lockers.

Nanny Sixpence

“Are you going down to Nan’s this morning? Mum called through the kitchen

window. I was in the yard pumping up the soft tyres on my new bike, a ’Jack of

Clubs’. “Yes, in a minute “, I replied. “ Well don’t forget to take her these odds and

ends from the fridge”. Dad, from under the Ford Popular he’d just bought second-

hand from the local paper, reminded me to get him the Sunday papers and half an

ounce of ‘Old Holborn’. Giving me half a crown, he said to keep the change. I didn’t

mind this Sunday morning ritual since Mum always gave me a shilling for going as

well.

Later, coming out of the newsagent with the tobacco and papers I turned to the

back page to see how my team had got on yesterday. As I did so I caught the headline,

‘You’ve Never had it so Good’ but it didn’t register as my team had just been

slaughtered by Arsenal.

“I see we got a good hiding yesterday”, I heard. Looking up I saw it was a

friend of mine, Derek out on a similar errand. “Give us a lift to Riverside “, he said.

He lived in a two up and two down only a few doors away from my Nan so it was no

trouble. With him on the saddle and me pedalling, standing up over the crossbar we

carried on chatting. We were both going round Pete’s that afternoon for the weekly

card game.

For this I needed some money and Mum and Dad’s contribution would help

but best of all Nan was always good for a few coppers and more if it was my birthday.

Derek disappeared into No 10 and I parked my bike a few doors away and

went in without knocking.

“You are a good boy, coming to see your Nan”, she said. She always said that

and I always agreed. “Here take my handbag there should be a few coppers, a

thrupenny joey and a new tanner at the bottom. Emptying the bag on the scullery

table there were the coins including the new 1957 sixpence. “What are these other

things in your bag”? I said. “Never you mind”, she replied. There, on the table, were

an old watch, a rusty key and a small magnifying glass.” What are these for”? I asked

her. Nan, who had outlived three husbands, was a little reticent.

“That watch belonged to George your Uncle Jim’s dad. It’s all I’ve got to

remember him by”. I knew Jim was one of my Mum’s older half-brothers. I knew

from family gatherings that George had not survived the War to end Wars.

“What about this old key”? Picking it up she reminisced. “That belonged to

Arthur, your Mum’s dad. He had an old trunk full of junk that he always kept locked

up. I threw it all out, except that key, when he died. Mum had never said much about

her dad and I could see that Nan didn’t want to either.

“And this reading glass, Nan, whose was that”? “You should remember that

yourself”, she said, “It belonged to Harry”. I just about recalled a faint picture of

Harry, Mum’s step father, always reading with the aid of that glass. Rumour had it

that he had taught me to read before I went to school. He used to sit me on his knee

with his paper, read it out, and then get me to repeat it.

Nan put everything back into her bag and went out to get me some biscuits.

Out of the window I saw Joe, her latest husband, sifting through his weekly tottings.

He was a Rag and Bone man. On his head was the old woollen hat he never seemed to

be without. Pocketing Nan’s coins I went outside to see what treasures Joe had got

this week. There were always piles of books that he would let me rummage, keeping

whatever took my fancy. Nan came out with biscuits for me and a scold for Joe. Poor

old Joe, quite a few years younger, he had been Nan’s lodger when Harry died. She

wasn’t going to let him stay now she was single. What would the neighbours say? So

they wed just restore a kind of status quo.

“What will you remember Joe by”, I joked to the pair of them.

I didn’t know then how prophetic that joke would be. Some years later he went the

way of the others. By then I had my own family but whenever we could we would call

in to see Nan. There were always sixpences for the great grandkids taken from the

same handbag which now contained an extra woollen hat.

On the Beach at Beadnell.

Kathy always looked forward to the visits from her Grandma Georgina or Nanna Nina as she called

her. Her Mum said that she was getting rather scatterbrained, cantankerous and eccentric in her old age, whatever all that

meant. True, she always wore that old red hat that never went with whatever purple garb she had lately bought from

Oxfam. Also she was inseparable from a large box-like handbag full of who knows what saying that you never knew

when the contents might come in handy.

The bedtime story that night was triggered by a random dip into this bag from where Nina withdrew an old

packet of seeds, carelessly dropping a couple more items on the floor. Never was ‘Jack and the Bean Stalk ‘told with

such imagination with Kathy completely entranced as, finally, the giant toppled out of the sky. When the story was over

Kathy leant out of bed and picked up the fallen objects from the floor, a small picture frame and a skull shaped fridge

magnet. “What are these?” she inquired. “Never you mind young lady “, replied her Grandma. “ That frame used to have

a photo of your Granddad, the rat, but that’s another story for when you’re older.” Settling down Kathy was soon asleep

hoping that the giant wouldn’t give her nightmares.

The next day was a Bank Holiday so the family took the Coast Road to Beadnell Bay and soon all the needed

beach paraphernalia was assembled just above the high water mark. “Hey Dad you’ve brought the bacon fat but you’ve

forgotten about the hand line, now I won’t be able to go crabbing “, Kathy said, near to tears. “ Don’t get you’re knickers

in a twist “, said Nina opening her box and, after a rummage, took out an old hatpin and a ball of twine. “I thought these

would be useful when I got them from the WI jumble sale”, she said. Then she bent the hatpin into a large hook and

bound the twine to one end. Then the bacon was quickly threaded over the pointed end and before Kathy knew it they

were in the crabbing business. After rubbing in the sun blocker Kathy decided to borrow Nina’s hat as a sun shade. Then

the red and purple paddling pair were to be seen splashing through the incoming tide as they made their way to the

harbour.

Soon Kathie’s bucket was full to overflowing with myriad crabs while Georgina chatted to another parent about this, that

and the scandalous price of butter. Suddenly this person’s mobile started to ring in her pocket and as she took it out a

bundle of keys also emerged but tumbled over the harbour’s edge into the sea below. “How are we going to get home

now?”, her daughter wondered. Kathy could see her Grandma knitting her brow over this problem. A few seconds later

she took something from her handbag. Removing the hatpin from the twine she deftly substituted the skull.

“Kathy, lower this down to where they splashed in and try to attract the ladies’ keys “. After a few failed attempts

the bunch glinted to the surface and was gently raised to the safe keeping of their owner. As a bonus the biggest crab that

day was also caught gripping tightly to a BMW fob.

On their way back to show Mum and Dad the five pound reward Kathy asked Nina what it was

like to be scatterbrained, cantankerous and eccentric.

Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.

Jenny and I had not seen each other for nearly fifty years since she had left Guildford.

She had married Danny and then moved on to Cornwall. Gill and I had stayed a few

years and then made two or three more moves before ending up in the North.

I heard the sad news, at the time, that Jenny had been widowed some twenty years

ago. Her brother Paul, with whom I had kept in touch, phoned one day to let me

know. I wish we’d made more effort to see and console her then, as now I realise

what grief she must have been going through.

Recently Paul, still living in Guildford where I still make the odd visit to see

relations and friends, said that it I looked like I needed a holiday. Why not go and

visit Jenny. My time was my own so a quick phone call and it was all arranged.

I suppose we all must have been in our early teens when, Tuesdays and Fridays, we

went to local youth club for table tennis and Buddy Holly. To cut a long story short

Jenny must have been one of my earliest girlfriends.

On that first night in Newquay we fell to reminiscing about old times.

“ I remember when I first saw you in that black one piece swimming suit at Guildford

Lido”. I hadn’t thought of that moment for years.

“No, it was one of the first bikinis and it was at the Indoor Baths”.

“ I remember when Paul said you fancied me”.

“No, I couldn’t stand you then especially in that pink jumper you used to wear”

“ I remember going with you to the Odeon to see ‘Trapeze’ with Burt Lancaster and

Tony Curtis”.

“No, it was ‘The Vikings’ with Kirk Douglas at the Roxy”.

“I remember how badly you felt when I told you all about Gill”.

“ No, I was just about to dump you because I knew Danny had just split with

Barbara”.

“ I remember all four of us going to see Gene Vincent at the Hammersmith Palais”.

“ No, it was …………………….

Headline in Guildford Advertiser, “ Long Lost Local Lovers to marry, if he

remembers says bride-to-me”

Omnipotent Tweets.

Monday

Signed contract to make Heaven and Earth. Site was all dark and voidy. Said 'Let

there be Light ' and there was light. I hear Satan got the Hell job.

Tuesday

Created too much ‘sky’ so turned some of it into 'firmament'. Think this will do for

‘Heaven’. Made 'night' to separate 'day' with ‘evening’ in the middle.

Wednesday

Made ‘land’ and ' sea’ and some 'grass'. This will be 'Earth'. Got the creation bug so

made some herbs and trees in my spare time.

Thursday

Added Sun to ‘day’ and Moon to ‘night’. Night still too dark so scattered sundry

'stars' here and there. Quite pleased with the result.

Friday

Fabricated a few fish, fowls and loads of other swimmy and fluttery stuff. My

favourite is the Whale. Told them all to be fruitful and multiply ..

Saturday

Concocted a cornucopia of cattle, creatures and creepy critters. Then, in my own

image, forged a man and left him in charge.

Sunday

What a week. I'm shattered. I’m thinking of sanctifying Sundays. Ready to chill out

now. Busy next week begetting something out of a rib.

Open Sesame

"When is a door not a door?” This riddle from my schooldays floated into my mind

from nowhere as I opened the door into my consulting room.

Door, noun , from the old Germanic word, dura.

The Doors, 1960’s psychedelic rock group taken its name from Huxley’s ‘the Doors

of Perception’ taken, in turn from Blakes ‘The Marriage of Heaven and Hell’

Breaking off from this reverie I eyed, over my door, the legend ' Dr. Megan Davies,

Consultant Psychiatrist ‘.

The walls above this door of this room were covered with framed Diplomas and

Degrees and represented one aspect of my life among many others.

Next door was the office of Anita, my secretary/receptionist. On the desk and walls of

her room were pictures of her three children, husband and family taken on various

holidays and festivals. Anita was just opening the early morning post. This had been

delivered by the caretaker. He had picked it all up and sorted it from the letterbox of

the front door of this many roomed house each with one or more doors. He would

take little bundles through many doors into other similar rooms where other

professions were being practised.

Anita brought in the first coffee of the morning and the appointment book." I see your

first consultation today is with Jeffery Bowman ", she fished.” Yes, he has been

coming for a few weeks now. Have you read any of his books"? I was loath to say too

much due to patient/doctor confidentiality. She replied," Some of his earlier stuff was

quite good but he's a bit out of fashion now, he needs to re-invent himself.”

“That’s one of the reasons he's been coming here ", I let out and hurriedly sipped

some coffee. Anita took the hint and returned through the door to sift out some more

junk mail,

I closed the door and now, in my inner sanctum, read through the notes I had taken

during Bowman’s previous visits. I was reminded of what he had said on his first

visit. He was worried by declining sales and demand for his work. He wrote detective

thrillers and action books that were bought mainly by men at airport shops. His

publisher and his agent had both suggested that he widen his work to appeal to

women as well. Many authors now, they said, were doing a gender crossover and

writing from the women's perspective. They quoted Roddy Doyle with 'The Woman

who walked into Doors'. Doors again, I thought. Also Ian McEwan with 'Atonement'.

Even Tolstoy's 'Anna Kerena' and Flaubert's ' Madame Bovary' were early examples

of how it could be done.

Bowman said he had tried these suggestions but had had no success at mastering the

Woman's angle. “For instance I wrote about a woman marathon runner competing in

only shorts and vest. My wife reads it and asked was I aware of how sore her nipples

would get"." I know to the general public I'm the No 1 Chauvinist Pig but I'm sure

I've got a feminine side and I would appreciate your helping me to find it ". I was

beginning to sympathise with him as he genuinely wanted to rid himself of his MCP

image.

Quite a challenge I thought at the time and so it proved. Where should I start? Perhaps

it was just a case of applying standard techniques of regression to his earliest days and

leading him forward to today. So over the next weeks we had examined various

periods in his life. Each visit we would go through the virtual door leading into the

next stage. In this room we found the images and events that had shaped that period of

his life. It proved to be quite a task. Then my job was, for each door and each room, to

analyse these images and events to see if they would give a clue to any female side

Bowman might possess. I remember thinking that the French concept of 'le' and ' la'

instead of just 'the' might have been helpful here if we could apply this idea to the

objects uncovered while delving into his past. If any were prefixed by a 'la' there

would be hope for him.

During the week I had now finished my analysis and Bowman was coming , this last

time ,to hear my opinions. I heard the door of his car slam. Then the front door of the

house was opened by the caretaker. Jeffery opened the door into Anita’s room. She

ushered him through the door into my room, waited a moment then left. The door was

ajar. "Well ", he said getting straight to the point, "where in my subconscious can I

find my gentler side?

However what I had to say would not be what he wanted to hear. Being as blunt as he

had just been I said with all the sympathy I could muster,

"Women are from Venus, Bowman is from Mars'

Out of the mouths of Babes

Shylock, the well known Venetian bon viveur and deipnosophist, is giving a

speech at the feast to celebrate the bar mitzvah of Jacob, his favourite nephew. In

front of him are four metal objects and a feather. After he has been pontificating for

about twenty minutes he comes to the nub of his monologue. “Before me I have a

gold Myrmidon helmet and sword reputed to be from the Siege of Troy inscribed

‘Choose me and get what most men desire’. As well I have Saladin’s silver Haysel

and sword from the Crusades engraved with ‘Choose me and get what you deserve ‘.

Also there is the quill with which Boccaccio wrote ‘The Decameron’. I now invite my

nephew to choose one of these as a memento of his coming of age.” This generosity

he hoped would at last rid the Cities’ perception of him as a collybist.

At this point Jacob approaches the table and after a few moments reflection he

picks up the quill. In a loud voice he then proclaims, “You may think of me as a

jobbernowl for refusing a gift that would mean I would need no oeps in my lifetime.

It is said that all that glitters is not gold and that the pen is mightier than the sword.

This armour did nothing for it’s’ wearers but the written word survives for ever”.

Readable summary of Merchant of Venice is at http://tinyurl.com/shylockxyz

Polly Frobisher had recently retired taking advantage of an inheritance that a

grandmother had left her. Determined not to be one of the idle rich she had started to

pursue all those interests she had not had time for whilst a teacher.

Being hot housed on a one to one basis by the best mentors available she

quickly acquired quite an amazing range of skills. She was now more than

accomplished in many diverse areas such as the guitar, chess, salsa, badminton and

bridge. At school she had been known as a ‘Jack of all Trades, Master of

None’ which she had regarded as a compliment. She was always willing to teach the

new topics that over ambitious Ministers of Education felt were essential when they

wielded their New Broom.

Her latest obsession was to become a half decent writer herself, having just

read some of the short stories by Kathleen Mansfield. So she had found herself a

tutor, David Duval. He had been a popular author ten years back but was now glad of

any work that came his way. She had always found his work unstructured and heavy

going but he was local and relatively cheap.

He had just arrived for the first session and they were drinking coffee before

getting down to business. Polly opened the conversation by asking Duval how he

prepared the task of getting started with a story.

"Well, you just let the words pour onto the paper, then the sentences unfold

before you, the paragraphs are teased from your soul and soon the welter of emotions

conspires to reveal the story in all its glory". He continued with this verbal diarrhea

for a few more minutes before Polly interrupted him.

“I was really wondering if you could explain some of the basic techniques ",

she said. Looking puzzled, David replied,”What do you mean by basic techniques?”

"Well, write a catchy first paragraph to hook the reader “, she said giving him

an example. After some contemplation he replied, “Hey, that’s not a bad idea ".

“Then develop one or two of the characters ". Polly added.

Duval agreed that this could work once Polly had provided some clarification.

“Then decide on a point of view with regard to first or third person", she

continued.

David was becoming increasingly fascinated as Polly recited the chapter headings

from ‘Creative Writing for Dummies’ which she had recently read.

"Make sure all your dialogue is meaningful ".

“You mean no waffle and keep it tight?” he questioned beginning to get the idea.

"Introduce setting and context ", Polly articulated with some authority.

Duval was taking copious notes as she gave him more examples of what this meant.

"Set up the plot ", she continued.

David's biro was going twenty to the dozen ".

"Create tension and conflict ".

“How about some examples of this ", he requested. She did so before giving the last

mantra.

"Build up to a crisis or climax before delivering the final resolution ", she

ended up saying.

“Why wasn’t I aware of all these tenets ten years ago", muttered David, “I

might have remained a bit more popular ".

Polly looked at him in some bewilderment. It was she who was supposed to be

getting the fruits of his experience and knowledge but here she was giving ' Creative

Writing 101 ' to THE David Duval.

A Dish best served Cold.

The program was just about to be televised live that Saturday evening. Its

audience seemed to double every week and it was now a rival to X-Factor. The

show’s format was that every week aspiring authors submitted orally a murder plot

synopsis to a panel of established writers who would then give constructive criticism

to the presenter. At the end of the show the panel and viewers voted on the most

original contribution. This plot would then be quickly developed into an hours TV

drama to be broadcast before the next Saturday’s show.

Rowan Manahan, the panel chairman, had had a successful series of ‘Midsomer

Murder ‘type books published over the years and was now in a brown study preparing

for the reality show ahead. As he often did he was contemplating about how it had all

began. A lucky break had enabled him to get his first reporting job on a London

Evening paper being recommended by an old university friend, Martin, already on the

staff. Together they covered the Law Courts and police investigations as well as

having one or two scoops. They had quickly made names for themselves. They both

wanted to eventually become full-time writers. Martin was the more organised of the

two and used to fill note book after note book with plot summaries’ and outlines of

Dickensian characters for future books based on their reporting experiences. After a

while Martin married but within a year had suffered an apparent coronary leaving a

wife and small child.

“You’re on now Rowan “, the producer called, interrupting his reverie. Soon he

was on camera with the first contestant who was introducing himself as Ben and

shaking hands with all the members of the panel. No one saw the sleight of hand as he

dropped a small object into the glass of orange juice in front of Rowan.

“I wonder if you can give us an outline of your story “, he asked of the young man

whose resemblance to some one he knew was puzzling him.

“Well to cut a long story short a man is found dead and it’s put down to natural

causes. However a bright D.C. delves deeper into the case piecing together the

following set of clues.

These being an empty photo frame, a dried up shuck of a nut shell, a small animal

skull and a notebook. It emerges that the frame had contained a likeness of two

people, one being the deceased. The nut was from South America and like a coconut

had contained a fluid. However, unlike a coconut, this fluid was highly poisonous.

When ingested it quickly acted on the heart causing a death often mistaken for a

cardiac arrest. The nut had two small holes drilled top and bottom from which its fluid

had been drained. The animal had been used to test the poison and traces were found

in the skull’s surface. The note book contained a collection of story summaries and

detailed character vignettes. The DC then proceeds to show how one friend had

poisoned the other to gain possession of the notebook for the goldmine of story lines

that it contained.

Rowan was visibly turning pale since he realised the young man’s summary

mirrored in most aspects what had occurred all those years ago. In an attempt to

steady his nerves he reached over for the glass of orange juice and drained it all in

one before asking the last question he would ever pose.

“And what would your book title be? “, he rattled.

“Revenge “, replied Martin’s son.

The Stones

Charles, Keith, Mick, Ron

Strutting, Strumming, Drumming

Rock and Roll , Rhythm and Blues

Legends

Seven Serendipities.

Solomon Grundy,

Born on a Monday,

Christened on Tuesday,

Married on Wednesday,

Took ill on Thursday,

Grew worse on Friday,

Died on Saturday,

Buried on Sunday.

This is the end

Of Solomon Grundy

We’ve all had some of the above hatched matched and dispatched experiences

even

though they are most probably different for every person. However they do have

much in common. So I'll take these experiences as read and approach from a different

angle. The following lines from ‘As You Like It’ will serve as a template.

"And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages"

First a little bit of arithmetic. Even though I’m sure to get a telegram from King

William I’ll divide the biblical allotment by the seven ages giving ten years per age.

Each decade triggers the recall of an irrevocable happening. In some cases it also

invokes the ‘If Only’ message of Frost’s ‘The Road Not Taken’.

Home from the War (0 to 10). My dad joined the navy in 1939 and until I was four

or five when the War ended I don't really remember him. Then he was demobbed and

one day we all moved from a tiny flat to a brand new council house. It meant a new

school and new friends.

Eleven Plus (10 to 20). There was no parental pressure then. One day at school

some tests were handed out and a few months later a buff envelope was delivered to

No 34 saying I’d passed.

New Job (20 to 30). In the late sixties many new Polytechnics were being created.

I'd job applications in at Hatfield and Brighton. Interviewed first at Hatfield I was

offered the job on the spot. The interview at Brighton was to be next week. A bird in

the hand.

House Hunting (30 to 40). My daughter and two sons were approaching their

teenage years so the boys needed a bedroom each. Moving house is always traumatic.

Did we make the right choice? Well we stayed there nearly twenty-five years. Who

knows?

Diving (40 to 50). A good friend suggested we go to Fresher’s Week and sign up for

the Sub Aqua Club. As an employee of the Polytechnic my wife and I were allowed to

join. This led to travelling to coastal sites all over the UK including the North East

and abroad.

Hong Kong (50 to 60). The nest is empty. We were just back from a two year

secondment in the Far East and early retirement was on offer. Talk about a no brainer.

Take the money and run, straight back to a similar job in Hong Kong.

Newcastle (60 to 70). When we returned to the UK two of our kids were settled up

here in the North East with their families. If the mountain will not come to

Muhammad... we must go to the mountain. So one day we took the one way trip up

the A1.

To be continued…

SLINGS and ARROWS

1. INT. NCP MULTISTOREY CARPARK DAY

KATHY is driving in and parking a top of the range BMW. MILAC is parking an old

Vauxhall Cavalier. Ticket issuing machine is showing early afternoon.

CUT TO

2. INT. INSIDE BMW DAY

We see a letter inside her open designer handbag from a solicitor. KATHY is talking

to her SISTER on her mobile.

KATHY

Old Lawton did his best but the death duties were still over two

million. He did give me MIKE’S petty cash though. Ten grand.

Peanuts. Anyway, I’ve got to go now Sis. See you later

CUT TO

3. INT. INSIDE CAVALIER DAY

We see a letter on the seat. MILAC is on his mobile phone reading from the letter.

MILAC

…your request for amnesty is hereby refused and you must make

arrangements to leave the country by two weeks after the date of this

letter.

Then this sentence is translated into some Slavic language and spoken over the phone.

MILAC

вашему запросу об амнистии тем самым отказываются, и Вы

должны принять меры, чтобы оставить страну на две недели

после даты этого письма

CUT TO

4. INT. NCP LIFT DAY

KATHY enters the lift, with others, from the top floor. Lift goes down. Lift stops.

MILAC gets in. KATHY is sending a text. She does not notice him.

CUT TO

5. EXT. BUSY MARKET PLACE DAY

We see the hustle and bustle of a street market full of ethnic crowds and stalls.

KATHY and MILAC exit into this scene.

CUT TO

6. INT. MENS TOILET DAY

MILAC enters followed by a man with a holdall.

MILAC

Have you more ‘Scumdog’?

MAN

About a hundred plus all the usual porn.

MILAC leaves with the holdall.

CUT TO

7. EXT. GAP BETWEEN TWO STALLS DAY

MILAC is setting up his DVD’s. Regular customers are soon attracted. A crowd

builds up.

MILAC

I no change ten pounds. Have two ten pounds.

CUSTOMER

Make it three

CUT TO

8. EXT MARKET DAY

KATHY is on the mobile again to her sister outside a café.

SISTER

Where exactly are you?

KATHY

I’m at East Dean Market it’s a nostalgia trip. But now I wish I

hadn’t bothered.

Fade out from present day market

CUT TO

9. EXT MARKET TWENTY YEARS AGO DAY

KATHY is on a Brick mobile to her SISTER.

KATHY

MIKE lost a packet at the dogs again last night.

SISTER

You should leave that loser. He’s no good for you. What about that

Dave? He’s a steady bloke.

Shot of DAVE and his record and video stall stall.

KATHY

You can’t change MIKE. He’s just like that

‘Fools’ character. ‘This time next year we’ll be

Millionaires’. Some hope. We’ll still be in this

market in twenty years time

CUT TO

9. EXT MIKE’S STALL DAY

MIKE is explaining the benefits of a mobile to TONY, a Kray lookalike, who has just

placed a holdall on the ground while examining the phone.

MIKE

In your line of business TONY you can’t do

without one. You can phone the bookies. Talk with your brother in Oz.

Want to phone RON now and see who else needs sorting out?

TONY

What do you have to do with it?

Takes phone like a hot potato, nearly drops it

MIKE

Here like this.

Extends aerial, punches in RON’s number and returns phone to RON.

I sold RON one yesterday. Ask him if he’s going to pay for it.

TONY

Is that you RON? I’m in the market. Hey, did you know I’m being

bounced off a satellite.

RON (OOV)

Have you had a chat with that hairdresser fella yet? He’s the one you

want to bounce.

TONY

Sorted and one or two others. I’ve got the cash from that poncey toe

rag with me now. I had to smash his place up a bit but he soon saw

sense.

Listens to RON

You want me now? OK, I’m on my way.

Rushes off, hailing a taxi.

CUT TO

10. EXT TAXI RANK DAY

MIKE picks up holdall, shouts to TONY who is seen getting inside a taxi. MIKE

shrugs his shoulders and looks at holdall with curiosity.

CUT TO

11. EXT. MIKE’S STALL DAY

MIKE picks up the holdall and shouts to KATHY.

MIKE

I’m just off to Frankie’s for a bite to eat.

Look after the stall.

KATHY

I’ve got to go now Sis. MIKE’s off to place a bet.

CUT TO

12. INT. FRANKIE’S CAFÉ. DAY

MIKE opens the holdall and sees wads of fifty pound notes. Quickly does up the zip.

DAVE, sits down next to him.

DAVE

Who’s dancing on your grave then?

MIKE

You never said a truer word.

DAVE

What do you mean?

MIKE

That Neanderthal of RON’s. You know, TONY.

He’s been out collecting and he’s only been and left in this bag.

Shows Dave the holdall

DAVE

No big deal. Take it back to RON, he might slip you monkey.

MIKE

I will, I will but not just now.

DAVE

Don’t mess with him MIKE

MIKE

I’ll phone him later and say I had to go out

and I’ll get the money back to him tomorrow

DAVE

What are you up too? What ever it is I don’t like it.

MIKE

You know Monty always has a big card session

on a Tuesday. I’ve always wanted to sit in but you need a couple of

grand for starters. I’ll just borrow this and Ron will never know.

DAVE

Not a good idea.

MIKE

I’ll clean up’. Those tossers have no idea how

to play. They like losing. Makes them feel important. Then I can give

Ron his cash back in the morning.

DAVE

Still not a good idea.

Speed Dating with Marilyn

What makes you happy?

What makes you hope?

What makes you laugh?

What makes you mope?

Who do you most hate?

Who do you trust?

Who do you least like?

Who do you lust?

Have you felt envy?

Have you felt sad?

Have you felt pity?

Have you felt mad?

The Boyos.

“At home”, said the invitation. It had been on the mantelpiece for a week now. It was

too late to phone through and offer some feeble excuse. I’ve always wanted to use

Peter Cook’s snub to an invite from Princess Margaret, “I find I shall be watching

television that evening “. Another time.

So here I was knocking at a door in a seedy alley way that I had had difficulty in

finding. When it was eventually opened I gave the host the six pack and red sangria

that the manager of Yamina’s had let me have when earlier I had popped in for a

quick one. She at once added the Spanish red wine to the big bowl of punch on the

sideboard. Once inside I was pleased to see that I wasn’t among the first arrivals.

Only saddos get there first. If there’s one thing worse than saddos it’s rich bastards

and the room was full of them.

In a way it was a case of the kettle calling the pot black. Or was it the other

way around? Let me explain. I’m an accountant and it’s my job to make these party

people even richer. That’s why I had been invited in the first place. My host wanted

me to meet socially a client with whom I would be having a breakfast meeting in a

few hours time. This would explain why no one seemed to be drinking. Negotiating

tomorrow’s deals with a hangover was not the best preparation.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw mine host opening the door again and heard

her say, “ Darling, your shoes “ and then asking everyone to look at the new guests

feet, a Nigel apparently.

Nigel! It couldn’t be the same Nigel Todd from the same valleys from which I had

escaped. It was, after all, St. David’s day. Then I obeyed the hosts command to look

at his feet. Yes it was Blodwen’s grandson. As a boy I had delivered newspapers to

her for more years than I cared to remember and was always grateful for the

Christmas tip. Even at school Nigel was a bit of an exhibitionist. He had once worn to

school a pair of high heeled leather boots he found at a jumble sale. He adorned them

with red bottle tops that he had somehow riveted together. From a distance they

looked like a pair of welsh dragons.

In those days I was one of a small group trying to get in with the older boys mainly

for self preservation.

I was sure that this self same Nigel would not recognise me after all these years and

once his entrance had been made I watched him. He waited until the music had

stopped and quickly went over to the hifi system, took out a CD and it began playing.

I could see that it was an Etta James album.

Straight away this track evoked another trip to the past. I was with friends

from my year patiently waiting to use an ice slide formed near the kitchen block from

water that had dripped from leaky guttering. The boys in Nigel’s year had

monopolised this slide all morning. Nigel walked over playing the only Walkman in

the school. Coming from it was a tiny tinny haunting blues number by the self same

Etta James. The music must have put him in a good mood since he got the big boys to

let us have a go on the ice. I expect they were getting bored anyway. Later we wished

he hadn’t since two little boys fell awkwardly breaking a wing-stick arm each.

This tune on that Walkman was now being repeated at the party after all these years.

Watching him still I saw him settle into a sky blue leather sofa where he started to

spoon the fruit from the sangria punch that nobody was drinking. It could be that it

was the cheap wine from Yaminas that had tainted it. Nigel didn’t seem to mind and

had helped himself to one or two glassfuls by now.

It was at this point that he looked up at me and after a while smiled. Knocking

back my glass I went over to get a refill. I wasn’t really going to drink it remembering

the morning meeting ahead. It was just an excuse to strike up a conversation with

Nigel. It was obvious that he had no idea who I was. There was no hail-fellow-well-

met look in his eyes. I did however recognise that suggestive look that he gave me.

The current flowed.

He uncrossed his legs and, sitting next to him on the leather sofa T remarked

“What wonderful shoes “.” Yes”, he said “ I like a little frivolity at the feet “.

Two lost boyos had found each other.

6, The Close, Hemsby

She pressed the door gently, it had always been open at night in the old days.

Now that young policeman who called round insisted she should always lock it after

the cowardly attack by the drug fuelled burglar.

Ever since she could remember it had always been open house to friends and

family from the time when she, the small twins and recently demobbed Jack took the

keys from the council

Even with the arrival of Billy the house was soon knocked into shape and the

garden tamed. When Billy was born Jack had planted a sapling that, even fully grown,

would never bear much fruit, just five apples annually in the first twenty odd years.

Even with the scattering of his ashes beneath the tree twelve years back it hadn’t

increased the yield.

Looking down the road for the expected arrival of the twins, the shiny Polo’s

and satellite dishes in The Close just didn’t register in her mind. All she saw were

spectral horse drawn coal and milk carts with ghostly neighbours, buckets in hand,

vying with each other for the rose bush manna and one or two H shaped aerials ready

for the Coronation. She looked straight through the foolish young girls smoking

their tabs and texting each other fifty yards away seeing instead phantasmal chattering

children sucking lollypops and talking into two cans connected by fifty foot of

stretched string.

Jack’s tree was withered and frail now, just like her. For the last dozen lonely

years it had borne just the one fruit. Today she plucked the single offering, shined it

and placed it in her pocket before going indoors.

Not for the first time she daydreamed about how strange it was that the tree

had only ever produced an apple each for every one who lived there. It seemed to

know when the girls had left for Uni, never to return, when Billy had emigrated to

New Zealand and when Jack had passed away.

A rat-a-tat-tat at the locked door ended her reverie and looking through the

newly installed peep hole she saw the twins outside. A welcome cup of tea after their

three hour journey was soon brewed. They had been on at her for some time to up

sticks, and move to a warden supervised home just a few miles from where they lived

with husbands and grandchildren on tap. Her stubborn insistence on her

independence had finally been breached by the mugging in her own home and she,

regretfully, knew it was time.

To mask the emotions that suddenly welled up she took the apple from her pocket

and began to eat it.

“I’ll go and pack “, she said.

Uncle Fred

The eulogy for Norman “Uncle Fred” Carter was over. The mourners’s had

been reminded of how and why my grandfather had got this nickname all those years

ago. His brief pre-war playing career for Newcastle, so cruelly interupted by Hitler,

was high lighted. The years he had spent as a PoW in one of the Stalags were not

forgotten. As a ‘Tail-end-Charlie’ he had survived a score of sorties before the

inevitable. Much was made of his love affair with both my grandmother and St

James after his release from Germany. His work for the RNIB's retired guide dogs and

a myriad other causes that had occupied his rich and varied life completed the picture.

Slowly the casket rolled forward to be incinerated, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

The ashes and dust were now in an urn on the mantelpiece in the front room

of his

End-of-terrace two up and two down ex-mining house he'd bought from the Coal

Board in the Sixties. Outside the window was a mottled lawn where an aged guide

dog was spending a last penny, while waiting for his new owner. It was this penny

spending that had caused the lawn to grow lush green where it received the full fluid

attention of all those Labradors but patchy and brown elsewhere.

The room was chockablock with memories of many a tale that had held me

spellbound as a boy. I never tired of his War stories such as how they had rid

themselves of the earth dug up over night from the latest escape tunnel. Upside-down

socks full of the soil were strapped to their legs and as they strolled around the camp

it was slowly released and spread evenly through out the camp to avoid any

suspicion under the very noses of the guards.

Over in the bookcase was his collection of every Magpie home programme for the

last sixty odd years. He had offered to gift them to St James if they would let his

remains be scattered over the hallowed turf. This request had been politely turned

down; reason being that this was the want of every Geordie and if all such wishes

were granted the ground would be at least a foot higher. Then I noticed the envelope

with my name on it on top of the bookcase. It was in my granddad’s handwriting. I

soon had it open and read the contents which caused a smile to slowly cross my face.

In the summer months tours around St James were arranged for the faithful

including escorted trips over the well worn pitch. My wife was doubly puzzled by all

my frequent trips on this jaunt and all the dirty socks clogging up the washing

machine.

Soon those three summer months of limbo that all Toon fans suffer were over. The

first match of the season was to be a televised cracker. A home game against the

Mackems was, indeed, an event to be savoured. The thousands unable to crowd St

James packed those pubs with Sky screens. The opening shots from the Sky blimp

directly above showed the immaculate greenery below. Also visible, faintly but

obvious, in millions of homes and plumb in the centre circle, was the acronymic

message R I P

N U F C

The Choice

The girl had been travelling for the best part of twenty four hours. She had just finished her

freshman year at college and her trip to Europe was beginning at last. She was studying for a

degree in Comparative Religions and had a dissertation to hand in on her return. Being a bright

student she was determined it would not be a cut and paste job of plagiarising snippets from the

Internet. On her travel itinerary were a host of Mithric Temples in which the Roman military had

worshipped nearly two thousand years ago. First in the list was a field trip to Northumberland,

England to see for herself the wonders of the Wall and the temple at Carrawburgh, in Roman times

known as Brocolitia . In this respect the Internet had been a boon because in the forums devoted to

Ancient Rome she had found many with similar interests.

One of these would be meeting her at the end of the outward journey at the local airport

after the flight north from London. She had refused his offer of an overnight stay for once

remembering her parent’s concerns about her European Odyssey.

She had been texted that at least he could meet and give her a lift to the Chollerford hotel so

that she could make an early start the following morning. So, after being chauffeured she collected

her key and after a quick shower joined him in the restaurant for a much needed meal. He was

being very generous and they soon made short work of a bottle of wine. Another was ordered while

she was away at the Ladies room and on returning found her glass was already overflowing.

The wine waiter from the bar hadn’t see what else had been added to the glass. He just saw

the man quietly stirring the wine and a phrase from a Bond film flashed through his mind. “Shaken

not stirred” and then thought no more about the incident.

On her return the man said, “You will be quite busy tomorrow; you won’t have time to do

justice to all the sites you want to visit”. The girl agreed saying,” Yes, I do need to be back at

Heathrow by eight tomorrow evening for the flight to Rome so it will be a tight squeeze”.

“Well it’s still light out there as there’s a full moon tonight and its only four miles to the

Temple. Why don’t we go and see the Temple now and get that out of the way then you’ll be able

to spend more time at Vindolanda”.

As she drank the rest of the wine the warnings from her parents registered but feeling

strangely light headed she rebelliously thought,” I’m nineteen and a big girl now. I can look after

myself”. Warily she heard herself say, “All right, but no funny business”.

On the makeshift litter carrying him back to the temple he drifted in and out of

consciousness. He and his men had been on a routine burning of the heather north of the Wall

when a band of Picts had surprised them. In the skirmish that followed he’d received the spear

wound he’d avoided all these years in the service of Rome. His experience in fighting in all

corners of the Empire told him that it, most likely, would be fatal.

Back across the Wall, in the safety of the vicus where the camp followers lived, was the

temple to Mithras which they hoped to reach before his end. There his men would rest his

weakened body on the altar where, over the years he had progressed through the seven stages of

initiation that are essential for a true follower of Mithras. At last, on the altar, he recalled these

stages, Raven, Nymphus, Soldier, Lion, Persian, Heliodroma and Father. The years of denial

necessary to achieve all seven seemed but a moment as the memories flashed before him.

He had known many of the fellow followers of Mithras who had lain in such temples

through out the Empire. For some it was their last resting place, others had survived.

Those survivors talked of an ascent of the spirit from the body and then being able to look

down on those gathered below and of seeing a shimmering tunnel with light stronger than a

thousand suns at the other end. This was the choice. Descend or journey to the light.

On the alter he felt himself grow weaker and weaker and becoming more and more light

headed until the sensation of floating over whelmed him. Slowly he rose above his inert body. It all

seemed so natural, he was not afraid.

He knew what his choice would be but he would have a final sight of his brothers-in-arms

before the tunnel claimed him

Looking down, expecting to see a grieving group of comrades, the vista was completely

different. Instead of familiar faces he saw, instead, a man carrying the body of a young girl. As he

watched from above an apparition started an ascent from this body. Reaching the same level as

himself it appeared to be in a quandary. What choice did it have?

The Lost Weekend

“Anything you say may be given in evidence.”

I only remember saying

“And hereto I pledge you my troth.”

What a stag night that was.

The Mighty Qin

“Dad, where’s that box of Chinese odds and ends you brought back from Hong Kong?”

my daughter asked as she put the kettle on. “Up in the loft”, I replied,”What do want it for?

“Well, Katie’s class is doing a project on China and I remembered about that small

terracotta figure you’ve got and as she has to do a ‘Show and Tell’ I thought she might take

that along. Do you know much about it?”. “What a good idea”, I said. ”Mum and I picked it

up in Xian from a hawker outside the gallery where hundreds of the original life sized

terracotta warriors are on display. The soldiers were to guard Emperor Qin in his new

mausoleum in the after life. When all the work was finished he ordered all those involved to be

buried alive so that no one would know where the site was. Apparently he sealed the death

warrant with his personal chop and then it was mislaid never to be seen again.”

“She’ll enjoy telling that little Wikipedia nugget to the class. You know she can be

quite blood thirsty at times “, Tracy replied. “Anyway what have you been up to this week “,

she asked, “Anything interesting?”

“I suppose, in a way, I’ve got to do a ‘Show and Tell’ as well for next Tuesday night’s

evening class. Our tutor, Jane, suggested we take a favourite object and write about it and bring

it in if possible”, I answered.

“Do you get House Points for neat work and correct spelling?” she joshed. “I bet that

tutor’s a strict no-nonsense tartar as well”.

“As a matter of fact, she is a bit of a martinet”, I said as I lowered the loft ladder, “and

if she says jump we all have to jump “.

After a while a voice from the attic said, “I’ve found the clay warrior and while I’m at

it I’ll take this old Chinese chop for the year two school disco tonight. I can stamp their wrists

as they go in and out of the hall. They’ll think it’s a proper grown up disco then”. “Ok “, I

said,” but let me have it back by Tuesday then I can use it for my ‘Show and Tell’ and bore

everyone rigid.”

A few days later the phone rang. It was Tracy. “Dad you’ve got to watch ‘The Antique

Road Show ‘tonight”. “Why?” I asked.

The signal was feint but she continued,” I was driving past Seaton Delaval wondering

why it was so crowded when I realised they were recording this week’s episode from the Hall.

Then I remembered I still had your old junk in the boot so I stopped and joined the queue.

Pretty soon I was being quizzed by their Oriental Expert. After the usual chat I was waiting on

tender hooks for what he reckoned their value would be. But he would rabbit on about Qin

Dynasties, lost chops, Emperors, Middle Kingdoms, two thousand years of History and on and

on. I thought ’get on with it you muppet, let me know what they are worth’. Then, at long last,

he finished by saying that at auction the bids for the soldier might go to ten pounds but he

would be surprised if the lost chop didn’t fetch …..”

Then the phone lost its signal.

The Mind Reader

“You must have read my mind”, I said. My name is Dr. Watson and for many

years I have been the friend and confidant of the celebrated detective Sherlock

Holmes. I have taken it upon myself to chronicle his doings in the monthly Strand

magazine and have brought his unique talents to the attention of the general public.

“Either that or the only other alternative is that you have used your deductive

skills to reach that conclusion “.

What brought on these observations of mine was that Holmes had just

interrupted a brown study by remarking, quite out of the blue, “So, you have decided

not to go on your Egyptian adventure after all”.

Holmes was always fond of chiding me on my not seeing what he found

obvious. He worked by two rules when considering any problem, be it criminal or

otherwise. His first rule was to follow a logical chain of inferences much like

demonstrating the validity of Pythagoras theorem .Secondly by listing all possibilities

and then eliminating those that were not logically possible until only one situation

was left. However improbable that last case might be it must be true.

I decided to apply his maxims to the situation at hand. What was his thought

process? Had he used logic to arrive at his conclusion and eliminated the absurd

alternative of mind reading. In order to avoid yet another chiding about how obvious

it all was I decided to try and retrace Holmes’s thought processes.

“Let’s see” , I remarked, “ I mentioned a few days ago that at my billiards

match with your brother Mycroft we discussed that we might go, if finances allow, to

visit the pyramids. Since then Mycroft has lost a fortune to the cardsharps in Mayfair

and now is in no position to go. Also you knew that earlier this evening I have been to

the club playing the three ball game by the evidence of blue chalk dust on my cuffs.

As Mycroft is the only person I play, as you know, you came to the conclusion that he

would have told me of his calamity so ending our plan of a trip to the Sphinx.

“So Holmes, by applying your methods I have come to the same conclusion

that you, yourself, arrived at some five minutes ago “,I said triumphantly.

“Bravo Watson “, he generously remarked. There is one small flaw in your

reasoning. “What was that?” I said.

“Well you considered the two cases of how I arrived at my statement of your

not going to Egypt “. I have not seen my brother Mycroft for over a month and I am

the last person he would tell if he had fallen foul of the tricksters in the West End so I

could not have possibly have travelled your line of reasoning. That eliminates one of

your two possibilities so what ever remains, however improbable, must be true…….

The Minimalist

“Phil, what do you think of the idea of one becoming a minimalist?”

questioned Liz. Her husband bantered in reply, “You can’t, you’re Head of the

Church of England and not allowed to go joining any cult willy nilly”.

”No, you fool; it means we should go through all our stuff and chuck out

anything we’ve not used for a year or two. Did you know that Charles is tweeting all

his followers to give it a try “, she told him.

Ignoring her he carried on, “It’s alright for Charlie he’s always got some bee

in his bonnet. Camilla should take him in hand and tell him what planet he’s on. If

he’s so keen on the idea perhaps he should give up Cornwall and Wales. He never

goes there anyway. I’m sure the Celts would take them off his hands. And what ever

would we do with all that clutter that we didn’t want? Put it on EBay? Cart it off to

Oxfam? Have a Boot sale? Give it to the scouts jumble? And I bet it’s too late to

take all those wedding presents we never use back to Harrods”.

“Can’t you be serious Philip “, she scolded. This put an end to his flight of fancy.

He knew he was in trouble when she used two syllables for his name. But he was off

the hook as she mused, “I was thinking of all those gifts one gets when one goes

walkabout in the Commonwealth. The palace loft is full of them and they’re only

gathering dust. There must be a dozen didgeridoos up there and who needs all those

stuffed kiwis. And what about all that tat we get when those Common Market Heads

come here for a freebee. That Greek PM is always on about when will we be

minimalising those Elgin Marbles back to his place.” Then she wistfully added,

“There’s only one thing Greek I’d like to return “.

The Numbers Game

“So what happened at the evening class tonight?”, said Jenny to her husband.

“Well”, said Tom” We looked at a book of short stories all about someone called

Harry”.

“That’s nice”, his wife remarked and carried on with getting the two boys’s packed

lunch ready for tomorrow.

“Also I’ve got to write a story that tie in a monk, a gold watch. A Gateshead

corporation flat and a bird’s nest.”, Tom said.

“Have you seen that knife I just had?”, said Jenny, she was notoriously forgetful.

Tom was still thinking about his assignment.

“I could write about a Chinese monk who inherited a gold watch from his

father that he now uses to time himself over the marathons he runs along the Great

Wall. He could be asked by his chief Rabbi, or whatever, to enter the half marathon at

Gateshead where he stays for three months in training in a council flat just like ours,

number 26. He wins it and puts his success down to supping bird’s nest soup every

morning”.

“That’s a bit far fetched” said Jenny, who had forgotten her earlier question.

Bye the way that’s a coincidence, the new Chinese menu through the door has bird’s

nest soup, its number 37 if we phone and ever order it”.

“Bye the way”, said Tom “I have got to go to London for a couple of days

tomorrow. Can you put my numbers on the four number Irish lottery at the bookies

tomorrow? I want 4, 45, 26, 9 and 37”.

“I’ll forget those numbers “, Jenny said,” Why don’t you write them down for

me”.

“No, its time you trained your memory instead of being so scatterbrained “,

said Tom.” Here’s how you do it, you can use image association. Picture a monk, four

letters, have him wear a gold watch, four and five letters. Have him knocking at our

door, number 26; selling bird’s nest soup, you know number 37 on the menu. Just run

those images through your mind and you won’t forget”.

Tom got back from London two days later all excited. “I see my numbers

came up”, he exclaimed.” I have won 100 pounds and you can have half”. Then he

looked at Jenny. “You did go to the bookies, didn’t you. You did give him those four

numbers, please tell me you did”.

“Yes I did go there but you know what my memory is like and I did ask you to

write the numbers down just in case”, said Jenny. “Well what happened”, said Tom.

“When I was at the bookies I remembered the scene just like you said. When I

saw the monk I imaged that Abbott Friar Tuck in Robin Hood, you know that

program on the telly. So I put down 6 for Abbott. The gold watch was showing noon

so I put down 12. Our door number of 26 has the number six missing the top screw so

it slips about the bottom one and looks like the number 9 so I put down 29 and I

forgot that bird’s nest soup was no 18 on the menu so I put down 5 and 4.”.

“But that’s five numbers”, said Tom angrily. “Had you forgotten that I only ever

do 4 since the chances of 5 numbers coming up is pretty slim”

“I didn’t know that “’ said Jenny. “ Never mind, all the numbers came up so

here’s your cheque for 3000 quid”.

The Agnostic

The scallops were every where. Many were swimming, with their jerky

snappy motion, amongst the drifting clouds of jellyfish. Matt’s goody bag was full to

overflowing with dozens of the delicacy. All he had to do was to gather the brightly

coloured, fan-shaped shells from the sandy bottom or grab at the passing molluscs.

Later he would get a good price from the smart London restaurants for this bumper

catch.

He was safely attached to the bow of his inflatable by an anchor line that was

now stretched taut by the increasing tide. The empty boat was bobbing up and down

some fifty foot above his head. This motion was amplified by the wash from the

Ullapool to Stornaway ferry as it battered the boat, passing by less than a stones throw

away.

Earlier he had pulled himself down this same anchor line to where the

undisturbed bed of scallops lay. He knew he was breaking all the rules diving alone

but he had always been a bit of a lone maverick and the prize of easy money for an

hours work was not to be missed.

He known for a long time that he was getting a little long in the tooth to be

diving in these cold clear waters off the Summer Isles, but he was also aware that he

wouldn’t pass the mandatory annual medical that was necessary for all divers of his

age. Matt had often been told that he wouldn’t make old bones. Oldish bones anyway

he’d always hoped.

Matt stopped to check his air supply. It was way below the quarter reserve

when any cautious person would head for the surface. He was, however, beginning to

feel the chill and what with a full haul it was well over time to make tracks. Then it

would be full speed to get the shell fish off to the Soho gourmets.

He was about half way up the shot line when it happened. The chest pain was

first. He thought it was a touch of the bends but the pain swiftly spread down his left

arm. Nausea filled his stomach, then a gasping for breath, then a feeling of anxiety,

then a light headedness that was soon to be followed by an eternity of nothing.

Step 1

Think about a theme for your haiku and write down some of the words that come

to mind on that theme.

Step 2

Organize your thoughts roughly onto three lines. First, set the scene, then expand

on that by expressing a feeling, making an observation or recording an action.

Keep it simple.

Step 3

Polish your haiku into three lines, the first with five syllables, the second line with

seven syllables and the third line with five syllables. It may take some time and

substitution of words to make it fit.

To Have and to Hold

From that day forward

‘My Wife’ was the calm title

Only I could speak.

Step 1

Think about a theme for your haiku and write down some of the words that come

to mind on that theme.

Step 2

Organize your thoughts roughly onto three lines. First, set the scene, then expand

on that by expressing a feeling, making an observation or recording an action.

Keep it simple.

Step 3

Polish your haiku into three lines, the first with five syllables, the second line with

seven syllables and the third line with five syllables. It may take some time and

substitution of words to make it fit.

To Have and to Hold

From that day forward

‘My Wife’ was the calm title

Only I could speak.

Tommy

There was a buzz of anticipation from the audience as the curtains parted to

reveal on the stage a small octagonal table with four objects placed north, east, south

and west around the perimeter with a burning candle in the middle. These outer items

seemed incongruous with each other being a cigar box, a packet of sweet pea seeds, a

metal vase and a fifty pound note.

Then onto the stage walked the man everyone had come to see. Laughter filled

the forum. You couldn’t help it. Tommy had made his entrance holding a glass of

water with that infectious smile on his face. A big man, larger than life really, wearing

all the accoutrements of his profession, topped with his trade mark red fez with black

tassel and curls of hair, like wings, sprouting out from under it, almost extensions of

his eye lashes.

“Thank you very much. You’re too kind “, he responded and, looking at all the

props on the table started his performance. He took the seeds from the packet and

dropped them into the metal vase and added the water. “I never get the chance to do

any gardening at home “, he quipped. Then, placing the vase back on the table seemed

to forget all about it, as he prepared for his next trick by taking a cigar from the box

on the table. “For this I need help from the front row. Can one of you come up on the

stage? You madam, could you step this way please”.

The flustered lady made her way on stage where Tommy asked her if she had

any thing of value in her handbag. “No, only this last ever letter from my husband that

I carry with me always“. “That’s fine “, said Tommy, “Let me borrow it and you can

keep this fifty pound note until it’s returned “. Holding up the letter he showed it to

the inquiring crowd.

While all this was going on out of the top of the vase a sweet pea tendril

gradually seemed to grow vertically behind Tommy’s back. The audience soon

noticed this and began to laugh. Tommy, feigning ignorance of what was happening,

took the letter over to the candle where it caught fire. He then used it to light the cigar

he was holding. He then appeared to notice the laughter for the first time. “What’s

happening “, he asked as the letter burnt completely to a cinder. Meanwhile the lady

was horrified at the incineration of the letter. Turning round Tommy saw the curling

plant for the first time. By now it was eighteen inches above his head and at the

artificial tendril’s top was a purple flower with a very large seed pod underneath.

Reaching up he picked this pod and proceeded to shuck it in front of the enraged lady

who was near to tears. Then from the opened pod he took a letter…….

Pink

My daughter’s wrist band

With feint name, weight and birth date.

More precious than gold

Triggering memories when

Church mouse poor, yet dream rich.

Places

Uluru Roaming

Wall of China Wandering

Grand Canyon Gawping

Great Barrier Reef Basking

Of This Sceptered Isle Dreaming.

Walk Away

When is a Spanish City not a Spanish City? Every Geordie would know the answer to

this riddle but it would definitely puzzle an Andalucian.

I was high above the answer as the shuttle from Heathrow lined itself up over

the North Sea coast ready for its approach to Newcastle airport. In my head I heard

Knopler’s 'Tunnel of Love'. The same tune that has haunted me ever since I played

the wag with afternoons spent in smoky arcades.

Those lyrics always invoked the memory of a tearaway me when I worked in

Whitley as a fairground rousterabout. Then I thought life couldn’t get any better. The

buzz of the crowd, the chameleon-like neon lights, the constant rock and roll music

from the giant Wurlitzer and free rides on every attraction .One minute I'd be

collecting money for the dodgem cars risking life and limb as I hopped from one to

the other. Then I'd be hustling punters to the shooting gallery, ghost ride or big wheel.

My favourite moments were the crazy antics on the waltzers as the shellacked horses

went round and round and up and down.

That Friday I'd finished early but was waiting for my marras to arrive. I was busy

losing the last of my wage packet into the one arm bandit. Even the florins I'd won

from the grockles on the nearby foosball table had disappeared. I hadn’t lost at that

game for ages. The tattoo and sixblade I’d promised myself would have to wait until

next week.

Just then they all arrived licking knickerbocker glories and Ninety Nines, their

Nortons and Triumphs safely parked outside the Rendyvous Cafe. Soon we were

roaming around the fairground none of us with any money. We all ended up at the

Boxing Booth under a placard that said ' Go three rounds and win a Fiver’. Looking

back later it must have been the Testosterone and Newcastle Brown flowing in my

veins that had overcome common sense. Soon I found myself stripped to the waist but

remembered nothing of the next ten minutes. By all accounts I gave as good as I got

and the fiver was a welcome reward. After a visit to the St John's Ambulance hut I

was soon patched up. Then, in the words of the Beatles, I saw her standin’ there.

In my job I knew all the teenagers who hung out at the City but she was new.

Full of bravado I asked her if she'd seen me fight and we were soon pairing up for all

of the rides at the fair. It quickly blew a hole in my fiver but that's serendipity for you.

There was just enough for the last ride that traditionally ended a Friday night, The

Tunnel of Love. But she whispered “You’re the perfect stranger, let's keep it like

this", and in the roar of the dust and diesel I stood and watched her walk away.

Tunnel of Love

Getting crazy on the waltzers but it's the life that I choose, yeah

Sing about the sixblade sing about the switchback and a torture tattoo

And I been riding on a ghost train where the cars they scream and slam

And I don't know where I'll be tonight but I'll always tell you where I am

In a screaming ring of faces I seen her standing in the light

She had a ticket for the races, yeah, just like me she was a victim of the night

I put my hand upon the lever said let it rock and let it roll

I had a one arm bandit fever there was an arrow through my heart and my soul

And the big wheel keep on turning, neon burning up above

And I'm just high on the world

Come on and take a low ride with me girl

On the tunnel of love, yeah love

It's just a danger, and when you're riding at your own risk

She said you are the perfect stranger, she said baby just keep it like this

It's just a cakewalk twisting baby step right up and say

Hey mister give me two, give me two now, 'cause any two can play

And the big wheel keep on turning, neon burning up above

And I'm just high on the world

Come on and take a low ride with me girl

On the tunnel of love, oh oooh love

Well it's been money for muscle on a, another whirligig

Money for muscle and another girl I dig

Another hustle just to, just to make it big

And rockaway, rockaway, oooh rockaway, rockaway

And girl it looks so pretty to me like it always did

Oh Like the Spanish City to me when we were kids

Hey girl it looks so pretty to me like it always did

Oh Like the Spanish City to me when we were kids

Woh-la

Check it out

She took off a silver locket she said remember me by this

She put her hand in my pocket, I got a keepsake and a kiss

And in the roar of dust and diesel I stood and watched her walk away

I could have caught up with her easy enough but something must have made me stay

And the big wheel keep on turning, neon burning up above

And I'm just high on this world

Come on and take a low ride with me girl

On the tunnel of love, yeah love love

On the tunnel of love, oooh love love

And now I'm searching through these carousels and the carnival arcades

Searching everywhere from steeplechase to palisades

In any shooting gallery where promises are made

To rockaway, rockaway, rockaway, rockaway

From Cullercoats and Whitley Bay out to rockaway

And girl it looks so pretty to me like it always did

Like the Spanish City to me when we were kids

Girl it looks so pretty to me like it always did

Like the Spanish City to me when we were kids

It is all magnificently about to begin.

‘We will be pleased to accept you

on receipt of proof of A*, A*, A*, A’

(Note from an Admissions Tutor)

It’s going to be a splendid life.

I will spend my gap year with a boy band

headlining Glastonbury with all gigs a sell-out.

I shall quit for the glittering prizes

and be the youngest ever winner of the Booker.

Then Oscar for Best Actor I have no doubt.

It will not be all work and no play for this Jack.

I shall, in my spare time, be England’s captain

and capture the FIFA World Cup, keeping Brazil at bay.

Then, as an Olympian, I will win

the hundred metres in both running and swimming.

I shall leave Wimbledon for another day.

Then academia will call, my real true bent, and

it will be hi-diddle-dee-dee a profesors 's life for me

with a Nobel award for my labour.

Then for my seminal treatise on Shakespeare’s Dramatic Types

I shall accept the Laureateship from a grateful nation.

Then, eventually, Poet’s Corner with Chaucer as neighbour.

“Wake up Jack or you’ll be late for school”

We Need to Talk

“We need to talk”. She knew that these words would trigger alarm bells

in her husband’s mind. The husband, the wife, she had never liked those two words,

especially ‘the wife’. Her husband had always referred to her as ‘the wife’ in

conversation with his colleagues. Why not ‘my wife’?

This was just one small sign of what their marriage had become. It could have

been the seed that finally crystallised the feelings of discontent that had been building

up within her all these years. There had been much more significant happenings over

the last few years that was causing her to feel so insecure. Nothing, however, that she

could say definably indicated her husband’s transgressions but taken as a whole

planted seeds of doubt.

Even before her son had left for University some two years ago she noticed

small events that were out of character. Aftershave, the classic giveaway, two nights

away on his accountancy work where before he had made every effort to be back

within one day. Looking back she could pin point quite a few occasions that

contributed to her general feeling of dissatisfaction with her life. To be fair she had

not made much effort to discuss these incidents with her husband. He, for his part,

mostly likely felt there was a gradual schism in their lives together. But now she knew

he had, most likely, taken the archetypal male way out of a drifting marriage with a

‘bit on the side’.

She had suspected this for a number of years but had had it remarked upon by

a ‘Well meaning friend ‘ at a recent coffee morning. “ I remember your husband has

an older brother, I wondered if that was his niece he was with in Marlbone High

Street the other day. I thought I saw a slight family resemblance even though there

was a touch of grey in her hair”.

This was to be the final nail in the coffin. This together with all the other

incidents was confirmation of what she suspected was her husband’s infidelity.

She was quite surprised at how she managed to cope with this acceptance of

her husbands philandering. She had played through several possibilities of what

would follow when het husband was confronted with her accusations.

There were the more obvious ones. Forgive him and make fresh efforts at

shoring up their marriage. Pretend nothing had happened and carry on as normal.

There were also one or two slight variations she dismissed without serious thought.

But the scenario that appealed most to her was that of a clean break. She was in the

process of doing a probate on her mother’s estate. It was a tidy sum and there was a

house as well. Her husband had been through all this before with will of his remaining

parent. He had used it to clear the mortgage but she was hurt that the house was in his

sole name. Yet another sign of her husband’s lack of feeling.

If she told him outright that she was going to leave him he would come up

with all the cliché reasons as to why it was not in her best interests. Think of our son.

It was your fault as much as mine. If we give it some time our relationship will be

stronger and so on. She knew that she would most likely go along with this barrage

even if, deep down, her husband had one eye on her coming inheritance.

What was needed was a little cunning. She would play the aggrieved wife.

Accept that it was in their best interests all round if he ended the affair. He should

have to make some atonement and they would then forgive and forget.

The husband knew that this moment of truth was inevitable. He was beginning

to feel the strain of his illicit relationship anyway but, lacking the moral courage,

needed the impetus of his wife’s knowledge of the affair to pull the plug on what was

now a tedious affair.

The husband left Dollis Hill at the usual time knowing that he now had to do

what he always knew was inevitable.

His wife left Dollis Hill knowing that she was doing what she knew to be

inevitable.

She had wiped the slate clean for both of them.

William Brown and the Half Bloodied Princess

“Keep quiet William”, said Mrs Brown.

William was bemoaning, in some detail, that he had nothing to do.” William,

what was the last thing I said to you?” his mother continued.” I dunno”, he replied

untruthfully. “I said never to let me catch you saying you’re bored again”. “I’m not

bored, I’m just thinking”, he replied. William was always ‘just doing something or

other’ that usually resulted in future mayhem. Yesterday when he complained of

boredom Margaret, his mother, had collected all the horse brasses from above the

kitchen fire. Then, together with some dusters and a tin of Brasso, William had to

polish every one. His hands still had that brassy smell that no amount of soap can

remove, not that he and soap were the best of friends.

He really had every right to be bored. It was the half term holiday and so far it

had rained every day. The rest of his gang, ‘the Outlaws’, were incommunicado.

Ginger, under duress, was visiting a Great Aunt. Henry and Douglas were recovering

from having their tonsils out.

“If you’ve nothing better to do then why not come with me to visit Mrs Bott?”

she suggested. The Botts had just moved into the village, acquiring the old Mansion

that had belonged to the previous village benefactor, and Mrs Bott was eager to fill

her shoes. “She particularly said to bring you along. I wonder why? She’s anxious to

join the Women’s Institute committee and as I’m the President this year I think she

wants to butter me up”.

At the mention of a visit to the mansion William’s ears perked up. While it

had been empty the Outlaws had explored the grounds and managed to find a way

into the basement. This was down a chute through which the coal merchant emptied

the sacks of coal and coke directly into the below ground boiler room. They had

roamed all around the wine cellars, store rooms and servants quarters letting their

imaginations run riot with the games they invented. They soon found that all the doors

to the ground floor were locked restricting them to the subterranean vaults.

William was curious to see the rest of the mansion. His mother was fond of

saying that curiosity was the cure for boredom but that there was no cure for curiosity.

Margaret was expecting a barrage of excuses as to why he couldn’t come and was

pleasantly surprised when he agreed.

They persuaded William’s older brother Robert, who had just passed the new

driving test, to take them the short distance as it was still raining cats and dogs.

It was still drizzling when he dropped them so he said to ring home if he was

needed. He’d heard that the Botts had a phone in nearly every room as well as one of

those new fangled television sets.

Mrs Bott answered the door, pushing aside the house maid whose usual duty

this was. “I’m so glad you could visit Margaret, she said.” I can call you Margaret

can’t I, or would you prefer Maggie?” Mrs. Brown definitely would not prefer

Maggie.

“Come through to the salon”, she invited. “Not you Willy, we’ve Institute

matters to natter about, not your cup of tea. You can go and play with my little

princess”. William scowled and grimaced as the maid took him along to a large room

with French windows.

In the room, scattered everywhere, were teddy bears, rag dolls, handbags,

sewing sets, toy ovens, a small trike, boxes of necklaces and broaches and a large

rocking horse on a white carpet. On the horse was a self assured little girl.

“Hello William”, she said.” Mummy said she would get me a playmate

today”.

William, still annoyed at being called Willy, did not consider himself

playmate material. He was now regretting his decision to tag along with his mother.

“Who are you?” he said ungracefully.” I’m Violet Elizabeth Bott, but you can call me

Veb. Do you like my new dress”, she replied.

“What shall we play? Shall we play dressing up? I’ve got lots of mummies’

old castoffs in this box”.

“I think I’ll give it a miss “, said William huffily. “ Cos I’ve just remembered

I’ve got to go to the dentist this afternoon “, he fabricated. “ I’ll have to phone my

brother to come and get me. I’ve got a loose tooth and it hurts”. It just so happened

that this was true.

“Well let’s play ‘Dentists and Nurses’ then”, said Violet. “My daddy gives me

a pound when I lose a tooth. I sure he’ll give you one if I tell him how nicely we’ve

played together when he gets home”.

“And what if I don’t want to play?” he said hesitantly as he thought of what he

could do with a pound.

“I’ll thream and thream until I make myself thick”, she lisped, “I can you

know”.

“Alright, alright I was only asking”, said William, the thought of a possible

pound still clouding his better judgement.” It’s only loose so how can I get it out to

show your dad?”

Mr Bott had made his fortune by the invention of Bott’s Digestive Sauce and a

pound would be small beer to him.

‘It’s easy “, Violet replied going over to her sewing box. Here she removed a

spool of strong cotton and cut off a length. “Just tie one end of this around your tooth

and the other end to the door handle. Then I’ll ring for the maid. When she opens the

door your loose tooth will be pulled out. It won’t hurt a bit.”

The most William had got for a tooth before was sixpence and Violet’s

scheme seemed fool proof. So using his Cub knot knowledge the deed was done with

the cotton stretching from the door to the rocking horse where William was now

perched.

Before William could have second thoughts Violet rang the bell. Mrs Bott was

the first to react and she rushed off to see what her precious daughter wanted. As she

opened the playroom door the whole building resonated to the sound of a high pitched

howl. It wasn’t Violet carrying out her previous threat but William. Holding the

solitary tooth he was also trying to stop a flood of blood with his handkerchief

without success as witnessed by the carpet below. Violet’s new dress was also half

covered with droplets.

On the way home, in the back of the car, still clutching the tooth he ranted,

“How was I supposed to known they didn’t like the sight of blood. It wasn’t my fault

they both fainted . I reckon that Violet did it all on purpose. I didn’t even get the

pound from her dad. I suppose I’ll only get sixpence for it now “.

“Keep quiet William”, said Mrs Brown.