Mini fiction

Waiting (for Godot)

2011-12-15T22:55:00.000Z

I have been waiting my entire life. It may have been for Godot.

The first time I came cross the idea of Waiting for Godot when I was a very small child an it was mentioned in my father's circle of friends. My father was an actor. They may well have been staging that play at the time, I don't recall, but I am fairly sure I had asked what it was about and was given an explanation that it is a play about waiting pointlessly.

Being a child, waiting pointlessly wasn't something I could comprehend. My waitings at those times were very pointfull, usually consisting of waiting for a treat of some sort. But I must have really wanted to comprehend the meaning of this play because pretty soon, waiting pointlessly became a way of life for me. I waited pointlessly for my parents to be the parents I needed them to be. I waited pointlessly for my friends to stop being cruel and mean to me. I waited pointlessly for my relatives and other adults to stop behaving irresponsibly.

Then I started waiting for boys I liked to like me back. If there ever was a black hole...

At some point, I started consciously waiting for my life to find its rightful track. The track where everything made sense, where I felt I belonged, where I did the things I was good at and that mattered. Where people in my life cared for me in just the right way and were supportive and encouraging and helpful.

And then, I started asking myself: would I recognise Godot if he hit me in the face?

Cassandra 4

2011-09-29T02:49:00.000+01:00

"I've never had friends," she pouts.

You had friends. You have friends now. Don't be so dramatic. A tiny sigh. A Thousand tiny sighs.

"But they always leave." She was petulant. "Or they do something horrible to upset me."

Oh boo hoo. Have we conveniently forgotten all the terrible things you have done? Careless, thoughtless, arrogant, hurtful things? Like the time you..

"Shut up!" She blushed. "It's you. It's all your fault. If you weren't always here, I wouldn't be in this mess."

Tiny sighs morph into thousand invisible tiny eye rolls. Seriously? That's what you are going with? After all this time? After Everything? How are you still That stupid?

"I don't know," she looked at her shoes, sadly, as if such human gesture could mean anything. "I really don't understand it, still, after all this time."

Why don't you tell them about that time you didn't destroy The World even though you were Very Upset?

"Now you are being stupid," she scoffed at the air in front of her. "I've destroyed The World many times. What difference does it make if I didn't once or twice?"

What difference? Exactly! Meaningful, tiny, invisible silence.

"Well? What difference can it make? Even when I did destroy the The World it came back, almost exactly the same as it was before."

Almost exactly. Tiny invisible echoes.

"Are you now going to lecture me on string theory or causality or something? Didn't they just find a God particle over at CERN? Anyway, how does any of that have anything to do with me?"

When did you make it up?

"When I heard they were looking for it. It made me sad to think they were so hopeful and earnest, I wanted them to find something."

And what would happen if you were to destroy The World now?

"I don't know. You know I don't. I never know what will happen. Not exactly. Schrodinger had something to say about this once, I seem to recall."

But you do know. You are just choosing not to see it. As usual.

"But it hurts if I do. Where does the pain come from? I never came up with that!"

Good point. Don't you think? Maybe, remember?

And Cassandra remembered. A stuffy small room, a broken window and shivering, terrified body next to hers. An adult body scared out of its mind. Cassandra wanted to help. She wanted to make the adult feel no pain but the adult wouldn't believe her when she told it not to be afraid. Cassandra wasn't afraid. She was calm and a bit tired. She wanted to sleep but all the adults fighting and screaming and crying were keeping her up. She really just wanted them to let her sleep so she did the only thing she could think of - she took the pain in.

There you are! Triumphant tiny invisible gloats.

"I cannot believe you let me do that!!!! That was the stupidest thing I have ever done in my whole entire life, how could you let me do that?!"

Um. As the poet once said, what is joy without pain.

"What poet?"

I don't know, there must have been one.

"Great, what now? I don't feel this helped at all. Are you trying to get me to End The World?"

Maybe. Smug, tiny, invisible satisfaction.

"The World is always ending somewhere, I know, but is it really advisable to end this one now when I haven't imagined the next one yet?"

Haven't you?

"Well, I am not sure about it. It.. well, it all seems a bit twee," she blushed, again, "I'm not sure it's really me. All that happiness and sweetness and absence of angst. It's so ..different."

You have been bored with this one for a while, why are you surprised that you've imagined it so differently?

Shrug.

Invisible, tiny, meaningful silences.

Cassandra 3

2011-08-22T02:22:00.000+01:00

Cassandra was 13 years old when she first kissed a boy. He was cute and sixteen and had a girlfriend that was a year older than him which made him probably the coolest guy ever. His name was Bobby.

Cassandra didn't understand why Bobby liked her quite so much. He took every chance to talk to her, sit next to her and, eventually, at a ramshackle outside concert of gypsy songs and wanton randomness, he stretched his hand out, turned Cassandra's face away from the stage and towards himself and kissed her.

Cassandra had been waiting for this. She had been wondering what her first kiss would feel like, and if she would do it right or do something embarrassing that only an inexperienced girl would do. She worried the boy would laugh at her for not knowing how to kiss. She had read extensively on the subject and interrogated many people, her mother included. She watched film kisses with intent and studied the technique. She felt she had the theory down but the practice was often another thing.

When Bobby kissed her, it felt soft and slightly wet with traces of feelings Cassandra couldn't quite understand. Passion, maybe, but she had not yet learned to have such feelings herself. For her, it was an experiment. Something you try and do because all your friends are doing it and you want to know what the fuss is all about.

Later, Bobby refused to believe she had never kissed a boy before. Cassandra felt a bit smug at first, but later, when he still wouldn't believe her, she began to feel uneasy. Why wouldn't he believe her? Why would she lie about something like that? What did it all mean?

Bobby wouldn't stop kissing her. Every chance he got, he'd drag her away to a secluded spot and kiss her for what to Cassandra felt like days, although it was probably only about 20 minutes at most. She was bored. She wanted kissing to stop but by then it was too late. Bobby had dumped his gorgeous older girlfriend because he had liked Cassandra better. Cassandra had seen the hurt in the eyes of the other girl and she felt guilt. She had tried to talk Bobby out of it but he wouldn't listen. To make things worse, all their friends have sided with the dumped girl and nobody wanted to talk to Cassandra any more. She was alone, stuck with a boyfriend she didn't really care about kissing all that much and unable to do anything about it. Because, let's face it, when you are 13 years old, romantic dramas are not something you tend to have a great deal of experience in.

Cassandra spoke to her mother about this problem and asked for her advice. Cassandra's mother seemed confused and didn't really know what to suggest. So finally, Cassandra asked for permission to lie. She would tell Bobby that her mother had found out about them and that she insisted that Cassandra stop seeing him immediately. Privately, Cassandra felt a bit confused that her mother hadn't asked exactly that herself and had to be talked into it, but adults were often confusing and you could never quite tell what went on in their heads. Perhaps she had a reason? Wanted Cassandra to keep seeing this boy? But why? It was all too complicated and headache inducing.

When Cassandra told Bobby her fake story he refused to believe her. She put on her most convincing face, paced up and down in fake distress and eventually declared that her mother would Kill her unless they broke up.

Bobby begged. He pleaded. Cassandra observed him from the corner of her eye and still couldn't work out what it was that made him behave so irrationally. Most of all, she was fascinated by the fact that Bobby never tried to conceal his feelings. However irritating , it was also mesmerising. Cassandra wished that she could be free like that.

Bobby finally relented and let her go. She felt relief. She could breathe again and slowly, her friends started to talk to her again.

Later that year she kissed another boy. He was very shy and reticent, not at all like Bobby and Cassandra had to do all the initiating and never felt the boy was enjoying the kissing in the slightest. He didn't really want to kiss her on the lips but would give her a quick peck on the cheek after he'd walked her home. Cassandra was confused by this because she knew for sure this boy had liked her because his friend had come over to talk to her and tell her this and ask her if she would go out with his friend. But the going out bit felt a bit boring and one day, while she was running to the shops with her friends (because that's what you do when you are thirteen, you run places), and the boy had just come out of the side street on his way to somewhere, she stopped to break up with him. It was so much easier this time. There was no protest and, if anything, Cassandra thought the boy was quite relieved.

By the time she reached the shops, Cassandra had decided that kissing boys was alltogether too complicated and that she might give it a miss for a while. She was 17 before she kissed a boy again. But that is for another story.

Cassandra 2

2011-08-11T23:48:00.000+01:00

The choices we make and the consequences of those choices are the linchpin of life. Not many people know this. Sometimes, Cassandra forgot too. She knew there would be a price to pay, somehow, some day, for the terrible things she had done, even if they were done out of love.

It was a sunny day. It was always a sunny day on momentous occasions such as these, as if Gods felt pity for her after all and wanted to send small comfort, knowing, unlike her, what the future held.

Her friend stood tense next to her, starring straight ahead. She knew what he wanted and she waited with dread for him to voice his request. How old were they then? Cassandra of tomorrow reached towards Cassandra of yesterday and heard only echoes. Time. It didn't flow the same way for her.

Sun bounced off the flag pole on the building opposite and she squinted. She knew what he was going to ask and she really didn't want to say yes but she knew she would. She waited.

It felt like a million of tiny iron beads coalescing throughout her very soul. This is what love did. When you loved someone who wanted you do something you knew deep down in your very core was wrong and yet you also knew you would do it, it felt like dying. Because you loved them. Because they were a friend.

Cassandra often wondered why it was that she loved her friends against all reason. Perhaps Gods had a hand in that too. Perhaps it was another curse disguised as a gift.

The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then turned to face her. He had reached his decision.

"You Do realise what this means," Cassandra said, her eyes alight. "We can never be friends like this again. We can never speak of this. Ever. You will forget everything we ever did or said to eachother and so will I. "

The boy nodded, gravely. "I know. And I am sorry. I know what I am asking."

Later, much later, Cassandra thought about what he had said that day. He had made a choice. She had made a choice. It changed the course of many lives. Such a small thing.

Cassandra knew what he would say before he had said it and still it came as a shock. But she had made her choice already. After days of agonising. After weeks of the boy pleading with her. After weighing up all the options and making sure that what she was going to do out of love for this boy wasn't going to cost someone else she loved their life. It would only cost them their happiness.
Cassandra had chosen the boy's happiness over her own. Over someone else's.

"Fine." She looked at him, her green eyes speaking louder than any words. "It is done."

"Thank you," the boy whispered, a trace of apprehension in his voice. "I really love her, you know," he said, as if it was an apology.

Cassandra shrugged. It was done. He was no longer her friend. They no longer had anything to say to eachother.

Years passed and Cassandra saw her gift to her former friend come to pass. She watched impassively. She hoped for the best. She had favoured one friend over another and she knew there would be a price to pay, so she waited. And then it came.

Honey had lost her baby. She was devastated. Alone in a foreign country with no friends or family to help or offer support and husband that was away at work most of the time.
Cassandra had listened to her friend's agony over her lost baby and she cried silent tears. She had comforted her friend, whispering soothing words down the telephone line.

Months later, Honey called again, whispering urgently on the phone, "Cassandra, I need to tell you something, but I am so worried and you are the only person I dare tell."

"What is it?" Cassandra asked with alarm, but she new what Honey would say.

"I am pregnant." Honey had taken a sharp breath with the last word and the silence hung cold and challenging in the dead air between them.

Cassandra knew what was coming. She knew that Honey wouldn't even have to ask.

"Don't worry, Honey, it will be fine this time, I promise."

Honey sighed with relief. "From your lips to Gods ears." It was a command, more than a request. As if she knew she was only asking for retribution, not a favour.

"I promise," Cassandra shivered with guilt. "Don't worry, it will all be fine."

That night Cassandra tore a piece of herself and wrapped it around the growing life inside her friend.
When Honey told her she was expecting twins, she was excited. Honey had kept quiet about the babies until very late when she was sure they would be all right. The only person she had told had been Cassandra and her mother.

The babies were born and they were beautiful. It surprised Cassandra when she had first seen them to recognise them as her own, to be able to tell them apart even as babies.

She looked at their father, her old childhood friend who had changed everything by asking her to make Honey love him. He felt like a stranger. She saw the guilt marking his soul but his eyes and his mind were filled only with worry and love.
Cassandra wrapped the twins in her gift and left. She felt odd. She was leaving two children behind that belonged to her as much as they belonged to their parents. She wondered if she had wronged them too, with her gift of life, her penance to their mother. Oddly, she couldn't tell. The babies were happy and so different and so the same as eachother. She marveled at their perfection. It hurt to leave them but she had made the choice. One day, they will come to her and ask.

Cassandra didn't know what she would tell them, but she knew what she would ask them. She would ask them if they were happy. And if they weren't, she would ask them how she could die to make them so.

Cassandra

2011-08-10T23:40:00.000+01:00

Through the muddy rain and dusky light, she watched the river of blood carrying broken off pieces of human beings. A torrent of ghostly cries.

The scene jumped then, to a group of men in fatigues, heavily armed, standing taut and grim, their faces focused on the plan they were discussing. She couldn't hear their words but she felt the meaning and it chilled her to the bone. Then other visions appeared, in quick succession, the screams, the blast of shell fire, frightened faces, too many to count. She stood on the edge of the dream, paralised with fear.

The dream changed eventually and she saw better things, nicer things, things she didn't know about and would not know for a long time. When she woke up, she remembered every single thing. And she knew.

Two days later, the sun was bright and the air crisp yet she felt the menace travel through the space, faceless, but heavy with promise. Nobody else did. She tried to speak about her dream, about what she had seen, but noone believed her. She watched her family, her friends, her countrymen walk and talk and smile and joke and she screamed the silent scream. She couldn't stop the avalanche that was coming. All she could do is get out if its way.

She packed her bags. Her family, her friends, her countrymen scoffed and looked at her with betrayal in their eyes.

Three months later, she watched her dream play out in life from a safe place far away. Cold dread filled her as the images from her dream floated on the black box. She knew what was coming and there was nothing she could do to make it stop. The avalanche kept coming.

She remembered the lessons that were drummed into her as a child, long after the Second World War had passed, the words "Never Again" were spoken, felt and repeated as a protection against the evil that had come to pass, so that people would never forget, never let it happen again. And then they did.
How did this happen? She knew. People don't listen. They don't think. People follow.

She had heard once that what you believe can either set you free or keep you prisoner for life. But the freedom is not free and you must make a choice and accept the consequences, because there will be consequences whether you like it or not. She had made her choice. They had made theirs.
It didn't hurt any less watching them suffer when they didn't even know they were making a choice.

The dreams were always there. And she kept wondering, why she had been given this gift or a curse when she couldn't help anyone but herself.

And then, one day, she knew.

Everyone must make their own choice.

Between Sips

2011-03-19T23:13:00.000Z

Working in a hospital for a year with half an hour for lunch and a cup of double of espresso.

20 Aug 2007

Falling asleep next to a cup of double espresso amid the madness that is the lunchtime concourse at Addenbrooke's.
Fat people, people with large and XL breasts, wheelchaired people with ginger hair, tall, bold, smartly dressed, purposefully striding people. The florist, her plain, baby blue tee shirt in sharp contrast to the gaudy floral display behind her. First sip.
A small shot of wakefulness reaches my brain but not enough to engage it fully. A man in a blue shirt and khaki slacks walks past holding a baguette sandwich slightly ahead of him as if it is a weapon. Coming towards him, two men walk past, one of them wearing a black shirt and an apron. He carries a banana in an unoffensive manner. He is saying something to this friend. I wish I could hear what. Second sip.
Two young women had been stood chatting by the ATM machine when a young man approached them. Suddenly, a young Darryl Hannah look-alike wearing a nurses uniform walks by. Stop. Check coffee. Check self. Awake. I think. Deep breath. Life is a such a movie, sometimes. Third sip.
This one lingers for a while before sliding inexorably downwards. The young man has moved few paces away from the ATM but he is still talking to one of the women. The other has disappeared. Maybe into the shop? Maybe they are chatting while she waits for her friend to buy lunch? Why isn't he buying her lunch? That would be a sensible thing to do if he wants to get in with her. Some other woman has joined them now. Young man is polite but clearly cannot wait for the intruder to leave. Oh!! Got it all wrong! The young man leaves with the new woman and the young woman he'd been chatting to goes off on her own. What is that all about?
A clutch of kitted out medical staff sails by. Nurses, doctors, technicians. Green scrubs are worn here, amongst us dirty outsiders, a germ infested mass of potential death. Why are they allowed?!?! Delayed sip.
Deep breath. Thinking back, on the bus journeys to work, there are always nurses already wearing their uniform. So wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Fourth sip.
Another enormoboobed lady walks past. Walking behind her, a young woman pushes a pram with her small child in it. The child has blond hair. Cute. They are followed by a couple of suits who in turn are followed by more nurses uniforms. The cadence of the step must not be interrupted. They all move as if on some surreal cue - ta dam ta da di dam ta dam ta da di dam... Maintenance staff in radiation green tee shirts waddle through this carefully orchestrated circular motion of passers by, oblivious to the rules. They never apply to them. Fifth sip.
I let that one linger too. Reluctant to reach the end of the caffeinated bliss. If I slouch in my chair, only heads of people can be seen behind the white plastic screen. It looks like some sort of disembodied head bobbing puppet theater. Most of the times it's just the very tops of heads that can be seen, little mounds of keratin floating by; glossy blonds, oily blacks, receding brunettes (mousy doesn't pluralise as well). Sixth sip.
That was the last one. I'll have to get going soon. An oriental looking man in pale green shirt coat walks in the shop carrying a bag. He wears glasses. He buys a yogurt. I wonder if he is from the Philippines. I don't know why I wonder that. I'm not good at telling Asians apart, to my shame. Time to go now.

31 Aug 2007

The man at the coffee place gave me a double espresso but charged me for single. He insisted! I had the correct change but had handed him less by mistake. He must have thought I didn't have enough. He even gave me change. Possibly more than he should have done. I am confused. Then again, I'm told my hair looks nice today. Perhaps, that's why.
There had been an IV bag poking over the edge of the screen when I first sat down but has now disappeared. The queue at the ATM is unusually large, I wonder if it's broken again. Large man with belly full of beer and orange food is wearing a checkered short sleeved shirt. His hair is grey but he doesn't look old. First sip.
There aren't usually a lot of black people around but I've just spotted one. A young woman, possibly works here judging by her purposeful stride. A lot of people stride purposefully around here. Young doctor, well dressed, stethoscope around his neck, just sped past my station. His belly is beginning to show. Too many long hours and not enough exercise, perhaps. Second sip.
Aha! Spotted another black lady. She is smiling and waiting in the queue for the ATM that refuses to cough up. She is wearing a long white cotton overcoat that looks like it's made from hospital bed sheets. Staff.
Emergency services man walks into the shop. I know because they wear bottle green top to bottom and yellow epaulets. The flower girl is wearing a frilly pink top today. It's helping her blend in with the flowers better. Good choice. Men in dark blue overalls. What do they do? I wish there was a chart or something to look them up. Third sip.
Another bouncy breasted female struts past. Yet another one loiters aimlessly near the flower shop. Females are forever attracted to pretty, nice smelling things. They don't even know why or are aware of it.
Tall blond grey haired man in dark tee shirt walks by while his overweight, frizzy-haired, flushed partner half leans on him. For moral support presumably. A very tall, white haired, well dressed man staggers by, adjusting his college tie. Must be a professor. Don't you think? A plumber/electrician/something walks by hanging onto a bare baguette in his tool box. As he passes the lot sat on the other side of my screen he says, "Food is for wimps." Fourth sip.
A woman with bleached blonde highlights wears a faded denim jacket and a jaded expression. She is passed by two young, thin, pretty girls going in the opposite direction. Fifth sip.
The big bellied man in checkered shirt is back. He wears glasses atop his sunken eyes. The glasses don't hide the big dark circles. He carries a bag.
Chav kids are settling down on the other side of my screen. His hair is glistening with grease. She has a plastic hairband holding her hair back and is wearing skin tight jeans. Sixth sip.
A tall, lean girl wearing a lime green jumper and carrying a small knapsack walks into a shop. (Not a beginning of a joke). Her chestnut brown hair is tied back into a tidy bun and she exudes neatness and energy. What could be her reason for being here? Another chav looking girl walks past carrying a white bag uncomfortably similar to mine. That guy from finance walks past. What's his name?
In the three seconds I pause to think, twenty people walk by. Sixth sip.
A blonde woman with pale over-applied complexion wears a polkadot silk blouse and a long double string of pearls. A bit overdressed? A man with wild bush for hair walks by at the far side. He is neatly dressed and stands erect but his hair is reminiscent of a stray birds nest walking around perched atop a regular person's shoulders. Seventh sip.
The selling stand is selling tools today. A very tall young man with blond hair and Buddy Holly glasses is wearing a dark blue parka. He has joined the queue at the ATM. Another black man, staff again, walks past. He is eating a banana. His skin is deep velvety black. It looks as if your fingers would fall into the softness if you were to touch him.
Turquoise scrubs. What are they for? On the way back I meet Steven Crays. I say meet but it would be more accurate to say that our paths cross. I see him most often, either on the way to the concourse or on the way back. Steven Crays is over six feet tall with a bony, square shouldered frame that in spite of its stiff erectness somehow conveys the impression that the person inhabiting it is folded in on itself, perhaps under the weight of some unseen burden. He walks steadily, his pace slowed by the visible burden of his laptop case in the right hand and gaping canvas bag in the left. Dark grey suit is covered with a dark blue waterproof jacket, its hood wonky, about to skip off the left shoulder. We look at eachother briefly at the traffic lights, me giving a quick smile in acknowledgment of that one time couple of years back when I attended a management course and he had just joined as the new, vibrant, full of energy R&D Director. He, pale, gaunt, glancing at me in a semi-puzzled incomprehension, as if he ought to know me but cannot think why. My presence another item to add to his list of worries. Yes. I remember it clearly. I was then just months away from my nervous breakdown, tense, tearyeyed, angry, tired. I had thought, how sad that this man is trapped here with us, clearly clueless as to the fate that awaits him. Bright eyed, spewing off visions of brighter future to the jaded, overworked, stressed out people that looked at him with eyes that said, "I'll see you in couple of years, see how enthusiastic you are then." And here I am, couple of years later. Full of life and energy and hope, bouncing down the street along this shell of a man, mission accomplished.

8 Sept 2007

Today I'm on the other side, the one facing the coffee shop. It's double espresso day. It's muggy and oppressive outside and inside it's just as bad. Neon lights and artificial heat from the coffee machine aren't helping. Diversity of peopledom all around is astounding. Dorky finance kid passed by earlier, bespectacled, wearing a grey school type trousers and blue shirt over chunky leather shoes which have a buckle on one side. Then, two ladies that were as pretty and as dressed as models. I marvel at the size of their heels. First sip.
Wakefulness paves the way through to my forebrain, unfortunately accompanied by a reciprocal bowel action. Lunch hour is the time they choose to clean ladies toilets at the main concourse. They are just so sensible around here. A well presented lady in her fifties looks oddly out of place with a luminous green plastic cast on her left hand. Those that are usually given to children. The crazy green of the cast clashes with the greyish polyester blouse and neatly cropped grey hair. What made her choose it? Second sip.
Double pram containing children of different ages is pushed along by a young woman old enough to be their sister. She is too pale to be their mother, however the man strolling alongside is the same colour as the children so father and a nanny perhaps? Maybe mummy is in the hospital to give birth to another baby? If so, it's odd they should stray so far from the maternity ward. But maybe it's the shops and the Burger King that drew them here. The stand is outfitted with bags, holdalls, satchels, purses and, weirdly, novelty cushions emblazoned with main league football clubs names. For a split second I consider purchasing the Arsenal one but quickly come to my senses. It would have been a laugh though. Third sip.
Two women join the coffee queue, hugging. One is blonde and wears a white top. Her friend is a brunette. She wears a black blouse. They do say that opposites attract. Fourth sip.
Feeling much more awake now. Coffee Ritazza shines brightly at me, overhead. I can't say I noticed it before, but now I have, it must be a good sign. (she leans back in her chair and giving a small yawn crosses her arms while surveying her surroundings) . The finance kid has made it to his lunch hour and saunters past in an animated discussion with a pretty blonde. It is amazing to witness the transformation on his face. From dour to enthused in a blink of an eye. Fifth sip is delayed by the insistent crying of the small child somewhere nearby. The sound of it crying distresses her so her insides thighten and she goes all hazy and weak (not to mention has a worrying falling out with sanity and insists on writing about herself in third person). Its stopped. Fifth sip.
(oh god, it continues) She plays mindlessly with the tassel on her bag, something to occupy her while she waits to finish her coffee. Sixth sip.
and a rush to the nearest bathroom.

21 April 2008
Hospital Grounds. Garden. Sunny day.
People walk by. Their badges bounce on their bellies. The staff. You can tell patients and visitors apart by the fact they don't have blue ribboned necklaces dangling from their necks. There is a hospital bed in the garden and on it a young woman lies, her right hand bandaged. She is wearing a bright green short sleaved top and her mother is arranging her legs so that her knees are slightly bent. The suddenly bright sun bounces off the pale white sheet that covers her. The mother has raised the back rest so that the girl is sitting comfortably as if in an executive chair on a transatlantic flight. The mother wears glasses with dark rims and bleached blonde hair done up in a bun. The bun bit is much darker, chocolate brown colour. Also, her roots are showing. The whole thing makes her look older than she is. The woman in the black trousers and pink top walks by. He hair is old-fashioned too.
The mother and daughter on the hospital bed that has been pulled out into the garden are greeted by a young man in dark blue trousers and light blue shirt. His hair is blond. He appears to be listening to the explanation of their situation. I cannot hear it.
Muslim family walks by. Daughter showing her face (round and young) in a black robe and bright pink scarf. Then the father, wiping his nose, wears a crocheted hat. Then the mother, covered all in black, safe from the eyes, short and dumpy (this cannot be concealed by acres of cloth) and three paces behind her husband. Presumably daughter goes first so that her father can keep an eye on her, so that no funny business can take place.

30 April 2008

Eating a massively large salad with tons of broccoli and halloumi cheese and seeds. It's yummy but it's too big for me. However, I persist in eating it despite feeling full to the bursting. I do this because it tastes good so it gives me pleasure when I chew it and also because I feel I'd be missing out if I were to leave it be.
She is tired and sleepy. She only slept for four hours last night, buzzing too much from a fantastic evening before to calm herself down enough to sleep.
Dour men with sour faces and grey suits gave a talk about online ordering system this morning. She sat in the front row and fell asleep at once.
Now it's lunchtime and Betty is ordering bathroom suites online. She has set her labs to run and is free until 4pm. Perfect opportunity to catch up on home improvements planning. Tim declined the invitation to join the group for drinks last night saying he has a hot date instead. Everyone smiled and nodded appreciatively when he said this but Sarah was suspecting it was a clever ruse to cover up the fact he was going to watch a football game and didn't want everyone to know it.
Ada also left early, dressed up to the nines. Maybe it was the Lamborgini man. Portia thinks that Sarah is a comic genius. It's surprising. Sarah works in the hospital and is surrounded by humourless drones with more brains than common sense.

Hang on. What happened to the coffee?

The End

Epilogue

Ben: Are you really going to publish this?

Me: Yes.

Ben: Why?

Me: Because I want them to ponder the deeper meaning behind the words.

Ben: But there is no deeper meaning.

Me: Yes, but they don't know that.

Reginald and Bertie at the Mount Doom

2010-07-25T07:21:00.000+01:00

As any gardener will tell you, Nature abhors vacuum. And what is Universe but a big lump of Nature, pulsating with possibility, ready to give life to a plucky seed that winds of fate may chance across its path.

When Bertram wrote himself, Sir Waleter and The World out of existence, the vacuum he created existed only for an instant. The World returned into being shortly afterward, not much different than before. Bertram and Sir Waleter, however, now that’s a whole different story..

Beneath a low sprawled chestnut tree, Reginald and Bertie munched on the last shrew from the evening’s hunt.

“This may be the last we have to eat before..” Reginald trailed off, mournfully contemplating the remains in front of him. He would have preferred to pass on the insides and the head, but time constraints meant it was important to eat up as much as possible now as there wouldn’t be enough time to stop and hunt until they’ve reached their destination.

Bertie eyed the entrails hungrily. “If you don’t want to, I could finish it off for you?” he offered gallantly, already starting to skulk forward. Reginald narrowed his eyes. Bertie waited. “All the same, Bertie, I need to eat it all,” Reginald sniffed delicately, turning his head away with mild distaste, ”however much it may pain me to consume the revolting morsels,” he added and then looked incredulously at the bare ground where the revolting morsels were no longer in evidence. “Thanks a lot Bertie!” he hissed. “You are such a liability. And a major pain in the scruff.“

“Sorry Reg.” Bertie gave his right paw a quick lick. He got up and padded off a few paces then plopped down on his side like a sack of kittens.

Reginald licked down his front left paw a few times to calm himself and after a pause that included a put upon stare into a middle distance, proceed to wash properly. A proper wash starts with paws, then head, the sides, the legs, the back, the tail, the underside and the gentleman bits at the end. Bertie never seemed to manage a proper wash. No matter how many times he was told and shown and told again. The brat. If Reginald hadn’t promised Her he’d look after Bertie, this whole undertaking would be a whole lot easier. A whole. Lot.

Bertie lay sprawled on the ground, bits of shrew blood and guts hanging limply from his bottom lip. He was looking at Reginald with a mixture of adoration and vacant wonder.

“Really, Bertie, you could at least make an effort,” Reginald sighed. “I know we may not survive this, but there is no excuse for failing to wash oneself after a meal. A gentleman would not die with his fur sticky and his paws covered in gore.”

Bertie licked his paw a few times and rubbed it over his face. He licked his other paw a few times and his shoulder too. Then he sat back with a self-satisfied grin.

“Come here,” Reginald said, getting up. He walked over to Bertie and started to clean the top of his head. It’s really quite difficult to get it clean properly, the top of the head, always useful to have a friend nearby for that sort of thing. He gave Bertie’s head a really good and vigorous clean. “That’ll do I suppose,” said Reginald. One couldn’t expect Bertie to manage more than the bare minimum when it came to personal hygiene. “Let’s get going.”

Bertie sprang up in one lithe motion and slinked to Reginald’s side. They sat in silence for a while. Reginald was thinking very hard about the task ahead of them and Bertie was thinking very hard about the fact he was still hungry.

The night wrapped around them like a velvety shroud. They walked for a while, keeping to the outer edges of the forest. Eventually, the trees started to thin out and the ground started to curve upwards. Beyond was an open craggy slope without much shelter, so they found a cozy shrub and settled down for a nap.

When the sun pulled up over the top of the forest, they set off again. Higher and higher they climbed, past the heathers and rodenty goodness hiding underneath and towards the impossibly high, bare and rocky Mount Doom.

“And, Bertie,” Reginald paused to give Bertie a meaningful look, ”watch your paws. You know how easily your paws split open and you know how She feels about your paws splitting.”

“Yes Reg.”

“And don’t call me Reg!” Reginald gave a low growl. “One is not a common, flea-ridden, alleyway tom, thank you very much.”

Bertie cocked his head to one side and opened his eyes very wide. “Yes, Reg…inald.” He whispered a tiny mewl and started to walk by putting each paw very purposefully on the smoothest bits of earth he could find. He looked like he was walking on hot oil.

Reginald imagined himself sitting down and putting his face in his paws like he saw Her do sometimes when Bertie was being particularly idiotic. “Just be careful, Bertie. You don’t have to make a spectacle of yourself,” he sighed, trotting ahead.

They continued at the steady pace up the incline, avoiding sharp rocks, stepping around thick, prickly bushes, weaving their way in and out of what shade was afforded by ever smaller bushes. When they were in the shade, Reginald’s thick, luscious, shiny, black fur melted into the shadows and made him invisible. Out in the thickets, Bertie’s mottled, brown-black fur with white speckles let him blend in so thoroughly that it looked like there was only one, sturdy, black tom making it’s way up the steep incline.

It was starting to warm up. For a moment, Reginald wished he were snuggled under his favourite hedge, cool and relaxed. He felt his paws grow slippery with sweat, but pressed on. According to The Plan, they had to reach the summit about mid-day and there was a lot of ground left to cover.

The air smelled fresh and thin. The ground under their paws had been getting darker and more brittle the more they climbed and now was all bare rock, sharp and splintery. Reginald kept checking Bertie for signs of limping but Bertie seemed fine.

“How are you doing, Bertie,” Reginald asked finally. “Are you tired?”

“’m fine, Reg..inald.” Bertie said. “Can’t wait!”

“Good, good,” said Reginald. “Listen, we should probably talk about The Plan. I shouldn’t like to have things veering out of all control because someone forgot what they were supposed to do.”

Bertie nodded. He’d do whatever Reginald asked. He was so excited, he didn’t even feel pain from the deep gush on the pad of his back left paw.

“When we get close, Bertie,” Reginald solemnly commenced with his strategy, “I expect The Beast will be away, but if it returns before we are done, I want you to distract it as best you can without putting yourself in danger. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Distract. Got it.” Bertie was all dopey smiles and hazed-out looks. His mind was awash with happy thoughts of triumph and glory and legend. And food. Lots of delicious food.

“Bertie, would you please concentrate!” Reginald tapped Bertie on the head with a soft paw.

“Ow!”

Reginald blinked softly. “I am sorry, Bertie, but you are being all sorts of silly. While this is, no doubt, an excellent adventure and one we shall both hopefully live to discuss at great length with any and all interested parties, in due course and foreseeable future; I do urge you to comprehend the full gravity of the prospect before us and show due decorum and diligence.”

“Um. What?” said Bertie, scratching his ear vigorously.

“Oh dear god!” Reginald growled through clenched teeth and covered his eyes with his paw.

Bertie walked over and started to lick Reginald’s ears. “Sorry Reg, I really want to help and everything. I’ll do what you said, honest. Distract it. You can count on me Reg, I promise.” He gave a small pleading whine to prove his earnest intentions and bowed his head just in time to spot a tiny lizard scuttling between his paws. “Here, Reg, have a snack?” Bertie held the squirming lizard in place with one firm paw.

Reginald brightened, “a snack wouldn’t hurt, and you did eat the last of my supper.” He snapped the lizard from Bertie and munched it up in two ungentlemanly gulps. “Very tasty,” he said licking his lips delicately. “Thank you.” He hissed gently at Bertie, "it is R e g i n a l d, not Reg, if you don't mind."

Bertie smiled happily and had a furtive look around but there were no more lizards.

“Don’t worry, Bertie, when we get there, you are going to think you’ve died and gone to heaven, those things are quite exquisite and very filling.”

Bertie nudged Reginald’s shoulder with his head and gave a small purr.

“All right, all right,” Reginald answered with an affectionate grumble. “Now, listen very carefully, I will say this only vunce.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “What I meant is,” he continued hurriedly, “that we shan’t have an opportunity to discuss this again, so pay attention.”

Bertie sat back on his hunches and assumed an expression he hoped would convey the extreme paying of attention.

Reginald outlined his plan and then had Bertie repeat it back to him four times, to make sure he remembered it correctly. To Reginald’s mild surprise, Bertie appeared to have grasped the plan and gave clear and insightful answers when questioned. Satisfied that they were as ready as they would ever get, Reginald hurried them onward. They covered the rest of the way to the top in less than half an hour and made it near the summit right about mid-day, as planned.

The sun was directly overhead. Between the two cats squatting flat against the ground and the apex of the incline remained only a few meters of bare soil covered thickly with a carpet of small bones. The sky was clear and bright, the air smelled of sulphur and rotting flesh. It was eerily quiet.

Reginald gave the sign and Bertie crept off to the left in a low crouch, picking his way carefully between the sharp bits of bone sticking up from the ground. He selected a spot and carefully, soundlessly, cleared the bones to one side making a neat patch of ground few inches from the very top where a large cup of twigs and straw presided over the landscape.

On the other side of the mound, Reginald nodded approvingly and tensed for a jump.

Just then, a piercing cry tore through the air and a monstrous shadow swooped over Reginald, covering him completely. Two feathered sticks unfolded into two giant pitchforks whose talons sunk into black fur, ripping the flesh as they gripped. Massive wings beat angrily, lifting Reginald up into the air so that he hovered directly over the nest where his and Bertie’s intended target, 6 large, juicy eggs, glittered demurely in the mid day sun.

The giant wings beat harder, heaving the bird and its cargo upward. The Beast aimed to the side of the nest that overhung the sheer drop, intending to release the load over the deep ravine where it would shatter on the large black rocks far below. It struggled to gain altitude, wavering in the air as if pushed about by a strong gale. The load it carried felt heavy and limp. The Beast shrieked in frustration and pushed the wing muscles harder until they burned with effort.

For a moment the bird dipped a few feet. It flapped its enormous wings furiously forcing itself to rise again. Suddenly, a blur shot out from the other side of the nest and landed on its feathery back. A set of razor sharp fangs drilled deeply into bird’s neck. The bird’s wings thrashed wildly, talons gripping the load tightly. The cat that had landed on top of it clung tightly to its back making it difficult to flap, the teeth that were sunk deep into bird’s throat crushing the windpipe made it difficult to breathe, and still, the bird would not let go of its load.

Bertie clamped harder on the windpipe between his teeth. The giant bird, carrying one limp cat in its talons and one vigorous cat on its back slowly started to sink towards the side of the hill that overlooked the ravine.

Bertie unhooked his claws from the bird’s back and, not loosening the grip on the windpipe, swung himself over onto the opposite side. His weight and the momentum snapped the bird’s neck and they all fell tumbling onto the nest and over the edge, rolling down the hill in a mass of fur and feathers and blood.

They were stopped by a small patch of heather. Bertie let go of the bird’s neck and curled up in a tight ball. His breath was fast and shallow. Reginald was dead! Bertie shivered at the thought of the big, black body hanging limp and lifeless from the talons of The Beast. He couldn’t let The Beast carry him off. Reginald was a friend, a brother. He was Family. Bertie gave a low whimper and buried his nose under his tail.

“Well, that was rather unpleasant but thankfully not a complete waste of time.”

Bertie sat up, startled.

Reginald was sitting calmly by the side of the giant bird, licking off a yolky splodge from his face.

“Reg!” Bertie cried and sprang a few inches off the ground. “I thought, I thought you were dead!” Bertie said, confused look creeping up on his face.

Reginald purred. “It may yet come to that my dear boy,” he started to lick the sides of his body where blood had pooled and begun to dry. “When She sees the state we are in,” he paused,” don’t think you fooled me, young man, I know you’ve cut your paw,” he sniffed, “it would not at all surprise me if we don’t both end up dead.”

Bertie smiled a worried smile. “I am so glad you are not dead Reg.”

Reginald purred like a Bentley. “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” he blinked self consciously, “I cannot think what The Beast was doing near the nest at this time of day, it was supposed to be away, hunting.” He bristled to the tops of his whiskers. “What you did today, Bertie, was completely ingenious.”

Bertie beamed with unadulterated pride. “I was fierce!”

“You certainly were, Bertie, it was extremely impressive. Quick thinking. Fast reflexes. I am so proud of you.” Reginald closed his eyes with sudden embarrassment.

The flies were buzzing around them, settling on the dead bird. Reginald continued, “It may be prudent to make use of this fine gourmet dining we have in front of us. Tuck in dear Bertie.”

Bertie shook his head vigorously to ward of the flies and sunk his teeth into the belly of the giant bird. He came up for air after a considerably long period of time; his head covered in blood and feathers, his belly full and his injured paw throbbing like a brass band on a summer’s evening. Next to him, Reginald was munching delicately on a wing, not a whisker out of place.

“How do you do that?” Bertie said, amazed. “How do you not get all messy?”

“One takes care not to eat with one’s face but one’s mouth, Bertie,” Reginald's whiskers twitched good-naturedly. He shifted around and gave his wounds a few licks. “We ought to get back, I suppose. She’ll start to fret if we are not back in time for dinner.”

Bertie bristled with worry. “She’ll make us go There, won’t she?”

“Well, Bertie, considering the condition of your paw and my ribs, I do believe a trip to the veterinary practice may be advised, yes.”

“I hate it There,” Bertie whined. “I don’t want to go, I’ll stay here until I’m better," he said with an air of finality and fear.

“Really?” said Reginald. “You think that paw will get better on its own, do you?”

Bertie looked unsure.

“Remember the last spring when you first met Mickey from the two doors down and the bite he gave you became infected?”

Bertie shuddered. “Yes, so?”

“Well, Bertie, don’t you remember how much it hurt before She discovered the lump on your side and took you to the vet where you were given antibiotics and a painkiller? Do you not remember how much better you felt after that?”

Bertie sunk to the ground. “Yeah. I remember. It hurt awfully.” He shook his whiskers sadly. “Just awfully.”

“Your paw will hurt much more than that if you don’t get it seen to, my boy.” Reginald licked his wounds again. He wouldn’t mind having a painkiller injection himself, to be perfectly honest about it. Although he always put up a perfunctory fight before being stuffed into the cat carrier, Reginald was deeply appreciative of the usefulness of pharmaceuticals.

Bertie sighed. “All right then.” He limped over to the black tom and dutifully scraped the top of his head with raspy tongue. "I am so, so glad you are not dead, Reg...inald."

"Mmm, yes, the playing-dead trick does come in useful. And a superbly toned musculature helps protect one's vital organs, you would do well to remember that, Bertie." Reginald examined Bertie's lithe frame thoughtfully, "although, I dare say, one does find the takeoff a bit of a bother, so there is something to be said for a leaner frame." He stood up and kicked a broken shell out of the way. "Now, Bertie, let’s get back," he smiled slyly, "if we hurry, we might run into Mickey and the gang before we get home.”

Bertie brightened up, “Mickey will die of jealousy when he hears what we did,” he exclaimed and sat off hobbling enthusiastically downhill, turning the story of his and Reginald's triumph around in his head. It was important to tell it well.

Reginald winced a tired smile. The wounds will heal. The pain will be forgotten. He followed after Bertie, purring loudly to himself, “Reginald and Bertie – Conquerors of the Mount Doom, that’s what they’ll be saying, Bertie,” Reginald murmured, “even after we are long gone, our story will live on.”

In the hazy warmth of the late afternoon, two battle weary friends, full of good food and dangerous wounds, walked together, towards home and Legend.

I Write Like goes viral

2010-07-18T11:19:00.002+01:00

In further adventures of I Write Like (or IWL for short) it transpires that the software is made to model spam filters and works mostly on the principle of word recognition.

Internet is awash with articles about IWL, but if you can't be bothered to search yourself, I've copied a few links here. I suggest the Associated Press one for the most useful information - they've obviously taken the trouble to interview the creator of the software (English is not his first language - does that matter?) and we finally discover what principles it uses to assess the writing sample (50 authors, 3 books per author)

Associated Press http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5j93L3sF-VA-F548doKe70er5uD0wD9H0DAU81

Guardian blog http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2010/jul/15/i-write-like-margaret-atwood

Huffington post http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/07/16/i-write-like-sweeps-the-w_n_649339.html

thestar.com http://www.thestar.com/entertainment/books/article/837164--i-write-like-finds-your-inner-author

More fun in the 'I Write Like' universe, this time with Famous Authors

2010-07-15T16:39:00.002+01:00

As promised, I've done some research on how the famous published writers fare when put through the I Write Like web-thingy. (for the previous post where I test my own writing please go here).

Here is what I found (in no particular order):

Neil Gaiman: excerpt from American Gods reads like Margaret Attwood while excerpt from Stardust reads like J R R Tolkien and excerpt from Neverwhere reads like Harry Harrison.

Terry Pratchett: excerpt from Small Gods reads like Daniel Defoe, excerpt from Thief of Time reads like Mark Twain, excerpt from Witches Abroad reads like Arthur Conan Doyle and
excerpt from Good Omens (by Gaiman&Pratchett) reads like Mark Twain.

JK Rowling, Dan Brown and Stephanie Meyer read like themselves.

PG Woodhouse's The Code of The Woosters reads like PG Woodhouse!

HP Lovecraft (from complete works of):
The Moon Bog reads like James Joyce but The Outsider reads like HP Lovecraft!

Stephen King: excerpts from Salem's Lot and Shining read like Stephen King!

James Joyce: Ulysses & Dubliners read like James Joyce! Rejoice! I wasn't going to go anywhere near Finnigan's Wake.

Iain Banks: Prologue to Matter reads like George Orwell while extract from Inversions reads like Charles Dickens.

Margaret Atwood: in The Blind Assassin reads like Margaret Atwood.

Since BookBrowse is such a darling little resource, I decided to go through their award winners list and see what came up:

(all samples based on the first page of excerpt as it appears on BookBrowse website)

Wolf Hall, by Hilary Mantel is the 2009 Man Booker prize winner and reads like James Joyce (the book also won National Book Critics Circle Award)

When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stroud (Newbury Medal winner 2010) reads like Stephen King.

Brooklyn by Colm Toibin, winner of Costa Award (formerly Whitbread) reads like Stephen King.

there were no available excerpts for National Book Awards winners

In the BookBrowse's own Award category:
The Help by Katherine Stockett winner of Diamond Award for Most Popular Book 2009 reads like H.P. Lovecraft.

I then decided to check out The New York Times Best Seller List:

Number 1 - Private by James Patterson and Maxine Paetro - Prologue excerpt reads like James Joyce
Number 2 - Sizzling Sixteen by Janet Evanovich - excerpt reads like Chuck Palahniuk
Number 3 - The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest by Stieg Larsson excerpt reads like Dan Brown
Number 4 - Overton Window by Glen Beck (it was impossible to find a decent excerpt so I had to type in the first few paragraphs of the Chapter 1 instead- this meant a much shorter sample than the others and it also means I've actually read the sample that was offered for analysis and can tell you that I wish I hadn't. That being said,) reads like Mario Puzo
Number 5 - The Help by Kathryn Stockett reads like H.P. Lovecraft

And there you are. It was fun and I've discovered new books and new authors but I've failed to divine the order behind the madness and short of being given access to the IWriteLike database I don't think I ever will. Apparently there are tons of other writers in the I Write Like database that one could conceivably write like but the ones I've tested seem to be fairly consistent. If you, too, have been playing with this toy and have come across 'write like' authors I haven't mentioned here, please drop me a note in the comments. Madeleine did in the previous post and I was very interested to learn that she had very varied results including "Stephen King, James Joyce, William Shakespeare, Lewis Carroll, H.P. Lovecraft, Charles Dickens, Jack London, Margaret Atwood, Oscar Wilde, Mario Puzo, Ian Fleming, and J.R.R. Tolkien." Jack London and Oscar Wilde in particular are of interest (as is Ian Fleming) as I haven't come across these results in any of my searches. I couldn't resist a quick analysis of Jack London's own writing but it came back as himself, ditto Oscar Wilde.

It would have been nice to have a little commentary to go with the analysis, something like: 'You write like HP Lovecraft - here's why'. I tried to look for information on writings structure of famous writers but before I could get far I came across this and it made me laugh so much that I forgot what I was looking for in the first place.

If anyone wants to add or comment or expand on this little rambling research, I would be very interested to hear their thoughts.

Thank you for reading.

We will now return to our scheduled interwebz silence.

PS This post reads like H. P. Lovecraft

I write like
H. P. Lovecraft

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Playing with words

2010-07-14T15:32:00.001+01:00

Yesterday I discovered I Write Like and haven't been able to stop playing with it since. I Write Like is a webform that allows you to enter a sample of your own writing and then compares word choice and writing style of famous writers to your own.

Obviously, I felt it was imperative that I approach this analysis with sternly scientific eye and to that end, I've tested almost all the writing I have ever done, not just few paragraphs here and there but the entire stories. Before I continue, let me just reassure you - this test is purely for fun and cannot in any way be taken seriously, the computers are nuance-free and while they may tell you that your writing appears to sound like James Joyce (whom I repeatedly got to my utter dismay and discomfort), believe me when I tell you that it most definitely doesn't. But I am nothing if not thorough (complete lie) and I had to investigate this new toy as extensively as time and prolonged proximity to LCD screen would allow.

My story Casey was found to be reminiscent of James Joyce (in the beginning), Edgar Alan Poe (in the middle) and Stephen King (at the end), however when I analysed the entire story, it was found to be James Joyce-ian. I do a lot of practice writing. In fact, practice writing is pretty much all I do. So, I went through all the bits and pieces of writing I had saved on my computer, even when there were just few random paragraphs here and there and put them all through the I Write Like algorithm. I was surprised to get some consistent results. There was a definite prevalence of Joyce, followed by King and Lovecraft when it came to stories and anything from Dan Brown to Chuck Palahniuk for other bits of writing. Mostly Joyce though (although once Vonnegut and Orwell but I'm sure that was a fluke) and occasionally Lovecraft and King. Now, I find all three of those writers completely unreadable which leads me to believe that my writing is completely and utterly crap. It also leads me to believe that I need to drag my writing by the scruff of its neck into the 21st century (when Sir Terry Pratchett will show up as my right and proper writing influence). However, as I've already posited that this test is not to be taken seriously under any circumstances, I breathe a sigh of relief and carry on as usual.
Some other comparisons I received were:

JK Rowling for the first story I ever wrote and which is not on this blog because I don't think it's good enough. Erm.
Margaret Atwood for a writing exercise "Cliches" - where I attempt to write really awful children's prose and succeed with aplomb.
Daniel Defoe for my story or novelette in progress (I will finish it one day I promise!). Interestingly, this particular story is written in a very peculiar style and I have tested paragraphs from several different chapters - they always come up as Defoe. So that's weird, huh?

As I've run out of samples, for now, I leave you with my latest comparison - Lewis Carroll - for this paragraph:

On the boat that bobbed quietly on the far sea, alone, untethered, whiskey laden and bereft of life, the dead body of a nun in a quilt craned its head towards the sky in mute salutation to unseen forces and untamed potentials where not even a comma nor a full-stop remained not to mention semi-colon or other forms of punctuation as it was the state between the now and the never have been which we mere mortals can but dream and tell stories about.

I write like
Lewis Carroll

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Go on, try it yourself. You know you want to! (and let me know how you get on)

PS This post is Isaac Asimov. Far out.
PPS For my next batch of tests, I plan to submit writing samples of well known published writers and see what the binary beast comes up with.

Rosary

2010-07-01T00:55:00.001+01:00

Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.
Ephesians 6:10-20

It’s always a peaceful quiet of Sunday afternoons in this place. A fireplace is lit in the sitting room, it’s warm glow softly illuminating the drawn once-upon-a-time yellow curtains, worn out sofas, chairs and wrinkled faces resting in them.

In the far corner there is an alcove with two ancient chairs facing over a low table. Most days see a game of checkers being played here, but not today.
A young man sits stiffly in one of the chairs, leaning forward as if ready to pounce. He hangs on to his companion’s every word.

"She isn’t large but imposes largeness on one’s mind, with her huge breasts, heaving even when still, her wide, heavy set hips, swaying even when seated, her soft hair, her wicked eyes, her…everything. She is young, I can tell these things, she is young, but experienced young. She is wise in the ways of the world. Pulses quicken when she looks at you with those emerald jewels of hers, full chest trust out purposefully, teasing. She knows what she has and how to use it.

I take a deep breath and open my eyes. I know, as soon as I turn back to look at her, she will get her special charms out once again and I will be lost. I must resist. It is not what I want.

I fear for her.

He’s been looking at her too, I can feel the desire dripping from him. It feels as if a heavily pulsating core inside him is throbbing as fast as a hummingbirds’ heart. It cannot bode well, this.

He looks pleasant enough, some would even say handsome. His hair is chestnut curls softly set on boyish face. His mouth is a soft, pink rosebud, delicately pursed, almost girl like. He is tall. Well dressed. His eyes two dark pools of hell.

He is a nurse like her. Unlike her, he is cold and uncaring. There’ll be a linen cupboard to tell a tale or two. Second floor. Near the fire exit.

She is crossing and uncrossing her legs, soft curve of her hips bobbing up and down as she shifts in her seat.
I can feel her every move deep inside me. Her breasts quiver gently as she moves sending waves of resonance through me.
Overwhelmed, I cannot pay attention to him. I resist her delectable pull and focus on him once more.

I can see her talking to him, smiling, her left breast lightly brushing against his arm. I want her to stop and leave him now.
He is strangely calm. His gaze slightly unfocused, body released of tension. Is he asleep? Standing like that?

I shake my head vigorously to clear my thoughts and when I look up they are gone.
Where are they? I cannot see them and panic.

Deep breaths, take it easy. There’s a whisper in my head, I’m not sure if it’s her or me. She’ll come to me, I just heave to breathe..and I see her!

I see her. She seems oddly passive, her usual vibrant posture slouching, as if receding into the ground. There is no emotion. I try and look harder but they are walking away and it’s foggy. I don’t know where they are. It’s grey and dunk and industrial. It can be anywhere.

Him. I see him and he is mildly excited but there is no heart in his acts. His body moves to some rhythm, a pulse quickened by blood, some inner demon making him twist and writhe. I can feel his clammy skin under the fashionable clothes, his stale breath falling on her neck.

Her head is turned left as far as it would go and she is still. Placid and motionless, she is unrecognisable. Is it really her?

I search out her eyes and two shiny emeralds flicker at me feebly.

It’s her. He grunts and mumbles as he presses into her, one hand holding her arm down, other pointing a hunting knife to her throat. I’m terrified he will slip, enraptured and hurt her. She is calm, unafraid. His mind is frighteningly focused, each task allocated sufficient focus. He is alert and unfeeling. Why does he do this? There is no satisfaction for him, just a void inside growing deeper and darker.

She is still because she believes it will be over quicker that way. She may feel soiled and hurt for a day or two but then it will pass and she will forget. She’s been with men who left her unmoved. This is the same for her. It’ll pass.

I know differently. Frantically, I search around with her eyes, scan inside her mind, recent memories, some clue, a sign, colour, scent, anything. My eyes, her eyes, dart around a storehouse, cast-iron beams under the ceiling, grey stone walls, hard cement floor underneath, a whiff of sea coming through from somewhere.

He’s getting up, her eyes are closed, she doesn’t want to face him. He is walking around her, now kneeling above her head, his knee rested on her beautiful, soft hair. If she is to get up now, she will be yanked back and may hurt her head on the hard floor. He doesn’t make her get up, he, he..

It’s dark. I am tossed about in a sea of nausea. Waves of anguish hurl at me until my insides melt. The terror I feel is the same every time. Theirs, mine, I don’t know.
I pause, gasping for breath. It never got easier, only more familiar, like an old enemy who’s weakness you know as well as his strength.

That’s as far as I can go."

Opening her eyes slowly, the old woman releases the rosary from her gnarly fingers and nods slightly at a young man sitting anxiously across from her. She sits back in her chair and closes her eyes once again. This time, for rest.

The young man raises and departs very quietly, collecting a photograph that fell to old women’s feet. He glances at the young Australian nurse smiling expansively at him, ravishingly beautiful and full of life.

“Godspeed Detective O’Connell,” soft voice calls after him. He pauses on the doorstep before closing the door behind him and, eyes cast down, murmurs “Thanks, Ma”.

The old woman sighs heavily, and gathering the rosary from her lap chants in monotone voice: “HAIL, HOLY QUEEN, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope! To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. ”

Obadiah Preston

2010-06-16T23:35:00.000+01:00

When Obadiah Preston drove up to the Cafe Epsum Illum in the tiny town of Waysconin, Carlifonia, it was early autumn and the leaves on the tall maples behind the old crumpled building in which, on the ground floor, Cafe Epsum Illum was nestled were just beginning to blush. He’d looked up, craning his neck behind the wheel of his canary yellow pick up truck and thought to himself how, all things considered, things could have been worse.

It wasn’t cold yet and the road dust still swirled when moved by wind and tires. The few concrete steps leading up to the front door of the cafe were covered by first fallen leaves and months worth of dry boot mud. Obadiah wiped his hands on the front of his shirt before going in. His mother had been a stickler for manners.

Mrs Maple, aged like a fine beer in an oak casket, stood behind the counter at the Epsum Illum cafe, same way she always stood, half crooked from her left leg which was shorter than the right. She didn’t move or speak until Obadiah had seated himself at one of the stools other side of the counter and spent a good ten minutes looking at the bedraggled laminated menu. When he’d finally looked up from it, having decided to go for the house omelette in preference to the steak, the only other option on the menu, she’d snatched a half clean cup without shifting her position and deftly poured him a coffee. Obadiah nodded his thanks and pointed a grubby finger at his choice of food on the one page laminate.

Mrs Maple nodded in return and shuffled off to the kitchen to cook his order. As well as the cook, and the bar maid, she was the cleaner, the accountant and the bouncer, but not the owner. Things worked like that in Epsum Illum. Everything was owned by Mr Marshall Marshall who’d arrived one bitter winter, ten years previously and bought up the entire town. Nobody knew how he’d managed it without a single voice of protest, although things haven’t really changed that much, except for the 70 percent of everyone’s earnings, after tax, that went to Mr Marshall Marshall at the end of each year.

Obadiah sat quietly while he waited for his food, staring pensively through the ancient, chipped mirror behind the counter at two other patrons. In the far corner, sat on one of the old oak benches, Mr Shamus O’Neewl smoked his pipe and read his newspaper, his flat cap precariously perched on the side of his balding head, held in place by forces unknown to modern science. The smoke from the pipe hung thick in the air mixing with disinfectant, frying oil and grime. At the booth next to him, sat Revd Bilkin, wearing his every day clothes of brown slacks and checked shirt, nursing his first whisky of the day. Neither had looked up when Obadiah came in nor had they subsequently shown any awareness of his presence. This worried Obadiah a little.

Just about the time he was ready for a coffee refill, Mrs Maple shuffled back into the view, carrying Obadiah’s plate of omelette in one hand, propping herself along the counter with the other. Obadiah was hungry. It had been a week since he’d last eaten although it could have been longer, he was not too conversant on the days of the week. He shovelled his food down greedily, occasionally stopping to wash it down with coffee. He had exactly enough money in his pockets to pay for the omelette but he was hoping to offer Mrs Maple to work it off for her, maybe he could clean her yard or cut some wood for her, he thought.

Mrs Maple didn’t show surprise when he’d laid out his proposal over the third coffee refill and instead just nodded and motioned for him to follow her to the back where a large pile of newly felled logs waited to be cut into fire wood. Obadiah gave her a grateful smile, showing 2 good teeth right in the middle of his mouth and black holes in the rest of it. Mrs Maple pointed to where a chopping block with the axe stood and without a word hobbled off.

Obadiah took a moment to look around. At the back of the cafe was a small yard, half of it covered by concrete and the other half with compressed dirt and saw dust. The pile of logs was to his left, just by the dirt track that went around the lone building and to his right was a ramshackle log shed where the unused fire wood from last winter lay strewn about. Beyond the yard was the raw of the tall maple trees he saw from out front and beyond the maple trees a forest with a small clearing where he spied several deer grazing in the tall meadow grass. The late afternoon air smelled fresh, woodsy and, Obediah thought, of marzipan. Obadiah rolled up his sleeves and got stuck into chopping wood.

About four years later, it was summer and Obediah was helping on Mr Shamus O’Neewl’s farm tying up rolled up hay bales, working his way down the neat rows left by the combine harvester when a small harvest spider scuttled across his work boot. This made him pause, and for the briefest moment he thought to himself that there was something really important he was forgetting. But the moment flitted past and Obadieh returned to his work. Mr O’Neewl didn’t like slackers.
Later that day when Obadiah had washed up and came down to the Epsum Illum cafe for his dinner which Mrs Maple always let him work off by doing small chores, he almost stepped on a large, black house spider that sat square in the middle of the topmost step. Obadiah recoiled, not from aversion to spiders, for they didn’t bother him, but from a thought that arrived into his mind, crisp and urgent, like someone had put it there on purpose. “Why have you come to this town, Obadiah?” the thought said.

Obadiah wiped his hands on his shirt a few times to compose himself before he opened the door which gave way without the usual clatter. He paused in the doorway, uncertainly and had a look around. Mr Shamus O’Neewl was sitting in his usual spot, smoking his pipe and reading, Obadiah could have sworn, the same newspaper he’d seen him read on the very first day he’d arrived in Waysconin. Revd Bilkin was staring morosely at the bottom of his whiskey glass and Mrs Maple was cleaning a scratched glass with a crumpled dish cloth.

Obadiah blinked and tried to remember if he’d ever seen anyone else in the cafe, apart from who he could see now. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen either of the men move or speak or how he came to work for Mr Shamus O’Neewl on his farm. His memory was not obliging, instead of pictures and sounds and smells and other such things, it offered fog and fatigue. Obadiah shivered with something that wasn’t cold and narrowed his eyes. On the bar stool where he usually sat and took his dinner was another large spider. Obadiah looked quickly to Mrs Maple to check whether she’d spotted it but Mrs Maple didn’t show that she did. He approached the stool carefully, looking back at Mrs Shamus O’Neewl and Revd Bilkin neither of whom looked up from what they were doing or showed any signs they were aware of either Obadiah or anything else in the world. The spider moved slowly, lazily until it had turned around on the seat and was facing Obadiah. It seemed to have several eyes all of which appeared to be appraising Obadiah gravely.

“Why are you here Obadiah?” The thought arrived into Obadiah’s mind sharp and accusing. Obadiah shrugged. “Remember, Obadiah, what were you supposed to do here, when you arrived, three years, nine months and seven days ago?” Obadiah strained his foggy mind back through the mists of time but all he saw was more fog and more mist. He shook his head, it was no use.

The spider on the bar stool scuttled around as if looking for a way to dismount. Obadiah watched it, perplexed. The thoughts that had arrived in his head a moment before had left him uneasy and he felt like a long forgotten well within him had been opened. The light was shining inside him and it made him restless. “Look,” he started to say out loud but before he could finish whatever it was he was going to say, the spider on the seat started to glow, first orange then gradually an angry red. “Think Obadiah!” a voice, Obadiah now recognised was not his own, rang shrilly in his head. “Think!” it commanded.

Obadiah’s head felt heavy. He felt sick and like he needed to get into fresh air. Before he knew what he was doing he’d run out back, towards the forest and the small meadow where the deer grazed. The sun was low hung in the sky and the air was thick with moisture and insects. Obadiah panted heavily looking this way and that about him.

“Why have you arrived in this town Obadiah?” The voice in his head was not letting up. It was getting angrier and shriller until it sounded like a thousand cycads were droning on inside his skull.

“Aaaaargh.” Said Obadiah. And then he said, “I don’t know. Please. Stop.”
But the sounds in his head wouldn’t stop.

“I can’t remember,” Obadiah pleaded with the voices. “Please, you are hurting me,” he begged.

“Think! Remember! Why are you here Obadiah Preston?” The voice in his head was relentless.

Obadiah tried very hard to remember, to make sense of the cotton wool that filed his head. He tried for a good while before giving up, “I don’t know,” Obadiah cried, “I can’t remember, why won’t you believe me?”
“Oh, I believe you, Obadiah Preston,” the voice inside Obadiah’s head said, “why don’t you believe me?”

Obadiah froze, suddenly seeing a very sharp memory inside his head. He saw himself arrive at the Epsum Illum cafe on that first day in autumn almost four years ago. He remembered how he leaned over the wheel of his canary yellow pick up truck to look up at the tall maples behind the decrepit wooden structure and how he thought to himself that things could have been worse.

What things? Obadiah thought.

“Ahhh,” the voice in Obadiah’s head sighed with something that resembled relief. “You are starting to remember!”

“Hmm,” Obadiah said out loud even though the deer were not paying any attention. He thought back through that first day; remembering how he ordered the omelette and how he’d watched Mr Shamus O’Neewl and Revd Bilkin and marvelled that nobody minded that everything in town belonged to Mr Marshall Marshall.

“Hold on!!!!” Obadiah jumped up as if cattle prod had been stuck up his backside.”Hang on just a minute there!” he said to the insect filled air around him. “How did I learn about Mr Marshall Marshall?! Nobody ever spoke to me!” Obadiah paused, uncertain, trying to recall if maybe Mrs Maple had told him about Mr Marshall Marshall but he was pretty sure she had never spoken to him. He tried to think if he’d ever seen anyone else in town, but the mists still filled the space in his mind where memories should have been. He waited for the voice inside his head to offer further direction but all was quiet in there.

Obadiah shook himself angrily and marched back inside. He walked up to the counter and addressed himself to Mrs Maple, “Good evening, Mrs Maple, how are you today?”
Mrs Maple looked at him without comment and disappeared into the kitchen. She came back almost immediately with a plate of omelette and fresh pot of coffee which she proceeded to pour wordlessly into a not very clean cup for Obadiah.

“Fine weather we are having,” Obadiah tried again but Mrs Maple gave no indication that she’d heard him. She wiped the counter with the dirty dishcloth she had been using to clean the glass earlier and then assumed her half crooked stance, half leaning on the counter.

Obadiah sighed and uncertainly turned to Revd Bilkin, “Reverend, let me buy you another drink,” he began but then remembered that he didn’t have any money. He blushed self consciously waiting for the Reverend to respond.

“Thank you, I’ll have another whiskey if you please,” Revd Bilkin pushed his empty glass towards Obadiah, not lifting his head to meet his eyes.
Obadiah gasped. Although he was hoping for an answer, when it came, he was taken aback. “Yes, sure thing,” he mumbled and grabbed the empty glass with shaky hand. Maybe he could come to some sort of arrangement with Mrs Maple, work off the whiskey like he did his food, he hoped, but Mrs Maple just re-filled the glass he put in front of her as if she wasn’t expecting payment.

Obadiah took the glass of whiskey to Revd Bilkin and sat opposite him on the uneven oak bench. He didn’t know what to say, but he knew he wanted to say something. More than that, he wanted Revd Bilkin to say something.
“How’d you wake up?” Revd Bilkin said, still not lifting his head to look at Obadiah.
“I..I don’t know,” Obadiah stuttered, pausing for a moment to think if he remembered waking up. “All I know,” he continued in a raspy voice unused to talking, “there was this spider, earlier in the field, and now, on the seat,” he gestured towards the counter, “and all these voices in my head,” he carried on, “and I felt kinda weird and then I remembered the day I arrived here, but I don’t remember why I’m here.” He sighed loudly and peered anxiously into Revd Belkin’s face.
Revd Bilkin gave a short nod and emptied his glass in one bitter swill. “Yup, spiders,” he said, never meeting Obadiah’s gaze.
Obadiah tried to find out more but Revd Bilkin sat in grave silence as if they’d never spoken.

After a while Obadiah gave up on Revd Bilkin and turned to Mr O’Neewl.
“Don’t you be trying to talk to me, boy,” Mr O’Neewl looked up sharply from his faded newspaper. He shook his paper with vexed air and bit harder on his pipe.
“But, I have to remember why I’m here!” Obadiah said, embarrassed.
Mr O’Neewl ignored him.

Obadiah sat silently for a while, having forgotten his omelette and his coffee. He kept trying to remember more about his arrival in town but his mind did not budge.
When the sun had sunk behind the horizon and the only light came from the bulbous moon hung low on the sky, Obadiah went outside and started pacing up and down. After about 50 laps or thereabouts, he stopped sharply and looked around for his truck. He had remembered earlier about his canary yellow pick up and he was trying to see where it was, but it wasn’t parked in front of the cafe. Obadiah tried to remember where he usually slept but couldn’t remember that either, so he just started off down the road. There were shops either side of the wide road, closed and run down looking and Obadiah crossed the road several times to peer into the dirty windows but found nothing useful behind them. Few hundred yards further down the road, he came across a small canal winding alongside the road. He could hardly see about him, in spite of the bright moonlight but he stumbled along stubbornly, determined to find out more about the town. He figured he might come across someone else, someone who’d help him jog his memory. The night air was fragrant and warm and Obadiah found himself humming a tune he couldn’t quite remember the words to.

“What a pickle,” he said out loud.
“Indeed,” came a muffled response from somewhere to his left. Obadiah strained to see where the voice had come from but the night was very dark.
“Excuse me, who is there?” Obadiah said into the night.
There was a short silence followed by a deep, rich timbre; Obadiah fancied it sounded almost like a purr. “Mr Marshall Marshall, at your service,” the voice said.
“Oh!” Obadiah was stunned. He was almost certain he’d never come across Mr Marshall Marshall before. “I’m..glad to make your acquaintance, Sir,” he said.
“Quite so,” Mr Marshall Marshall replied in his velvety tone, “not many are.”
Obadiah stood silent for a moment, unsure what to say next. He shifted from one foot to another several times.
“Mr Marshall,” he began eventually, pausing to shift his weight another couple of times. “I been meaning to ask you something, if that is all right?” he carried on, uncertainly.
“No you did not.” Mr Marshall interrupted him. “You have not been meaning anything. Not until today, at any rate.” There was a soft huff and a quiet rustle, as if a fat feather duster was brushing over the undergrowth. “You want to know the secret of this town; why nobody speaks, why I own everything and why you couldn’t remember who you were or why you came here until today when those pesky sons of Hades prompted you to remember.”

Obadiah grew suddenly very cold. “Well, er, yes, Sir, that is exactly what I have been wondering.” The light inside him grew agitated and brighter and he felt faint. “Will you tell me?”
Mr Marshall Marshall chuckled softly. “There is no need to tell you about it Obadiah Preston,” he rasped, “no need at all.”
“But, I need to know, why am I here?” Obadiah strained to see into the darkness but all he could make out were thick ferns next to the canal. “Can’t you show yourself, I wish to know who I’m speaking to,” Obadiah added boldly. He felt peculiar but not afraid.
“Of course, how rude of me,” Mr Marshall Marshall said. “Are you ready?”

Obadiah asked himself if he was ready and why should he be ready and what kind of question was that to ask. And then he suddenly recalled his Mother and her whip on his back when he hadn’t washed his hands before coming to the dinner table and how he’d clambered into his truck and drove off with white rage in front of his eyes.

“I see you are ready,” Mr Marshall murmured somewhere very near Obadiah’s ear.
In the darkness above them a barn owl screeched and the air started to buzz. Obadiah’s legs gave away and he crumpled on the ground, feeling suddenly very weak. Inside his mind the fireworks of light exploded and as one massive inky paw covered his head and four, sharp, foot-long fangs sunk into his throat, Obadiah remembered everything.

Casey (story)

2010-04-11T14:40:00.024+01:00

Warning - contains scenes of adult nature

Ep1.

Casey. You wouldn't look at her twice until you really looked at her. After that, you'd be looking at her every chance you got.

Casey has eyes that sparkle like champagne on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Her eyes are small and round and brown and would be entirely forgettable if it weren't for their constant twinkle. They are mesmerizing. John thinks so.

After you notice Casey's eyes, you tend to notice the curvy shape of her body; her large, soft, pale breasts - always a sliver away from showing too much and her wide hips and plump thighs - she is all undulating softness. Except her lips. Her lips are thin and pale from pressing too tightly against one another. When she parts them in a smile, a rare thing, they disappear completely, obscured by two rows of tiny teeth fighting for show in her small, tight mouth.

Sometimes, John thinks Casey is a doll come to life.

John first met Casey one shadowy afternoon when he didn't get to the lunch van in time and was in need of someone to go and get him a sandwich. He would have asked his secretary, but she had been taken ill with one of those stomach bugs that was doing the rounds that autumn, so he went to his boss's secretary instead. He was shocked to see Casey behind Miranda's desk. Miranda, his boss's usual secretary, had retired last week. John didn't know. He never paid attention to people such as secretaries - they were more like animated machines to him - not really people - not really worth his time or attention.

He was just about to throw a casual demand in passing, but Casey had twinkled her eyes at John and he was lost. She had to ask him three times what it was he wanted before he remembered how to speak. And when he did, the jumble that came out of him weren't words, but some guttural rumble that may or may not have contained a word 'sandwich'. Casey didn't smile. She considered him gravely. John felt small and light and full of holes through which light motes danced. He didn't notice her breasts or her soft shapely thighs that time. He didn't notice anything except the twinkle of her eyes. It followed him all the way back to his desk and afterwards to his home and to bed. He woke up thinking about those eyes. He jumped out of bed, eager to get the day started, to get back to work, seek out those twinkly eyes again. His alarm clock said it was Saturday. His wife too - she had turned sleepily on her side of the bed and mumbled, 'what are you doing,' before sleep pulled her back under.

John set on the side of the bed, his bare feet resting mournfully on the carpet. He wiggled his toes for something to do.

'Saturday.' He sighed.

Ep 2.

John spent that weekend in a daze, sleep walking through all the activities his wife had planned for them and through all the jovial, predictable dinner party conversations and through all his chores and through all the talk from his wife about Mrs Sandman, their new neigbour and through everything else. He felt like a deep sea diver, crawling along the sandy sea bed, listening out for far away sounds while the immensity of the ocean pressed on his thin lanky body.

He cheered up just before going to bed on Sunday evening. It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet but he was in his pajamas, sliding under the fresh sheets. He loved that his wife changed the sheets every Sunday. Starting the week in fresh linen felt like a good massage. Suddenly, his mind filled with the image of Casey’s small, pale hands digging into his back and his groin flushed with heat.

“You are already in bed?” Nicola regarded him suspiciously. “Are you sick?”

“No, just felt like an early night, lots to do tomorrow.” John’s mind was still half filled with Casey and her hands wandering over his body in a way he never experienced before. He would have been surprised at his imagination had he stopped to think about it. “Would you like to join me?” he flashed a half hearted smile at his wife, expecting a short rebuke. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love or, if it came to it, how it felt to make love to her.

Nicola paused, startled. “Give me a minute,” she said, heading for the bathroom. At the door of the en-suite she paused, “what’s brought this on?”

“Um,” John faltered, unsure what the safe answer was. He hadn’t planned on having sex with his wife but now that the possibility presented itself, he’d felt keen to exploit it. “It’s been a nice, relaxing weekend, I guess,” he said eventually, and held his breath, waiting for her to change her mind.
She didn’t. Instead, she threw him a coquettish smile he’d never seen on her before and closed the bathroom door behind her.

Less than ten minutes later they were both naked, she on top of him, grinding her hips against his. He didn’t have time to think about this sudden passion coming at him or why she didn’t even waste time on foreplay. His mind was full of Casey and he clutched at his wife’s small breasts which, in his imagination, filled up to three times their size and he kneaded them enthusiastically, occasionally letting his hands fall down to her buttocks, squeezing her tight, as if trying to seal their connection, help set the runny glue of their lovemaking. He kept his eyes shut and in his mind’s eye saw Casey’s soft, curvaceous body on top of him, saw her big, soft breast falling heavily on his chest, saw her crush him with her heavy, wide hips. He wanted to hold on to her, get his long, thin arms all the way around her curves; she’d fill his arms, he was sure, not be lost in them like Nicola, who’d he’d grown afraid of touching lately, she seemed too fragile. Not now, she wasn’t fragile at all now, she was a mad beast on top of him, rising and falling, wrapping tightly around his erection, pulsating, live, like fire.
He felt electric currents run through his body, draining all life towards his groin. He grew bigger inside his wife. Cold sweat run alongside his back, but he didn’t have time or presence of mind to notice it. Instead, he let his body slump into the mattress, flinging his arms wide and his head back, and let the two women, merged into one, use him, suck the life out of him and into their warm, wet insides.

In the morning, he couldn’t remember if they’d cuddled afterwards or if he’d fallen asleep. He was naked when he awoke and his wife’s juices were still on him. He washed himself carefully in the shower, wondering why he felt so delicate.

Nicola had left for work extra early, he couldn’t ask her how she felt, or what she thought or if she had enjoyed herself. It confused him that he wasn’t sure if he’d enjoyed himself although he supposed he must have done. He tried to recall the warm glow he had felt imagining Casey on top of him, but felt nothing, just a curious emptiness, as if someone had hollowed out all his limbs and insides and placed a helium gas where once were bones and muscle.

He dressed himself into a darker suit than he would have normally picked for this time of year and set off for work.

Ep 3.

It was a busy day for John. He was either attending meetings or preparing for meetings he had to attend. All too soon, it was the end of the day. Before he left for the day, he took a detour via his boss’s office. The desk where Casey sat was empty. His heart sunk.
“How’s it going, John?” Jeremy Parker, John’s boss, took a small pile of papers off his desk and made his way around to John.
“Busy, mad busy Jeremy.”
“Mondays, eh? While you are here, the quarterly projections were in, but the data doesn’t stack up, I need you to look over this tonight,” he handed John the papers.
“Right.” John groaned inwardly but took the papers without comment. “You have a new secretary?”
“Oh yes, Casey, have you met her?” Jeremy’s sallow face lit up. “Miranda’s retired, Casey is filling in until we get someone permanent.”
John nodded, “met her last week, when Stella was on leave.” John hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Is she part-time?” he said, indicating Casey’s empty desk.
“No, no, full time, but she had an appointment, for something or other. I’m sure she told me, but you know how it is.”
They both laughed.
“All right then, I’ll see what I can do with this tonight,” John waved the stack of papers in his hand at Jeremy and added, “see you tomorrow,” before turning and heading out.
“Good man,” Jeremy said waving back.

On the way home John wondered what Nicola would say, if anything, about last night. He felt oddly uneasy about the whole thing, although he was sure he didn’t say anything incriminating, anything that would give away that he was thinking of someone else while they were making love. Still, women could sense these things, it paid to thread carefully.
He needn’t have worried. Nicola behaved as nothing unusual happened between them. She gave him a perfunctory peck on the cheek and didn’t complain when he said he had to work that evening. She was going to see their new neighbour for a chat, his dinner was on the stove, ready to eat.
John dimly recalled Nicola going on about this new neighbour over the weekend, but couldn’t recall the specifics, he hadn’t been paying attention. It wasn’t like Nicola to want to mix with the neighbours and he was curious. He made a mental note to ask Nicola about this when she got back before getting stuck into the paperwork Jeremy gave him. It was going to be a long, and unpleasant evening.

That evening Nicola didn’t come back. John had fallen asleep with his nose in the papers and woke up around 2am with a stiff neck and massive, painful erection. Upstairs, the bed was untouched and his wife was nowhere to be found. He called her mobile but there was no answer. He wondered about calling the police but changed his mind, not wishing to seem hysterical. Nicola probably got drunk at the neighbour’s and fell asleep.

In the morning, she was still not there. He called the police. They told him there was nothing they could do until she was missing for at least 48 hours. He thought about calling her parents but didn’t want to worry them. Instead, he decided to try and find out which neighbour Nicola had gone to see - it will be embarrassing knocking on all the doors but he had no choice.

Four doors down, he noticed a For Sale sign in the front garden. “This must be it,” he muttered out loud, “Nicola did say it was a new neighbour.” He walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. There was no sound. Bell was broken. He knocked, hard.
He heard the lock go from inside and the door creaked as it opened a few inches.
“Excuse me,” John squinted into the dark hallway, “this may sound daft, but my wife said she was going to see a neighbour last night and never came back. I am worried.”
The door opened wider and Casey Sandman filled up the doorway, her small, brown eyes sparkling like fireworks. “Of course!” she smiled, easily. “She was here, but left about ten, come in, have a cup of tea.”
John stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and dumbstruck.

“You are in shock Mr Jones,” Casey whispered, taking him by the hand, “come in.”
Casey led John into the kitchen and made him sit down on one of the bar stools. He continued to stare at her, wordlessly, his body feeling like soap bubbles, about to be burst.
He’d forgotten about Nicola. He’d forgotten he had a wife. He’d forgotten his name and his age and who he was and why he was.

Casey poured the hot water from the kettle onto loose leaves in the tea pot and gave the pot a good swirl before pouring the concoction into a mug. “Here,” she said, pushing the mug into John’s limp hands, “this will make you feel better.”
She sat next to him, holding his free hand gently with her small, child-like fingers. “Drink,” she commanded. Her eyes blazed and he found himself lifting the mug towards his mouth. “Drink up,” she insisted.
He drank up.

Casey pulled him off the chair and led him down the corridor to her bedroom. In the centre of the room was a large, velvet clad bed where Nicola lay motionless, her skin waxen, her lips pale. John sat next to her and caressed her hair absentmindedly. “There, there,” he murmured, not really knowing why.

Ep 4.

“Nicola.” His wife’s name tasted of candles and ash. “Nicola, wake up,” he murmured without conviction.

“Now then, John,” Casey sat on the low armchair in the corner and crossed her chubby legs, “tell me, do you love your wife?”
John moved his head slowly, as if underwater, seeing Casey in triplicate, although he could hear her quite clearly.
“Of course.”
“And yet,” Casey smiled coquettishly, “I could have sworn you were fantasising about me last night, when you were making love to your wife. Whom you love, as you say.” She smiled again, a tiny, self satisfied smile and relaxed further into the chair, letting one of her kitten heel shoes drop onto the thick yellow carpet. She lifted her leg up and pointed the toes of her naked foot at his face, “is that not so, John?”
“No.”
Casey flinched. “What do you mean, No?”
“No.” John replied dully, still stroking his insensible wife’s arm. “No. No. No.”

“Hm,” Casey said, “I may have given you rather too much tea.” She sprung up from the chair in one fluid movement.
John would have wondered, had he been thinking clearly, how someone of Casey’s soft, generously proportioned flash could move with such speed and elegance. John wasn’t thinking clearly. John was not thinking. At all.
“No.” John said.
Casey tutted disapprovingly. “Suit yourself,” she whispered closing the bedroom door behind her.
John might have listened for a sound of the lock turning, had he been able to listen. There was no sound.
The room was quiet except for a soft rustle of fabric as John’s hand continued to stroke Nicola’s arm.

Minutes passed. Then the hours. It got dark, then light again. After it got dark again, John collapsed next to Nicola. Over time, his skin grew waxy and cold.

The next morning, newspapers were full of articles about an old couple found dead in the boarded up house in a quiet, well to do cul-de-sac. Nobody knew who they were or where they’d come from, and how they’d got in; the house had stood empty for decades. What they did know was that the old pair appeared to be in their nineties when they most likely died of old age. The police efforts to establish the identity of the couple came to nothing. After a while, they had to give up.

It was just one of those things.

Cambridge Walk #2

2010-03-25T11:24:00.005Z

[Warning: The last paragraph contains language that some people may find offensive. On the bright side: there is no flash photography and no animals or plants were harmed in making of this blog.]

Last week I had to run some errands in town and it was such a lovely, sunny day that I couldn't help myself and got my phone camera out. This is the first time I have used my new phone camera to take and share photos. The quality may not be as good as my usual camera, but I think the photos still came out pretty good. Hopefully you will agree.

I start this photo walk by the Cambridge Market Square.

Those bananas look very delicious, don't they?

The market is small but varied and has stalls with food, clothes, handbags, second hand crockery and nick knacks. There is a special stall once a week where you can take your bike to be fixed and another one where you can take your clothes for mending, but I forget which days, sorry.

If you are interested in being a market stall seller, it costs up to £32 per week and you will need to have a licence first. More info can be found on the Cambridge City Council website.

Would you believe it, there is even a webcam of Cambridge Market. Not much happening there at night, but during the day it can get pretty busy, especially around lunch time.

Further up, King's Parade is a main thoroughfare that goes past various Colleges. The streets around this part are very narrow and full of Architecture.

The photo on the left is of Michaelhouse Church that dates back to 14th century and the photo on the left is of Trinity Lane.
There is a bigger view of the back of the Church in the Market Square photo above.

I was wondering around snapping things of interest at random,
when a lady who was passing by also, started chatting to me as she walked beside me.

She had never noticed this door I was photographing, even though she'd lived in Cambridge for over 20 years.

We both agreed it was far too easy not to notice interesting things around us when we are so busy with work and the routine of day to day living.

It is a lovely door, isn't it.

What wonder it was to experience this beautiful and sunny morning. After the harsh and cold winter we've had this year, it was one of the first really warm days that truly felt like spring. I felt so fortunate to be able to mill around, taking the time to look about me and admire the beauty of the world.

And it seemed others felt elated too because I was soon being addressed by another lady, this time when I nipped into the grounds of Gonville and Caius (pronounced Keys) College.

The second lady remarked on what fine weather we were having and how lucky I was to have the time to be walking about enjoying myself.

The old colleges were built back in the day when food was grown in local gardens, chemical pest control and growth additives didn't exist, and consequently, people were quite short - this tiny door to the Tutor offices looks much as it was back in the day. No doubt, today's tutors have to duck when going in and out.
Like the Church on the other side of street, this college dates back to 14th century. G&C College website has a bit more information about it's past, if you are interested.

Trying to take photos in the college grounds was not without difficulties. My new phone is one of those slim and sleek things that took a chance to fly out of my hands whenever it could. The wretched thing actually crashed onto flagstones at one point - the battery popped out and the pieces scattered. Several heart-in-mouth moments later, I had re-assembled the phone and took the photo above.
Supernatural explanation: The Tutors of Yester Year didn't want me to photograph their inner sanctum and were consequently poltergeist-ing me.

After all that effort, I needed to chill out and made for my usual favourite place: Cornish Pasty Company. Walking past the back of the Church, I noticed pigeons feasting on invisible (to me)food so I decided to take a photo. Unfortunately, pigeons are easily spooked:

Back at the Cornish Pasty place, I had an amusing conversation with the girl serving - she couldn't find the price for what I was having (small/kid sized pasty) and sent me upstairs with my food and coffee while she found the Assistant Manager to check the price. She had only just started and was still learning about the job. I was sympathetic, having worked a really busy cafe/restaurant while I was studying and I told her this. She was very excited at the news I was a student and asked me what I was studying. When I explained, patiently, that I had been a student very long time ago, she earned mega brownie points by exclaiming: "But that's impossible, you look so young!"

Upstairs, I found the Assistant Manager deep in conversation with, what I assume was, Regional Manager, who was quite happy to conduct business meeting within the earshot of customers. (oh ok, two customers). The Regional Manager wore a suit, balding head and contrite air. I disliked him immensely. The Assistant Manager wore shop uniform of mucky t-shirt and messy hair and seemed very put upon.

I decided to help out the Assistant Manager by asking him the calorie content of my pasty which meant he had to get up and find the book with the information. This gave him at least 30 seconds break from talking to the annoying Regional Manager.

While he was gone, I took the opportunity to talk down to the Regional Manager. He went a bit green when his usual spin didn't work on me. That made me very happy.
I don't usually take pleasure in causing other people distress, but sometimes you've got to put cunts in their place.

Pause to pontificate

2010-03-23T23:00:00.000Z

The other day I spent some time wondering through the City of Cambridge with my phone camera and I keep meaning to put together another Walk Through Cambridge post, but just haven't had the time. It was sunny and mellow and Colleges looked very ancient. That, up there, is me, looking very .... red?

It was my birthday yesterday (no, I didn't do anything exciting), and I had a lot of lovely messages on Facebook, Twitter, text and email. Only one card and that was handed to me on Sunday in spite of my explicit instructions to get me nothing. Cards are a lovely thought but I'd rather you spared your money and someone else's trees and sent me an e-card or actually, like I got this year, just a short message to say Happy Birthday. That lets me know that you are thinking of me and, quite frankly, I don't need anything else. To know you were thinking of me and took the trouble to make me aware of it is more than enough. Most years people forget my birthday and that's fine. I don't celebrate it. Most years, I try very hard to forget about it. Perhaps it's the vanity or fear of getting old, but I really wish we didn't have to acknowledge that we are getting older every year. What say you? Shall we ditch this outdated tradition?

Lots of people like fuss, though, and having their birthday celebrated gives them an opportunity to grab the limelight with impunity. That would be OK if only they'd cease with the attention grabbing the rest of the year.

I find the whole thing painful. I blame my mother. She has this really annoying habit of having to over-react with glee to certain positive stimuli. I always understood that to be her way of letting you know what she particularly approves of and would like to see more of. Her sister, my aunt, is like that too, but only when it comes to me - she doesn't have any children of her own and I am 'her' baby as much as my mothers. It took Years to get myself out of habit of having to put on an enormous effluence of ebullience when I received any gifts or someone did me a favour. It's all just too taxing - you never know exactly what the other person expects from you and if you are going to offend them by saying too little or too much or the wrong thing.

Why do we burden our civilised lives with such nonsense? Have we really nothing better to do with our cognition?

Ponder that while I get some sleep.

The cycle home

2010-03-14T01:16:00.002Z

“Beeep!”

The piercing sound of the car horn was followed by a startled “oh shit!” that came from a bundled up cyclist in a mismatched combination of indigo blue hat and chocolate brown coat. To make matters worse, the bicycle was bright green.

The bicycle swerved to the right, then to the left. It paused for a second, as if deciding which way it wanted to go, before it crashed onto the pavement like a bull at the hand of a matador.

I very nearly crashed with it. Stupid cars. Stupid drivers. Stupid, stupid, horrible, I hate them.

Picture me hunched over the slain bicycle. Straining to lift the heavy beast by its horns. Relief. Maybe. On the road once again.

It occurred to me, for the briefest moment, that perhaps I should not be daydreaming while cycling from work in the rush hour. Not while navigating the roundabout, at least.

The night air is frigid and the road is frozen. Little crystals of ice glisten in the yellow artificial light. Cars rush past me as if I don’t exist. I am constantly in danger of being flattened, knocked over, annihilated. Cars are mean. Or is that the drivers? The cars are big and fast. It’s exhausting trying to keep pace with them. I can never do it but I can’t stop myself from trying. They don’t accelerate very well so I can be in the lead sometimes, leaving the traffic lights. Some drivers are really mean and drive very close to me after that, as if to make up for losing at the lights.

I pay attention to the road very closely from now on, the little ball of fear in my gut expanding to barrel size. It’s bigger than me now. It will get hit by the next passing truck.

“Whoooosh” the car zooms past way too close for comfort.

“Aaaaa”, the tiny sound of panic escapes my lips. It’s too cold for a bigger sound.

Damn. Didn’t I tell myself not to daydream. It’s just so easy. Too easy. It takes me over before I even know what’s going on. One minute I am thinking clearly about paying attention to where I’m going, the next minute I am almost run over again and I realize I was not paying attention to where I was going. At all.

This whole thing scares me. Lots.

I would have thought I’d be used to it by now. It has been several months now, and I’ve been cycling the same route home every day. I’ve stopped complaining about it at the office. At first, they were sympathetic and made all those friendly noises and said it will get better soon. But it didn’t. And when it was still not any better 2 months later, instead of the friendly noises all I got in response to my wails of protest were scrunched up noses and quick changes of subject.

Some friends.

“Oh shit”

Phew. This one was close. But it’s ok, coz I spotted him in time. I am quite amazed how I managed to manoeuvre so quickly with my frozen fingers. Actually, I don’t think I can feel my left hand at all. Even though I am wearing gloves, my fingers are frozen solid. How can it be so cold? I’ll have to pull the glove off with my teeth and then try and warm the hand in my mouth. Otherwise, it might just fall off. I don’t want to live with a fallen off hand. It would be so unsightly.

Careful now. Bite on the glove, let the hand slip out of it. Unless it’s stuck to the glove? Oh my. That’s a scary thought. I hope it isn’t stuck. The skin could fall off, or chunks of flash even. I’ve seen that on TV when they showed that guy who was lost and almost froze to death. Yikes.

There is nobody cycling behind me or in front of me. There are no traffic lights just yet. I’m on the comfortable stretch, wide cycle path.

Let’s try this, slowly now. Hmm. The taste of leather is not that unpleasant.

Up the camber of the bridge, put all my effort into pedalling. This glove needs to come off, I cannot feel my hand.

I probably shouldn’t chew. It might ruin the gloves and I am not too sure I could wear the other pair. They look too small.

Downhill now, I’ll have to break, so putting the hand in the mouth will have to wait. It’s strange, I think my hand feels less cold with the glove off. How odd.

Oh good. I can see the red light is on at the next junction. Plenty of time to fiddle with my appendage.

Slowing down. Squeezing the break handle with the frozen hand is so much fun. Not.

OK, I’ve stopped. Good. Balancing act now. Right leg out, lean against the curb. Right hand holding the handlebar. Left fist in my mouth. Ohhh. It’s so warm. Nice. I can’t fit it all in, my hands are so large, but it’s ok, the fingers are getting warmer. I hope no one is looking at me, not worth thinking about what I must look like with a fist in my mouth.

Oh, Lights are changing. I’ll put the glove back on later.

Fast now. As fast as I can. This junction is large and it takes forever to cross it. No sense in letting some moron with poor concentration knock me over. Almost there.

OK. The easy part of this journey is now officially over. Can’t think now, must concentrate.

“Puff, pant, wheeze, gasp, puff, pant, wheeze, gasp, puff, pant….”

Cambridge Walk

2010-02-20T10:16:00.026Z

[don't forget to click on the photos for the larger versions]

I moved to Cambridge, 5-6 years ago before I knew it well and, at the time, I was in love with the place.
It was so ... tiny.

When you are used to commuting to work on public transport and consider 35-40min bus journey a really short distance, then a City centre which you can traverse on foot in under 20 minutes is very small indeed.

I loved the tiny streets, the tiny houses, the cobbles, the ancient college buildings (with tiny doors and windows), the trees. It is small and quaint and cute and full of history and quirks.

It was lovely to be reminded of it's charm the other day on a walk back from the Cornish Pasty Shop on Market Hill, right at the edge of Market Square. If you get a chance, stop there, it's really comfy inside.

You can also find out more about the Cornish Pasty Shop on the Local Secrets website which gives it a proper review.

The view is nice too, although I didn't sit right at the end which overlooks the Market but at the side that looks over Rose Crescent and the French Connection.

Window Browsing From High Up.

This is what the Pasty Shop looks like from the front.

(updated 24 March 2010 with own photo of the shop front)

Because it's so old (the University celebrated 800 years in 2009 - see timeline if you are interested about details*), Cambridge is rife with short-cut lanes, alleyways, cycle and pedestrian passages that weave through the city's innards and take you down streets you wouldn't normally visit.

This is how I ended up walking down Victoria Street which turned out to be a street of many interesting balconies and varied architecture:

I love seeing vibrant colours and pretty designs in different styles all together like this. It works.

Unfortunately, I cannot tell you anything about the history of Victoria Street. I've had a brief look online, but couldn't find anything about the street itself. However, I've found some other stuff, if you are interested.

One of the places the other stuff link mentions is the Tram Depot. Now a pub, it used to be, as the name suggests, a dispatch for trams, except that these were horse drawn ones, hence a stabley look.

I've been there once, I think, with some work people for a drink. It was ok inside but full of rowdy students and suits. The Anglia Ruskin university is just across the road and the central location of the pub means all the local businesses disgorge their employees into the vicinity come 6 o'clock. Patronize at your own risk.

Further along, or perhaps, just before..

See - I wasn't lying about the back passages.

There is a row of garages further down, on the left hand side of the lane, which is so narrow, it begs the question of how a car can manage to squeeze through without using that squishy bus trick from Harry Potter films. I considered lurking until a vehicle came up, just to find out how they do this, but it was cold and I was tired.

Maybe next time.

Cambridge folk are nothing if not polite.

They would only ever insult you behind your back:

And this is Parker's Piece

Cambridge's green where children and adults play football, rugby or cricket, couples make out and cyclists whizz down the crisscross paths.

In summer and autumn there are circus tents, music day festivals with market stalls full of food, herbs, toys, dyes, pills, socks, hoops and snake's oil vats.

During winter, there is usually an ice ring.
The ice ring is tiny, as you'd expect, but it can still tire you out.
There is a website and everything.

That spire you see at the far end is the Catholic Church. In the height of summer, weddings spill out from it into one of the busiest junctions in town. It can be like attending a fashion show in your car.

All paths lead somewhere. If you are lucky, the path you are walking will not lead you to a dead end.

Student videos on life in Cambridge can be found here or learn about one of the more colorful Cambridge Alumni, Lord Byron and his 19th century celebrity life here. (there are only so many Nobel Laureates one can hear about before collapsing into a boredom coma.)

Newsflash

2010-02-19T12:38:00.001Z

Scribbles was just reviewed by the most excellent iwillfuckingtearyouapart! Read the review here.

I am still reeling from all the love and have discovered whole new levels of smug. It's amazing how many new people came to read this blog, (Thank you, Ginny, you own my soul now) and I hope some, if not most, will want to come back for more. After all, the reason I post this stuff is to have people read and enjoy it.

It wasn't all good news, obviously. The look of this blog is letting it down massively and I have known that all along. I must find the time and the brain power to give it a spruce-up it deserves.

Update: I am already messing around with designs, so please excuse me while I try and give the place some more oomph - even if I cannot figure out how to add the About page or decent navigation.

The blog is not easy to 'get into'. It confuses people, they don't know what to make of it, what to expect, is it worth their time.

Please comment! Tell me what you think about the writing (because I work to improve it all the time), the topics, what you think I should do with the design and anything else you feel like talking about. Share your experiences. Ramble. Criticize. Give hugs. Suggest things. Laugh.

Tell me which posts were your favourite. You don't have to tell me why.

Tell me what I should change. And tell me why.

Thank You.

I've crept into your dreams, unbidden, and hugged you until the teddy bear of your childhood came out and said "Enough already, I can't breathe!"

Memory Lane - Part 2 (the babies)

2010-01-12T20:00:00.000Z

I've been trying so hard to remember who I was as a child but the best I got so far is a weird little dreamer girl.

My friends and family usually respond with "You are Not weird and anyway why do you care what people say!" to any passing comment on my part about the weirdness that is I.
It's sweet and supportive and an amazing testament to people's ability to self-deceive.

I am weird. I think I was born that way.

When you are not quite four years old and everyone in your nursery thinks you are weird and avoids you (having gone through the initial period of being impressed with your super powers and came out on the other side) and your only friend is a boy that looks like an albino who the children avoid possibly even more than you, you kinda get the message.

Something peculiar happens to us in that short period when we transition from babies to small children.

As an only child, I didn't have much contact with other children until I started nursery (aged 3.5). The nursery was packed and they put me in with the babies for first couple of weeks, until my parents argued and pressured enough to have me transferred into my own age group. I don't remember those two weeks. Maybe it was two days? Who knows. Everyone has forgotten this by now.
The reason I remember it, however vaguely, is because of something that happened about a year later.

A few of the nursery ladies had a peculiar punishment for those children who were particularly badly behaved on a given day - they were sent 'upstairs' to sit with the babies for anything up to half a day. When you are 4 years old with an attention span of an ADHD-afflicted squirrel, spending any time with children who couldn't talk or play and had no toys in their room was the worst punishment anyone could imagine. Worse than being made to stand in the corner with your back to the room. Worse than being told off in front of everyone. Worse, even, than being smacked.

I was a model child. In the year since I started nursery I was never even scolded. I was quiet and withdrawn and spent a lot of time staring blankly out of windows. I had a wonderful teacher for that first year (of her, some other time) but my best friend Sandra had got her dad to have her transferred to an older group and I made my parents transfer me too so we could be together.
The new group had a room downstairs and 3 or 4 teachers that rotated and who I cannot remember now, except that there was one that we were all afraid of. Even so, I knew how to be well behaved and I never got punished for being naughty, (mostly because I simply wasn't naughty).

Not that day. That day, I had been naughty enough to deserve being sent up to sit with the babies.
I cannot quite remember what it was that I had done. It may have been not sleeping during the afternoon nap and keeping other children awake too. I may have sneaked out of the room (Not Allowed Under Any Circumstances during nap time). The teachers had never disciplined me or spoke to me harshly before; "That's it, upstairs now and stay until I send for you!"

Shocked gasps of my fellow classmates . Their scared eyes. Some started pleading on my behalf.

I had felt somewhat upset at being punished, but did not dread the punishment itself. This, in itself was weird. I kept saying, "it will be fine," but my friends insisted on trying to comfort me as if I was being particularly brave. The repeat offenders were shaking their little heads sadly, as if doubtful that I would escape alive from this calamity.

Secretly, I had been elated. In the year that I have been attending the nursery I have not seen the babies, not since those initial two weeks or two days or whatever it was. We weren't allowed near them unless sent specifically for punishment and I was a good girl, I obeyed the rules.
But I had longed for them. I remember that sense of longing even now, I can feel it in my chest as if I'm there now, aged four or thereabouts, climbing the many, many stairs, up to the babies room.

I recall thinking 'will it be the way I remember them? Is it going to be the same? What if it's not and I imagined it all? ' on my way up. But mostly, I couldn't wait to get there and find out.

Arriving upstairs somewhat winded (chubbiness and second hand smoke will do that to you) I reported to the nurse on duty. There were two or three rooms to choose from. The nurse gave me a sympathetic look and said she was surprised to see me up there, (my reputation as a model child traveled far and wide, you see), then put me in with the oldest group.

It was warm and there were about 7 or 8 evenly spaced cots with babies ranging from 6 to 14 months in them. I felt shy. The nurse left me and closed the door. Sunlight filtered through the slats on the windows and cast shiny, yellow stripes over everything.

My back to the wall, still not making eye contact, I slid down to the floor next to the door. There wasn't much room to sit or play anywhere else. There were no toys. Just babies.

I could feel them now, their interest and kindness and their individual thoughts gently probing. "It's Ok, you'll be fine," one of them said straight into my head. "We are not that bad," added another reproachfully. So, I relaxed and let them into my head and they, in turn, let me into theirs. It was just like I remembered from my first two weeks or two days or whatever it was. It was bliss.

I won't tell you what we 'talked' about, some secrets are mine to keep forever, but I did find out a lot of useful info about some of the children that were making my life difficult and that could be used for blackmail at the opportune moment.

When someone was finally sent upstairs to fetch me I felt sad. I didn't want to leave. I tried to persuade the teachers to let me sit with the babies every day, but they thought I was trying to use reverse psychology and never sent me upstairs again.

Memory Lane

2010-01-10T21:33:00.000Z

It's funny what memories your brain retains, among the millions, trillions of memories one accumulates over their lifetime.

Recently, I have been doing a bit of soul searching, life changing events will do that to you, and trying to understand what sort of person I was before my parents and the world around me molded me into what I am today.

I've never been happy with my life. Not that I can remember. For years I was plagued by a vague feeling that some terrible mistake had been made and that I was born into the life that was not meant for me. Oh, I'm sure a lot of people feel this way too, but as we all know, our own troubles are by definition, more terrible than other people's troubles. It's just the way it is. Survival instinct or some such thing.

Now, at this juncture, this particular crossroads of life, I feel there is an opportunity to make a life for myself that I was truly meant to have. The life that would make me feel happy and fulfilled, give me a sense of belonging rightfully in the world and the world rightfully belonging to me. Except I cannot figure out what that is.

No idea.

It's been stressing me out for years now that I have lost the ability to know what makes me happy, what gets me going, what rocks my boat, what will cheer me up on a gloomy day and what will make my soul feel content. Not a clue.

How can this be?

For god sakes, everyone knows what will cheer them up, at least. Nope, not me. And I forget. If I do something and it makes me feel good, instead of remembering it so I can do it again, I forget. Then I sit, forlorn and miserable, unable to remember or figure out what most people take for granted - a quick fix that will cheer me up a little.

It's bizarre. Right?

So, I figured, I'd try and think back to my earliest days when I was just a tiny toddling bundle and see if my memories of those times could dredge up some useful intel on my current predicament.
I gave my CPU this command:

: youngest memory; happy; content; action//

and this is what it came up with:

I am 3.5 years old and have just walked into my nursery. It's winter. I am bundled into a thick coat, scarf, hat and gloves joined up by a string that goes through my sleeves and over my back and drives me quietly insane. I'm happy to be in the warm, happy that I will be taking these gloves off, happy because....
..
...because I can see my locker (although it's really just a cupboard, it doesn't lock) and a big, bright butterfly sticker near the top edge.

Before I reach the row of little cupboards (they look little from my vantage point of observing this memory), I pause and wonder at why mine is the only one with the sticker on. For a moment I cannot remember, so I settle back, and let my tiny self continue.

She beams at the sticker butterfly and pats it gently with tiny gloved hand. Hooking her hand over the top of the door that doesn't quite reach the top of the cupboard, she opens it and anxiously inspects the contents: a pair of large, fur lined slippers sitting at the bottom. (some children have reported their slippers missing recently and she worries hers, too, may disappear. She loves those slippers, it would be a tragedy if something were to happen to them.)

Sighing with relief, the girl begins to take off her coat, hat, scarf and gloves. There is nobody around, just her. She is late (again) and has been dropped off at the door to find her own way in. It's a bit of a struggle to get the coat and blasted gloves off, but she manages it.

There is a moment of pause while she tries to remember what she is supposed to do next. Hat and scarf on the top shelf. Coat on the hanger. Gloves are left in the coat, she would never be able to thread them through the sleeves herself. Boots in the bottom of the cupboard, replacing the slippers, now warmly on her chubby little feet. So comforting.

She tilts her head at the tiny pools of water forming next to the snowy boots. She doesn't want her slippers to get wet and damaged at the end of the day, when she has to put them back there. She decides the water will dry by then (someone must have told her this before, I have a feeling this scene repeats itself a lot).

The linoleum floor is shiny and welcoming. It's warm. There are noises of play and fun calling from the far end.

And that's where the memory ends. I try so hard to remember why it was only my cupboard door that was allowed a sticker.

Was it there before? Maybe. I wasn't sure. Was I allowed it for being very well behaved? Quite possible. I was probably the best behaved child in the history of the nursery.

Why did I remember something so trite as an example of my true self, me being happy?

No idea.

Whiff of the Past

2010-01-08T13:37:00.000Z

 image linked (without permission) from Guardian

I received my February edition of Psychologies magazine today and with it a small booklet called, "The Life Guide", which masquerades as a self help tool but is actually a time traveling device.

The moment I opened this little booklet I found myself back in my home town, aged 9, having just returned from the bookshop where Mother had bought me all of the text books I would need for the following school year. My nose firmly between pages of a large history text book, I was inhaling deeply and, quite frankly, developing a bit of a high.
I know. Who doesn't have those memories, right?
The same thing would happen come summer time and the shopping trip for plastic sandals.

Anyway, it occurred to me to look into this obsession with new book smells on the interwebs. Surely there will be something about it there..
Did you know you can buy Smell of Books in a spray can? No, me neither.
In just 2 minutes of browsing I found people discussing this particular olfactory obsession here and here. There were also half a dozen blogs at least, but I can't be bothered to link them all.

The thing is, there aren't that many books these days that have that particular smell which sends me straight into nirvana. It's obviously something to do with the way the paper is processed or the type of ink used. I'd love to find out what makes my nostrils go Rawr. (if you do know anything about this, please drop me a note).

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with a time traveling device. [Dr Who eat your heart out]

PS. Psychologies are finally back on form. Must be something to do with the new editor. I am so relieved. I had been cross with myself for forgetting to cancel my subscription back in December but now I'm glad for it.

Look away now if you are queasy or Why The Size Matters

2009-11-14T00:57:00.000Z

I love my cats. I really do. Anyone who knows me will tell you, I put them before me and before a lot of other stuff. I decline overnight invitations for fear they'll be lonely and unfed, I rush back from a day or evening out to make sure they have food and are ok, I nurse them when they are sick and cuddle them when they feel like it.

I clean the sofas and floors from their muddy paws and curtains and soft furnishings from their hairs. I put up with cat hair on my clothes and on my bedding and occasionally even on my plates or my food.

There is a lot I tolerate about my cats but one thing drives me crazy. They catch live things and bring them home to chase. Usually, if I hear commotion or a high pitched squeak, I'll come over, with resigned face and no longer even bothered to bring the catchy cup with me, scoop a little unfortunate furry and release it at the back of the garden with a caution to try and not get itself caught again. I'm cross when I have to do this and even crosser when I don't realise one such furry had been let loose around the house and I find mouse droppings and a decomposing mouse some weeks later after a several days of saying "Something IS dead around here, I can smell it, now where IS it?".

I am cross when this happens but I shrug and sigh and resign myself to this fact because, after all, they are cats, that's what they do, and I don't want to limit their access to the house, it doesn't seem fair, it seems cruel.

After tonight, I am revising this policy and seriously considering giving my baby cat up for adoption.

This is what she brought into the house tonight, and I had to watch it run around my living room and hide under my partner's work bag (That will teach him to leave his stuff on the floor) and when Hermione finally cornered it behind the wood basket and killed it, I had to take it's still warm body out:

This thing was HUGE. Even discounting the tail which easily longer than it's body. I know there are rats in the garden and that they come out in the night and my cats have occasionally even killed some and left them for me on the lawn, but never this big. I haven't even ever seen a rat this big before. It was easily half Hermione's size and she brought him in her mouth all the way through the cat flap and to the other side of the house. I've chased her out of the cat flap with the catch plenty of times before, she KNOWS she is not supposed to bring them in, but I guess this one was just too heavy to hang on to. When she finally killed it and I picked it up (in yellow Marigold gloves) from behind the wood basket, she tried to bat at it and have it run off so she could chase it again. That's another thing, I'm never playing chase the furry toy with her ever again. It gives her ideas far beyond my tolerance level.

So, who wants a cat? I have at least one going spare.

My Boss (story)

2009-11-12T00:29:00.000Z

I wrote this in January 2004 and forgot all about it. It's not finished, and it probably never will be, so here it is, maybe it will amuse someone.

My boss drives me barmy. She tells me to take initiative but when I do she changes things back to the way they were. Without telling me.
She is short and doesn’t have a college degree. For some reason this fact weighs heavy on her mind and she insists on pointing out how people with college degrees are not necessarily all that clever. They lack the experience, she insists. I just shrug and smile, each time a notch less sincerely.

My boss likes to correct my spelling mistakes. She pours over my writing and delights in any fault she can find. Missing articles are her favourite, but she is happy to change the content too.
I wrote something for public release the other week and she rephrased it while I was away. Now people mock me behind my back because they think I wrote it.

Her facial expressions are a thing to behold. I never really know what feeling they betray, but their richness is undeniable. Often, perhaps when tired, My Boss will deliver the most perfect manifestation of a Basset hound. At such times I make Herculean effort not to stare, but it’s hard.

Under the furrowed brow droopy eyes will fix vacuously at some point just behind my left ear. The skin on her cheeks will suddenly lose all elasticity and two sacks of papery skin will hang either side of her face pulling her lower jaw downward. The overall effect is that of a daydreaming Basset hound being told something very important, yet experiencing certain amount of trouble abandoning his reveries.

Sometimes I’d be able to go away, perform a task or two and come back, and My Boss will have only just recovered from her ‘Bessy moment’ (as I now privately refer to them). Experience has made me realise that in her personal universe, thinking is not a task undertaken lightly. Perhaps this is why she often answers my “What shall I do about it, then?” questions with “Whatever you think is right.” Presumably my impatience upsets her and she’d rather I wasn’t around putting pressure on her to come up with an answer, or, even worse, criticise the suggestion she makes.

I am not very good for getting the subtle messages, but I really ought to have got the message when the very first thing she told me upon hiring me was, “I believe it’s inexcusable putting one’s superior on the spot,” right after insisting that this was “a non-hierarchical organisation”.

So I go and do ‘whatever I think is best’, only to find things have inexplicably been altered when I wasn’t looking. Invariably, on investigation, it will transpire My Boss was the one who gave the conflicting instruction. When I ask her about it, she gives me an obviously well practiced look and says, “Well, it needed fixing, it wasn’t right.”

I just sigh and roll my eyes as soon as she isn’t looking.

Long before I came along, My Boss was doing my job as well as hers. Then, the company grew and they needed more people. Before me, two other people did this job but were demoted after two months or less in the role. One of them even had a postgraduate degree to their name. Now, this young woman gets to make drinks for the visitors and run errands for everyone else. She thinks My Boss is fantastic. I guess it’s true that not everyone with college degree is all that clever.

Boys (story)

2009-09-05T00:14:00.000+01:00

"I don't know anything about boys." Milly folded her arms. She was uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. She wanted her mother to change the topic or, preferably, shut up and piss off. Unfortunately, neither was likely.

"Of course you do, what's there not to know?" Mrs Mayers waved a dismissive hand. Boys, and for that matter, men, were a perfectly known quantity to her. The simplest beast that God, in his eternal wisdom, had created. Of course, women were much more difficult to understand. Men had to create Science to try and understand women and still had not made much progress, fools.

"Mom, please don't make me do this." A puppy-all-alone-in-the-world-aren't-I-adorable-surely-you-can't-refuse-me-anything would have been put to shame next to Milly's face.

"C'mmon darling, what is the matter, I'll help you," Mrs Mayers sighed, hating any concession to her brood being less than perfect. "Tell me, what is the problem? Don't," she stopped Milly before any protest could be made, "say you don't know anything about boys because that is simply not true and we both know it." She gave her daughter a knowing look that said many things but mostly 'I know you like a back of my hand so don't give me lip young lady'.

It was beginning to dawn on Milly that this battle was already lost. It was totally unfair, she hadn't even been given a decent chance at squirming out of it. The problem with Mom was that she always had to get her way. The other problem with Mom was that she saw anything to do with Milly as a personal challenge to her parenting skills. Boys were stupid and irritating and smelly, but Milly would give anything to swap this Conversation with Mom for a scrum-full of boys.

"Talk to me, honey," Mrs Mayers coaxed, "you know I am always here for you and will always listen. If you give me half a chance, I may even be a useful confidante." The unavoidable self-satisfied smile flashed across her face.

Milly felt her stomach lurch and a tangy acid sting her tongue. "Fine." There was no point in arguing anymore. She'll just give it to her straight and see what happens. Who knows, maybe this will be one of those rare times when Mom is actually shocked and lost for words.
"What do I talk to him about? I mean, on a date? Because, when I try and talk to the boys at school, they just look at me like I'm special ed or something or just ignore me. They talk about football. I hate football. Or they make stupid jokes I don't get. They are always snickering. I mean, who can be that amused all of the time? " She made a mistake of pausing for breath.

"Darling!" Mrs Mayers said, "Brian is an intelligent, well read boy from a very good family. I am sure you could talk to him about anything you liked. You could talk about the book you are reading now, for example?"

"I'm reading Twilight, Mom." Milly crossed her arms and waited for Mom to lay into her about things like intelligence and mind cultivation and there not being enough time for frivolity.

"Oh!" Mrs Mayers sighed, "isn't that boy just dreamy?" she smiled openly and her eyelashes gave a little flutter.

"Um, come again Mom? Are you sure we are talking about the same book?"

"Ah, yes, vampire, no?"

Milly's eyebrows did a little dance they did every time she was confused. "Mom, er, so about Brian.."

Mrs Mayers transferred her weight onto her left foot and leaning on the car for support took off her high heeled shoe. "Oh yes, you are right, he is probably too boring." She took off the other shoe and tossed both on the pavement. "I'm sure he wouldn't stay up all night just watching you sleep." She sighed with regret, or pleasure, it was hard to say; her bare toes were doing a wiggly dance in the grass of their front lawn.

"Mom, Mom, are you all right?"

Country Walk and some horsing around

2009-09-03T23:48:00.000+01:00

Clicking on the photos opens up a larger version.

I know.

But dang it, nothing else happens around here.

It's bad enough having to wander around the village like a crazy person, all alone, dogless, only one's femininity preventing the locals from hurrying their small children into the house and calling the police. I still get the looks, mind.

So, this time I took the camera with me. This way, I figured, it would seem like I had a purpose in going for a walk, other than just to walk. I mean, what sane person goes around just walking, with nowhere particular to go, simply for the sake of it, and not even with a dog. It's just not normal.

Even the horses that live in the paddock just outside my house couldn't be arsed with me today.

And no, I don't know their names. I don't speak horse, so even if they told me their names I wouldn't have understood.

The brown one always whinnies quite loudly whenever he's left on his own in the paddock. Just doesn't like being on his own I guess.

The white one is quite laid back.

This is when the horse thought I had a carrot in my hand. He was utterly dejected when he realised that what I held was in fact a camera, and not a very edible one at that.

The white /brown horse was not interested. I offered riches and glory and fame but he was just having none of it. Guess the grass is always greener under one's nose.

The path past the paddock becomes a narrow path enclosed in hedges and not enough light for photography.

Then, out of the village, the pavement disappears and the verge merges with the fields. The fields stretch forever and ever.

Seriously, you can see the end of the world from there, look. And the world is obviously flat. Look!

The clouds made some pretty pictures in the sky. The setting sun helped.

On the other side of the road was another paddock with another horse (white).

If you look really hard through the bushes on the right you can see the horse's head.

Before he trotted off to hide, I've spied this horsey wearing a blue pullover.

Maybe he was just shy or maybe he was embarrased of what his humans made him wear.
We'll never know.

This is the road. There is a lorry on it. Or a truck. Whatever.

Point is, it almost run me over.

I jumped up like a startled cat and leaped two feet in the air and three feet sideways. One step over and I'd have been in the field, trespassing. Again.

Another footpath. This is where my walk from the other day would have ended up at had I not gone ahead and got myself lost.

I came by to check that it still there and had not been secreted away to another location. Yup. Still there.

The sign says: No Tipping. I like to think of myself as a law abiding person so I didn't leave my spare change.

It was getting dark. It would have been foolish to persist on this walk any further so I decided to turn back.

On the way back I spied another horse (with a rider), a hare (too fast and too far to be caught by camera) and several birds (equally non obliging in terms of posing for the photograph).

Turning into the footpath towards my house I decided to play horse and trotted all the way back.

I was very much out of breath when I got to my house. Doubled up, I breathed through my mouth, my head turned to my right. The brown horse said: 'You are really unfit, mate.'

'Tell me something I don't know.' I said.

The horse looked down the lane and then at its white and splodgy brown companion before he said:

'Do you have a carrot?'

'No. Well, I do have one in the fridge,' I said, ' but I think it's frowned upon to give other people's horses carrots. Without asking, that is. And I can't ask your owners because they are not here.' I felt that explained my position on this matter quite adequately. I really wanted to give him a carrot, but what would the neighbours think!?

The horse looked at me sadly. 'Life sucks.'

'I know.' I said.

Walk around the countryside

2009-08-28T14:20:00.000+01:00

Be warned: this one is loooong but it's got pretty pictures

I try and go for a short walk every day. It helps to keep active, although I have to make sure I don't get too tired; something called chronic fatigue has possessed me and it doesn't want to share me with too many activities.
Usually, I'll make a short, twenty minute lap around the village or, if I feel up to it and have company with me for reassurance, I'll venture into the fields a bit. Not longer than 40 minutes overall, the penalties for over stretching myself are harsh - up to three days in bed or with hardly any mobility at all.

So, when I set off on my walk yesterday, with cheerful sun on my back and warm breeze in my ear, I had not planned to go far. I'd figured I'd just walk to the next village along, fifteen minutes and fifteen back - half an hour, all told.

It was a lovely day, yesterday. Can't quite remember another one quite like it in the last couple of months, certainly not one I had been able to enjoy like this. I made it as far as the edge of the neighbouring village, where the tiny, fairy tale cottages stand sentinel like in a row, next to a small road that leads who knows where.

I felt fine. I felt full of beans and I didn't want my walk to stop so I carried on walking.

I walked past the yellow brick pillars with a sign for public footpath and onto a straight dirt road.

The soft grass on the verge was fragrant with the scent of wild flowers and I couldn't help myself.

With the sky being so blue and the gentle, balmy wind caressing my bare arms, I stretched out on the grass with my hands behind my head and lost myself in the Pleasant.

I kept my eyes closed for a long time, inhaling the sweet, soothing fragrance of wild flowers.

Eventually, my eyelids fluttered open of their own volition and I looked into the bluest, clearest sky.

I lay there for few more minutes, it felt incredibly comfortable, the mix of grass and moss cushioning my body like an exquisite live mattress. I could have stayed there forever, but I could hear a van approaching and I got up quickly, not wishing to be seen prostrate on the grass next to a road, like a crazy person. [what if they stopped and tried to talk to me!?]

I stood up and looked around. To my left was a green field full of succulent cabbages or kale or some such green vegetable.

I could see the church tower far in the distance, almost hidden behind rows of trees. It made me think of citadels and princesses in need of rescuing.

On my right was a recently plowed field where who knows what had grown. The neat narrow lines ran the length of the field and in the corners they met and criss-crossed over and danced a mysterious earthy dance.

I took it all in and continued on.

The path took me past some houses and the old windmill and, turning sharply left, continued between more fields.

Straw bales from last year's harvest were thrown on a heap to one side.

The straw bales. Someone had started to stack them up neatly but evidently lost heart quite quickly allowing the bales of straw to create an abandoned ancient ruins effect.

Very picturesque, I thought.

As was this view. The horizon just seemed to stretch for ever and instead of making me feel sad, as the flat lands tend to do some people, it filled me with wonder and air. The opposite of claustrophobia - what is that?

Anyway, I carried on and came across some berries:

Luckily, I knew which ones were good to eat so I picked them and ate handfuls.

They were juicy and sweet and even though I had to bat away couple of wasps and clean my mouth from stray cobwebs once or twice, they were yummy.

I carried on my walk, wondering what I would find next. Even though I had been this way before, I had forgotten exactly which way the path wound and kept looking out for the small yellow arrows to indicate I was on the right track.

World was calm all around me, the only sounds coming from birds fluttering about, chirping about their business but I was starting to get a bit worried. I knew I'd be coming to a field where evil, dangerous cows grazed. I had been chased by those cows once or twice before and even though I had been scared at the time, I hadn't been alone - there had been someone with me. This time I was on my own and I was terrified. I figured I'd probably turn back once I spotted them, if it turned out they were not far enough from the path for me to get by them safely. There would be a wooden step in the fence soon, and beyond it the field with the cows.

But for now, there was only a comfortable, meandering grass path, flanked by berry laden bushes and tame fields.

Eventually, the old, rickety wooden step came into view, half hidden by bramble and overgrown hedge, and I stepped over, ready to jump back at once, should I spot a menacing herd on the other side.

My heart was pounding in my chest and I had started to perspire from the effort of the walk. I knew I didn't have it in me to run past the cows and I wondered if I'd manage go back the way I came, the fatigue was already reaching its creepy tentacles through my body.

The field on the other side seemed bereft of grazing monsters and I allowed myself a small sigh of relief. Still, I kept a watchful eye on the horizon, to be safe.

I made my way cautiously, keeping close to the hedge and trying to step around tall thistles that grew everywhere.

Rabbits darted left and right, giving me a fright and ungraciously refusing to pose for a photograph.

At last, the other gate came into view and I hurried towards it and the field beyond.

That shadow in the bottom right hand corner is me, taking the photograph. I am not saluting the gate, although you'd be forgiven to think that, considering.

I crossed the small bridge and ventured forth. Normally, I wouldn't trespass through a field, but it had been harvested and there was no harm in me stepping on the dry stalks. Besides, there were possibly cows to be found on the real path which I had abandoned to go traipsing through this crunchy land.

I walked and walked and walked and the fields were neverending.

At one point I smelled a pungent odour of cat spray where some wild feline had marked it's territory. It made me feel a bit uneasy because the scent was so strong and so obvious and so large that it put me in mind of the smells found in zoos and wild animal sanctuaries. Even if this had been done by a domestic cat, it was one kitty I was not looking forward to meeting. Would the perils of this walk never end?

I had brought with me only my tiny camera; no mobile phone, no money, no GPS tracker strapped to my wrist. I didn't really know where I was, and if some wild animal attacked me, noone would know and noone would hear my cries for help. Suddenly, the trusty English countryside didn't seem quite as tame as all that.

I fought the increasing fatigue and pressed on, hoping I would be able to sweet talk any passing beastie into leaving me alone.

My wrist is a watch free zone and without my mobile phone I couldn't know how much time had passed since I'd left the house but I had the feeling it had been a while. The light was beginning to change, the sky grew grayer and the first chill of the early evening pinched at my bare arms.

Surely, sooner or later, these fields had to end somewhere green.

When I came to this, I thought I was dreaming of being Alice. I didn't dare turn around to check that the bare, yellowed fields were still behind me, for fear that this lush green oasis would disappear if I even so much as blinked.

There were rabbits hopping about and soft grass under my feet clearly a path that led somewhere; to the road, I hoped.

In the meantime, I enjoyed the varied views around me, the gnarled roots in the almost dry dike and the cool, shady forest. At the end of the grassy path sat two white bee hives, but there were no bees.

Feeling uplifted because I recognised the field in front of me as one that bordered the fast country road that winds between my village and the next, I cheered and smiled to myself. All I had to do was cross the field in front of me and hope there is no fence at the road verge.

It didn't look like getting through it should be trouble.

Except, it was. The soft mossy growth covered hundreds of hidden potholes and chest high nettles and spiky thistles grew in undulating swathes, forcing me to zig-zag through the field in order to reach the road.

To top it all of, at the edge of this inhospitable meadow, there was a deep ditch, overgrown with tall, thick nettles running the length of the road.

Great, I thought. Not only will I be stung by nettles, but because I cannot see where I'm stepping and how wide this thing really is, I may end up with a twisted or broken ankle, stuck in a deep gutter where I wouldn't be seen from the road.

Still. I had come this far.

Carefully placing my feet, I edged as far to my side of the ditch as I safely could and tensing my tired muscles leapt over to the other side. In the next moment I was walking on the pavement along the road, as if nothing had happened.

Not wishing to forget my adventure so quickly, I turned around for one more look.

Five minutes later and I was safely at home. I had been gone for two hours, though it felt more like two days. Feeling racked by the maddening fatigue, I collapsed in bed and slept for a long, long time.

Special note: If any of the farmers whose fields and lands I trespassed are reading this: I am sorry, the cows made me do it!

End of the World is Neigh

2009-08-26T18:38:00.000+01:00

Unless you were living under a rock for the past few years, you already know that the end of the world is scheduled for December 21, 2012 .

Nevermind the prophecies . I know that the world is ending soon because iPhones are exploding and

giant jellyfish have it in for Japan.

God is giving us the finger;

cows have had enough of our red meat obsession and are staging union-led aggressive rallies across the land; the plagues have already begun to decimate our population, although at several hundred deaths so far, there is a fair way to go yet before the black death can be bested.

image: National Geographic

Have you made your plans for the end of the world? Will you have a party? Will you wear your best clothes and drink all those bottles of 80 yr old whiskey you were saving for special occasion?

Do you imagine what the world will look like after it ends? Or wander how it will happen? Well, worry not, I found out for you:

This is what will actually happen

It will take until 2012 to load, though, so be patient.

Bog standard blog post

2009-08-22T17:12:00.000+01:00

(There will be Language in this post. Foul language. All of it irrelevant, most of it irreverent. That's just how I roll today.)

I know. I don't think I've done one of these before. The intent to make this a regular blog post with perfectly ordinary, garden variety ranting will probably peter out by the ~~third~~ first paragraph and you will be left with the acid trip that are the usual dregs of my mind.

So, what's been annoying the heck out of me lately is that I've become seriously indecisive. For example, I cannot decide what this post should be about. When I started it, I had a pretty clear idea of where I wanted this to go, I felt purposeful (always a good sign), motivated (practically a miracle) and justified in my need to share. To be fair, it is 6am and I haven't slept at all, so perhaps I can be forgiven for not remembering anything other that I needed to share something with the world. World being you. Just in case you were wondering. Because, sometimes, you see, I'm not at all sure what you are thinking. You don't tell me. (this may or may not be a shameless pleading for comments)

Anyway, where was I? Right. So it's 6am, I am awake, cats are out, roaming the countryside and decimating the local rodent population, there is an odd pain across my back that has sent my hypochondriac brain into an overdrive, and Samantha Ronson is telling me on Twitter that the reason she is using her phone at a dinner table is because her companions are not interesting enough.
Now, I'm all for sarcasm and well placed bitchiness but I cannot stand people who use their phone at the table. I'm second hand insulted. It grieves me that some poor hapless idiot is harbouring under misapprehension that this woman is their friend. This is why Samantha mention doesn't get linked to her website. Boo Samantha.

Don't worry, I will not be talking about Twitter. Mostly, because I tend to use Twitter to talk about Twitter. What the heck was I going to talk about? I'm almost sure it wasn't Twitter. Although this one tweeter really irritates me because they are always talking about themselves in third person. What is that all about? Who does that? It's not even as if the content is dicey or risque, which might have explained their need to psychologically distance themselves from the horrors of their own words. Why third person your arrival home? Is your home some sort of Silence of the Lambs affair and your third person speak is letting you compartmentalize the mental anguish of what's to come? Seriously. Grow a pronoun already.

I use pronouns far too often. I use *I* so often that I worry about my mental well being. I'm convinced it is another symptom of my indecisiveness, a misguided attempt to grow a spine perhaps, or maybe it is simply a symptom of narcissistic attention seeking, or it could be that I simply can't write worth shit.
Anyway, enough about me, what were we talking about?

That's right. Facebook. And old friends from school.
Recently, I got in touch with some old school friends on Facebook. I wasn't looking to get in touch with anyone, but one person found me and they said I should make sure I become friends with other friends they were already friends with on their Facebook, and I didn't want to seem rude or uninterested, even though this song always plays in my mind whenever I think of Facebook and what's worse the song and the video are on my profile which means that whoever befriends me will see it and immediately understand that I have not, contrary to all my efforts to convince them otherwise, changed at all and that I am still as rude and as obnoxious and as careless with other people's feelings as I had always been.

But then I think, fuck them. If we had liked each other in the first place, we would have stayed in touch. Since we lost touch, it is safe to assume a fundamental friendship incompatibility exists between us.
I love to reminisce, there was some funny shit that went down back in the day (who doesn't have those stories, right) but it is far more likely that any exchange we engage in will consist in you telling me about how well you are doing for yourself and me feeling like crap that I cannot say the same.

And for fuck sakes, don't use my Wall for self promotion. If you really must tell me about your holidays and how well you are doing for yourself, then use the person to person messaging or, oh, I don't know - email? If you are finding that everything you have to say to me won't fit into the wall post's character minimum and you are forced to make three (count them) wall posts to get your message across, then I think it's safe to assume that what you have to say is not fit for a wall post. OK?

Yes, I am a grouchy, grumpy, old so and so. We've known that since I was five.
The point is, we mostly lose touch with people for a good fucking reason and this whole getting back in touch business is driving me nuts. I hate Facebook. I hardly ever go there now because there will be messages waiting to tell me how I haven't gotten in touch lately and to ask me why this is and what is going on with me. Don't you think I would have contacted you with my news if I had any worth sharing with you? We have nothing to talk about! Our last conversation was probably about marbles and bubble gum.
I am glad you are doing well and that you family is happy and healthy and that you've been on a holiday and that you are enjoying your weekend. I just don't want to keep hearing about it. And I cannot imagine you would want to hear the inane reports of my own, equally banal, existence. Or would you? No, best not answer that.

So there. It's no longer 6am, but that cannot be helped. I remain friendless and with only the empty air of Twitter to talk to. And this blog. What the hell, we can't all be the life of the party. I'm cool with that.

Squibble (story)

2009-08-22T15:26:00.000+01:00

It was the stuff the nightmares are made of.

In a round room, dark and gloomy, seven authors, all of them wearing black, sat uneasily on gargoyley chairs. They chattered and chivvied and rubbed their hands on the knees of their worn black trousers.

The figure to whom they addressed their monologues crouched in the middle of the room, hands clamped tightly over its tiny, pointy ears, its head tucked into its chest where its teeth frayed the green felt fabric holding up the ruby buttons. The middle ruby button was loosened well and proper and was waiting for the last nibble to set it free.

'Nooooo,' the green clad figure pleaded, 'pleeeeeeze, nooooooo,' it said over and over.

But the murmur of black clad authors continued, unabated, unabashed, unrepentant;

Moxibustion, my lad, that's what it is, You must try it, but be sure you use the wormwood made of real worms, none of this fake plant stuff, you hear lad,

And the Dark Lord said onto him 'Kneel thee affront me Knave' and the Knave knelt and as he did the Dark Lord set forth an army of spectres upon him more terrible than even his Mother,

Spiders crawl, up and up and up until they are as high as they can get without falling off and they stop and laughe a terrible spidery laughe and then they all fall on her hair and she screams and gauges her eyes out one by one every single 27 of them,

The mist carried plague of the mind and it seeped into his pores now and he knew not of the way to stop it,

Whirl, whirl into the night my darling, we shall be together again, my flesh and your flesh, your wing and my wing, we shall be together again,

Ten thousand signatures, please one more, ten thousand signatures says the man but they won't sign and the pleading man falls down and takes a gun from his satchel and puts it to his sweaty brow,

Ice, ice, I tell you, not like the ice queen, but different, glorious ice that burns and freezes and removes all eases, The best ice and the worst ice,

The ruby button fell onto the flagstoned floor with a loud clunk. There was a momentary hush. In the next breath the pointy eared figure was gone.

It's a sign! It's mine! Seven black clad authors cried as one and without pause affrayed, intent on the ruby button, clawing and pushing and tearing eachother's bony fingers.

It is the Muse, it is the Dream, it is the Idea, the authors murmured, It will be Mine.

The stony floor groaned and screeched. The ruby button flew and slithered and bounced from hand to bony hand. In a heartbeat of a sparrow, or maybe a hummingbird, the seven authors tore one another into ribbons of black, warn out fabric that fervently wished they could flutter melodramatically but it was impossible, for there were no windows and no wind in the room of gargoyley chairs.

And the ruby button sat on the cold flagstone, unconcerned, unmoved, for it was just a button, after all.

My favourite painting

2009-07-31T00:11:00.000+01:00

Execution of Lady Jane by Paul Delaroche

This is my favourite painting. I don't know why. Maybe someone can tell me?

There was a time I lived not far from the National Gallery and would spend hours every day wandering around, looking at art (mainly by Rembrandt, and if you are wondering, my favourite painting of his is this) but always at this Delaroche painting. It captured me. It touched me in ways I cannot even comprehend and it still does. I get lost in the satiny folds of Lady Jane's gown, in the austere posture of the hangman and the anguish of her ladies in waiting.

I marvel at the cold detachment of the man assisting her to her death. He is presumably a friend, clearly a nobleman, but why isn't he more upset!? I suspect foul play. I bet he pretended to be a friend and secretly doomed her to death for reasons of power and money and prestige.

I love that the scene is painted as if it's a snapshot from the theater play, a scene acted on a stage of black velvet cloth.

I love Lady Jane's hands and the straw the colour of her hair. I imagine that, when her head falls down, it will mix with the straw and it will be impossible to tell where her hair ends and the straw begins.

Why? All these years later and if you ask me what my favourite painting is, my mind immediately jumps to this image.

I don't think it's possible to explain how and why art affects us.

What art does, I've decided, is talk to the spaces between our cells, to our subatomic selves. And it whispers in a language only feelings can understand.

Maybe I don't want to know why this painting affects me so. Maybe it's best to just enjoy that jolt of excitement every time I see it or think of it.

Maybe what I enjoy is The Wonder. And maybe that is all I need.

Three women from the wardrobe (story)

2009-07-25T18:14:00.000+01:00

The girl was small and chubby but not fat. Her hair was the colour of ripe chestnut and it fell in messy ringlets about her peachy face. She had just woken up.

The girl walked about the apartment, looking for someone, a parent maybe or an unknown adult left over from one of her parent's wild parties. There was noone around. She padded over to the large, round table in the middle of the kitchen and stood on her tiptoes. Her eyes barely reached the edge.

The tablecloth had once been white but was now a washed out wine-brown and there were little round holes everywhere with frayed brown edges. There was a huge, empty, green bottle in the middle of the table and on top of it a white candle. The candle had created an intricate volcanic residue that clung imperiously to the sides of the bottle.
The girl turned around. Maybe her mother was in the bedroom? The girl knew she wasn't allowed into mother's bedroom unless specially invited but she felt it would be acceptable to take a peak. Just to check if mother is there. And if she is, and is sleeping, the girl would just tiptoe back, quietly, and find something else to do.

Creeping quietly the girl walked out of the kitchen and across the hall. She reached the big white door of her mother's bedroom and stood there motionless for a long time. Her hand didn't reach for the handle.
Hearing nothing, the girl gave the door a little push. It swung open easily and the girl caught her breath. Will her mother shout at her to go away? Nothing. Or.. maybe? Listening intently, the girl thought she could hear a faint whoosh. She waited a bit longer but there was no other sound. Slowly, she walked in. The room was empty. Her mother's bed was made, the windows were closed. The girl wandered if she had imagined the whoosh sound. She stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. Her gaze fell on the large, three-finger hand painted on the green wall above the bed. The hand was made into a fist and no matter how many times the girl counted, she could only count a thumb and three fingers. The hand scared her. She spent a lot of time avoiding looking at it.

There was another faint whoosh and the girl whipped around to face an ancient wardrobe at the far wall. The wardrobe was made of oak and it had three panels. The side panels had one door each and the middle panel had double doors. That's where mother's clothes lived, hung on the rail or piled up on the bottom. On the shelves behind the side panels lived linens and towels and jewelery and handbags and scarfs.

The girl tried not to look too closely at the wardrobe. It scared her even more than the three-finger hand. But the gentle whoosh sound kept distracting her and she stole a proper look. The wood on the panels made funny patterns that looked like shapes of sad, skinny women. There were three of them - one for each panel. The middle panel woman blinked her eyes and called to the girl softly. The girl froze and her eyes darted towards the door. She wanted to run away but her feet were glued to the spot. The left panel woman swirled and her hands rose and fell in a wooden dance. She asked the girl to lie down on her mother's bed. Reluctantly, the girl obeyed.

The girl curled up on her mother's bed, her eyes wide and terrified, and watched the women peel off the panels, one by one, and start to dance around the room. The women were tall and thin and made of shadows. They spoke in gasps and whispers of a strange language she didn't understand. They swayed and whirled and cackled making the curtains twitch even though the windows were closed.

The women told the girl that she now belonged to them. The girl didn't know what that meant but she was scared. She didn't want to belong to the women. She wanted to belong to her mother and her father. But the women just laughed and waved their hands and called her a pitiful wretch. The girl didn't know what that meant but she worried it was something bad.

Finally, the girl summoned the strength to ask the three wardrobe women what they wanted from her. The women cackled delightedly. They said they've already taken what they wanted. They've taken her soul.

What does this mean, the girl wandered? The women shrugged. It didn't matter. They looked fatter.

The girl closed her eyes and wished the women would go away. She kept worrying about what it meant to not have a soul. The girl wasn't sure what a soul was, but she had a feeling it was something important.

She opened her eyes. The women had disappeared. She looked over to the wardrobe and they were there, fat and satisfied, their wooden eyes twinkling. One of them winked at her. Come back any time, another said. All you have to do, is stare in to the grain, the third said, and you'll be with us forever. Come, come with us, they said.

The girl got up and walked out of the room. She closed the door firmly behind her and ran as fast as she could to the other side of the apartment. She wandered if that was far enough.

No. The voice in her head said.

You cannot run away from us now.

The girl opened her mouth to scream but no sound came. Her heart pounded against her chest and her palms felt clammy and shook like light fittings in an earthquake.

An eerie cackle bounced around the walls, then died away suddenly.

The girl heard a key scrape against the lock. Mother was back.

How real is your reality?

2009-07-22T10:09:00.000+01:00

I was just reading about how excited Robert Pattinson (he of Twilight fame) was at the prospect of meeting David Tennant (he of Dr Who fame) and how he was hoping for a ride in the Tardis, and was chuckling at the incredulity of it all when I remembered something.

You see, I practically grew up backstage of a small theater where my father was gainfully employed as an actor. The props were my first toys, the rehearsals my play dates. I knew from early on that it was all pretend, and yet...

There was that time I watched my father in a televised drama where he was portraying yet another down and out character. There was a part where he was cold and shivering and sad, and I am told I came out from under the dining table that was my favourite hiding spot and offered my blankie to the television set saying "Here daddy, you can have my blankie, you don't have to be cold!" The adults thought that was the sweetest, funniest thing ever, but to my four year old mind, my father was suffering and I wanted to help. I knew he was pretending, but could I be really, really sure he wasn't actually cold?

There was also a time when, aged five, I was taking part in a Christmas play in my nursery and had come up to the stage to the sight of Santa, dressed up in his red suit and with his huge white beard staring at me mischievously with my father's sparkling eyes. I had frozen to the spot. I have no recollection of how I had managed to get through my part, all I can remember is a feeling of my world splitting in two and my young mind buckling under the pressure of dual realities. There is a photo of this:

It wasn't news to me that Santa didn't exist or that my father was an actor. But the combination of my reality and my imagination being forced to exist simultaneously and consciously was just too much for my young brain to cope with.

This happened again, not long afterward. The theater was showing an awesome new play for children and my parents decided to take me to see it. After all of the mass excitement in the lobby and pride of having the best box seats had worn off, the wicked witch had appeared on the stage and I got so scared that I hid in the corner, facing away from the stage and refused to come out for the rest of the play. It didn't help that my parents (my father wasn't acting in this one) cooed to me that it was all made up and it's not real and 'for god sakes, girl, you know this!' My imagination had a life of it's own and in it, the wicked witch was real and what was happening was just too scary to cope with. I trembled and shook and bit my lip until it was over and vowed never to see another play again.

I am, perhaps, blessed with an extraordinarily vivid imagination. This is often a good thing, like when I make up stories to entertain myself (and occasionally others) or when I can see solutions to problems where all obvious options have been exhausted. It becomes a pain in the ass when it comes to looking forward to anything. Like holidays, for example. Because I imagine every detail of what is about to happen and what I am about to see and how it would make me feel, I often and up disappointed at the reality. It feels like I've already done it. The experience loses the novelty factor. So now, I try not to look forward to anything, imagine anything real, I just let the reality do its thing and hope for a pleasant surprise. On the other hand, I can imagine all the worse case scenarios too which makes it a relief when none of them happen.

And, then, there are the literary heroes. It is safe to admire them because they will never get a chance to disappoint. This just doesn't work when it comes to film or tv. We all seem to have a hard time separating the actor from the character they play. We've all read about crazy fans who abuse actors in their private lives because of something their 'evil' character said or did.
This can be even worse for actors themselves. I have seen some so infected by the character they were playing that they became different people because of it. It becomes impossible to shake off.

As if imagining things that intricately makes them real.

As if God really made us in his image, down to the part where we, too, can create reality by willing it into existence.

When you come right down to it our personal realities are probably 70% made up. I don't want to stray into quantum physics here, so my percentage is a wild guess, but we all know that we paint our worlds in colours that just aren't there, at least some of the time. Deep down, we know. We have our imaginary view and we have our reality view of the world. We just can't cope with holding both views at the same time.

Why is that?

Diary of a Lost Soul (story)

2009-07-21T00:55:00.000+01:00

30 March

The bench of memory outside of the building where I work and me, wishing I wasn't here. Like a long time ago, in my old nursery, my feet dragging while Mother pulls me behind her. "You must go!" she tells me, "But I don't like it!" I insist. "Well, that's just too bad, you have to go, there is nobody to look after you." So, I started looking after myself as soon as I could, but here, again, there is nobody to look after me and I must go, even though I don't like it, don't want to go and there aren't even any butterfly stickers on my locker.

1 April

I am someone with green eyes and ever changing tastes. My hair is currently blonde and cut into a bob. I don't exercise. I dream and imagine things a lot. I don't know who I am or why I am here. I'm not sure I need to know, I just want an easy time and to enjoy myself doing interesting things.
I can cook but don't enjoy it. I'm lonely and overwhelmed most of the time. Except when gardening or writing or playing with my cat, although my cat overwhelms me too.
I'm anxious. i make stupid mistakes.

9 April

A banana, large, is safely tucked away in my stomach. Tomato and basil soup plus Kettle crisps are waiting their turn. Lunchtime.
I've been feeling very ill of late. Got so sick the week before last that I stayed in bed for better part of the week. Then, last week, I felt a bit better and ate a lot of pastry.
Yesterday, the nice nurse at the GP surgery took seven vials of my blood. I hope she isn't thinking of wearing them around her neck, Angelina-style. It's Easter Bank Holiday weekend tomorrow and the blood probably won't get tested until next week.
The soup is thick and gloopy like Lloyd Grossman pasta sauce. It's not very hot which is just as well. I always burn my mouth with too-hot soups.
For some reason, my mind keeps remembering that day when my math teacher accused me of cheating on the math test. I was 11, we had geometry and I had, uncharacteristically, studied for the test. I aced it. The only A in the class. It was definitely unbelievable, even to me. Looking back over the years of barely scraping by with Cs, I can now see how the teacher had to accuse me of cheating. Except I didn't. And it kinda broke my heart.

New Generation TwitPhone rocks my world (story)

2009-07-10T17:18:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I took delivery of the New Generation TwitPhone prototype. Or Twipi for short.
Since I am a girl and don't wear a watch, my Twipi is shaped like a chunky bracelet. I asked for plum, but I guess they couldn't quite get the colour right so it's a nice mauve with slight plummy overtones and all the nobs and dials just look like an artistic splattering of precious stones.

You can do with it everything you can with an iPhone. There is a small, diamonde button that, when pressed, unfolds a good size touch screen. Granted, you do end up looking like a particularly ungainly robo-butterfly had alighted on your wrist, but I don't intend to use this feature very often because Twipi is also voice operated.

It really comes into it's own in the car. No more narrowly avoiding accidents while fiddling with the radio nobs or trying to scroll down to the exact song I wanted on the iPhone.
No. What I do now, is say, for example "HashLilyAllen" and the Twipi starts playing all the Lily Allen songs. I could also just say "HashLilyAllenNotFair" and the Twipi will drench my audiospace in the most epic girlpower song of the decade.

Another cool thing it can do is tune into all the digital radio stations in the area. So, if I'm tuned into the radio and say "HashLilyAllen" the Twipi will start playing the first radio that plays Lily Allen. Saying "HashNext" hops me on to another radio station in a blink of an eye.

It's also quite intuitive and can be programmed with play lists. You probably want to allow a fair bit of quiet time to do this, it can take a while and you'll have to use key phrases like "TwipiMixSetup","TwipiMixChoose","TwipiMixTheme" and so on to get your lists set up. You can name your lists however you like and pull them up at any time with a simple hash command.

Building on the power of Twitter, the Twipi also allows for accessing Trending topics.
You'll need to tell it whether to filter these in any way otherwise you could find your perfectly comfortable Friday afternoon ruined by mentions of millions of people you'll never meet and don't care about. I was particularly startled to be called a BitchHo Mudafuka and immediately after branded an unfit parent for sending my kids to summer school every year. I don't have kids for heaven sakes.

So a complete winner, really, in all aspects, save one. On a sunny afternoon, with your window rolled down, do not, please, request "Hash50Cent", especially not when passing trough a dodgy neighborhood or when police are within earshot.

It's a shameful way to end a beautiful gadget relationship.

Precision Grace

2009-07-07T15:16:00.001+01:00

If you've ever wondered where the moniker Precision Grace comes from (and you probably haven't), fret not, I am here to explain.

So, you've heard of Yi Jing/I Ching, right?
If you haven't, there is a basic wiki explanation or you could google it.

Well, one of the 64 hexagrams in I Ching is Hexagram 22 - Pi or Grace and this is the hexagram that I 'threw' one day as an answer to a question: "What is my life about?"

The reading made a great impression on me and I thought about it for a while, how it applies to me and my attitude towards the world, universe and everything. Eventually, I came up with the composite of Precision and Grace as a reminder of what this hexagram means to me and an expression of who I feel I am and am trying to be.

I have been on the lookout for a suitably precise and graceful description of this hexagram for some time and have recently been extremely lucky to find it, or rather, have it found for me, by my Mother. (thank you, Mother, you are the best.)

On the left is the original Chinese version from "Tao Teh Ching" by Lao Tzu compiled around 500 B.C and below is the English translation by John C.H. Wu.

Click on the images to see (and read) the larger version.

This interpretation and translation are slightly different to the (probably) most used translation which goes like this:

22 _Pi/Grace

above  KêN
KEEPING STILL, MOUNTAIN

below  LI
THE CLINGING, FIRE

from the Wilhelm-Baynes translation of “the I Ching or the Book of Changes”
This hexagram shows a fire that breaks out of the secret depths of the earth and, blazing up, Illuminates and beautifies the mountain, the heavenly heights. Grace – beauty of form – is necessary in any union if it is to be well ordered and pleasing rather than disordered and chaotic.
THE JUDGMENT
GRACE has success.
In small matters
It is favorable to undertake something.
Grace brings success. However, it is not the essential or fundamental thng; it is only the ornament and must therefore be used sparingly and only in little things. In the lower trigram of fire a yielding line comes between two strong lines and makes them beautiful, but the strong lines are the essential content and the weak line is the beautifying form. In the upper trigram of the mountain, the strong line takes the lead, so that here again the strong element must be regarded as the decisive factor. in nature we see in the sky the strong light of the sun; the life of the world depends on it. But this strong, essential thing is changed and given pleasing variety by the moon and the stars. In human affairs, aesthetic form comes into being when traditions exist that, strong and abiding like mountains, are made pleasing by a lucid beauty. By contemplating the forms existing in the heavens we come to understand time and its changing demands. Through contemplation of the forms existing in human society it becomes possible to shape the world.
[This hexagram shows tranquil beauty - clarity within, quiet without. This is the tranquillity of pure contemplation. When desire is silenced and the will comes to rest, the world -as-idea becomes manifest. In this aspect the world is beautiful and removed from the struggle for existence. This is the world of art. However, contemplation alone will not put the will to rest absolutely. it will awaken again, and then all the beauty of form will appear to have been only a brief moment of exaltation. hence this is still not the true way of redemption. For this reason Confucius felt very uncomfortable when once, on consulting the oracle, he obtained the hexagram of GRACE]
THE IMAGE
Fire at the foot of the mountain:
The image of GRACE.
Thus does the superior man proceed
When clearing up current affairs.
But he dare not decide controversial issues in this way.
The fire, whose light illuminates the mountain and makes it pleasing, does not shine far; in the same way, beautiful form suffices to brighten and to throw light upon matters of lesser moment, but important questions cannot be decided in this moment, but important questions cannot be decided in this way. They require greater earnestness.
Above reading from Wordpress

Things I Want

2009-07-03T00:14:00.000+01:00

I want so many things. The truth of the matter is, there are so many things I want that, when I start to think about them all, I get a bit dizzy and sea sick, as if I am on a tiny boat in a middle of a big storm. Like this:

So, I've decided to write a list about things I want to do. There is probably also a list, somewhere, out there, yet to be written, about the things I want to have and the things I want to be and the things I don't want and the things I wish I haven't done. But, my stomach lurches at the thought of all those lists yet to be thought of and wishes to be captured and put to paper, so I'll start small.

With Things I want to do.

I really really really want to learn to play a fiddle.
Like Seth Lakeman and Vanessa Mae and maybe just a little bit like Joshua Bell. And I'd want to get in with a folk band and tour the countries far and wide with all my four cats in tow. Ahem.

I want to learn Japanese. And I want to visit Japan and go to Gion in Kyoto where I'll dress up in a kimono and be taught a tea ceremony by an ancient retired Geisha. And I also want to visit all the temples and gardens I can stand before my mind melts from too much perfection.

I want to write a book and have it published. It will be a book that becomes a cornerstone of a new genre in fiction and this genre will be called after me, obviously. And while I'm at it, I also want to write and direct a film script for Hollywood and a documentary for Discovery Channel. (no sense in dreaming small, is there now.) And then I want to write another book and another script. And probably another.

I want to hang-glide. What can I say, I always wanted to fly. For a time, I considered the option of parachuting, but it's scary how often those things don't open and I had to recognise that, splatted, my list of things I want will most definitely remain unfulfilled. Then, when I had learned how to hang-glide to my utter satisfaction and when the wind had stripped my skin of all desire to continue flying this way, then I should like to learn to fly a plane. I don't mind which, a Cessna or a F16, I'm quite easy either way.

I want to drive a motorbike. I want to hound down a wavy road on a Ducati or a Harley (again, not too particular either way) and zig zag across the entire of USA and maybe even parts of Switzerland. It would help me enormously if the oncoming traffic could stay the heck out of my way while I'm at it. Thank you in advance.

I want to sing. The way one sings that doesn't make people want to throw rotten vegetables at you or make your other half swear he is leaving-so-help-me-god if you utter one more sound. And then, maybe, I can sing a tune or two while I'm out touring with my folk band, when I'm taking the break from playing the fiddle to rest my fingers. And when I open my mouth, the peopledome will gape with awe and sway this way and that as if in a trance. And when I'm done, there will be so much applause that their fingers will hurt but they won't feel it because they'll still be completely enraptured from my awesome singing. Ahem.

I want to dance the tango. I want to dance it the way it was meant to be danced, the Argentine Tango. The way they did it in the Naked Tango when I couldn't help but fall hopelessly in love with Vincent D'Onofrio. And while I'm on the subject of Vincent, I really want him to play me in the film version of my life. I know it's a bit unorthodox, a guy playing a girl, but it's not new, it has been done that way in the time of old and no reason why it can not be done again. It will be like Victor Victoria, but completely different.

I want to surf on the New Zealand beaches and then have my palm read by the alternative lifestyle people who live there. They will tell me about what my future has in store and I will tell them about the 15 million old coconut fossil found on their beach. They are probably like Amish and don't read the Wikipedia, so that'll make me look way cool.

I want to partake in an original sweat lodge. None of that flaky nouveau age stuff. Proper, honest to god, reservation stuff I'm talking about here. Not sure if the real ones allow foreign women in the sweat lodge but hey, this is what I want and they are bound to make an exception for me. I will go into a trance and meet all my ancestors and ask the fabled uncle of yore where he had hidden the pot of gold that the family had been telling tales about for over 40 years. Just kidding. I will go into a trance and ask my guide animal spirit about stuff.

I want to fish. With a boat or waist deep in the river. Doesn't matter. What is important and what does matter is that I gut and clean the fish I catch and cook it over a slow fire, right there on the side of the water, while the sun daintily dips behind the horizon and the early evening wind fills the air with ozone and lushness.

image from naturalpatriot.org

Road trip to Yosemite

2009-06-27T19:50:00.001+01:00

It's June, it's hot and the family and I decided to take a trip to Yosemite National Park. We left Oakland around 9 am (not 7.30am as I kept insisting we should have done) and headed towards the hills. Suddenly, the cool mists were replaced by blistering heat and much yellowed, burnt grass.

I put a tiny thermometer on the dashboard and was scared witless to see it reach past 42C. The car's aircon wasn't working and there were four people in the car. Draw your own conclusions.

However, two hours into the trip, hills were in our sights, and we all cheered up looking forward to the cool breeze and the glorious shade to come. The road wound tightly, cut into the sides of the rippled earth, and the car chugged along with all windows open and with our tongues hanging out like four overheated dogs.

I was driving at this point and it was mighty difficult to remember to stay on the right side of the road, but I managed it. I missed the fun and the diversion of having to change gears (Americans love their automatics).

Finally, we arrived to our destination, a cool, forested cabin park
with a soft carpet of pine needles and ready entertainment in the shape of squirrels, jay birds and various flying insects.

The beer was immediately rescued from the cooler for a speedy consumption. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite so refreshing as a cold beer on a blisteringly hot day. Sadly, I have no photos of the beer; use your imagination [insert your favourite beer here]

We discovered that there were some gorgeous sights to see right next to our lodgings, first a waterfall to which we arrived after a very short hike over the tree roots and steps cut into the rock. It was unbelievably lovely being misted by the glacial water spray and, I will not lie to you, one was rather tempted to have a dip in the beautiful cool waters.

Still, one didn't, and just as well as those who did have a dip eventually, in the river that is made once the waterfall water levels off further down in the valley, found it painfully cold. I'm not at liberty to release the photos from that swimming attempt but trust
me when I say that it was hugely funny (to those of us safe and dry on the giant pebbled shore).
Instead, here's the photo of the river and the giant pebbles.

The following day we went to the Valley to see more waterfalls and then we drove up to the Taft and Glacier point and saw the edge of the world.

I got a little bit dizzy from vertigo, looking over the edge down to the valley sprawling far below, but it was worth it. Standing on top of the world with just the blue skies and tufty white clouds above the horizon, it felt like the whole world had fallen off and only I (and a few tourists) existed.

You can't lie if you are on Facebook (story)

2009-06-13T18:34:00.000+01:00

Recently, I attended a party, a significant departure from my hermit ways, where I had a reasonably good time.

I met some people I haven't seen for an age, I had some wine (after pointedly asking 'where are the drinks please' several times, my hostess finally grudgingly showed me where they were hidden), I even met some new people.

Now, don't get me wrong, I enjoy meeting new people, but I am, I have decided, quite shy until I know what and who I am dealing with and also, there is that whole hermit thing. It's been a while since I've socialised with anyone other than my cats.

So, I'm waiting for my friend, the hostess, to finish chatting to the weird ginger haired bloke in a death metal Tee, when this guy with black spiked up hair and bright red face with traces of some sort of infection around his mouth plumps himself on the miniature sofa next to me. He's wearing a jeans jacket over a dirty looking tee shirt and skinny jeans and holds a paper plate heaped with dry meats, potato salad and cheese.

Oh well, think I, I'll just sit here quietly until he either goes away or my friend is free to chat, whichever comes first. The back of the tiny sofa expands to envelop me.

But no, he turns to me and says hi and introduces his friend who I didn't even notice sitting on the chair behind me. The friend is chomping down the chow and looks as pleased to meet me as if I'd just shoved a prize winning carrot up his backside. On the plus side, his baby face is smooth and his locks are flaxen. He puts me in mind of Jude Law back when he was cute. The black leather jacket he is wearing doesn't even look stolen.

Several awkward smiles later, I'm squirming and casting worrying glances towards my friend who is unhurriedly chatting to the weird death metal guy when Mr Spiky hair decides to start up a conversation; who do you know here, where to do you live, blah blah. Except that, worryingly, it all sounds a bit like an interrogation. The good cop bad cop routine. The bad cop with the cute face meanwhile hasn't said a thing. He is chewing his food and sending me evils.

I tell Mr Spiky that I live out in the sticks with the rest of the grown ups. (I regret this later, but it's a defense mechanism; I go on the offensive as soon as I feel even slightly insecure, and I was feeling plenty insecure right then.)
He promptly insists I define the parameters of grown upness and I consider this for a smidgen before concluding that grown ups are people who worry more often than they have fun. (I'm going for the sympathy here, maybe even some tears, though an arm around the shoulder would be too much).

"Did you hear this, Mr Grumpy," he says to his friend who is now almost finished chewing. Mr Grumpy is unmoved. Mr Spiky is equally unimpressed and stomps off in search of new food. I use this opportunity to get up and dive towards my friend but she has disappeared somewhere and suddenly I can't see anyone I know. Dismayed, I turn around and almost walk into Mr Spikey coming back with food refill. He pauses, expecting me to resume my place between him and and his friend but I suggest we swap places, assuming he'd rather be excused from the futility that was our conversation. He sits down. I stay standing. There is still nobody I know around and I feel my despondent face creeping on. Eventually, Mr Spiky, his softer side engaged by the grub, announces that he is sure we can all find something to talk about. So we do. He tells me about himself and Mr Grumpy and how they are both spies. I smile indulgently but he seems quite serious about it. He insists that both he and Mr Grumpy work for the government and have been friends for many years now, having met on a seminar back when Coldplay were cool. He is very persuasive. He gives me facts and theories and all the while Mr Grumpy is nodding sagely along with possibly a trace of a smirk but it is dark so I can't be sure.

Couple of days later and I'm chatting to my friend over coffee, saying how nice the party was and weren't those two guys who work for the government strange? Government? she repeats puzzled. That's odd, coz Mr Spiky is a journalist - he's on my Facebook, look him up if you like.

I did. Mr Spikey, I looked you up and I found all your articles in the Daily Telegraph. You don't even write about the government you lying little sack of potatoes. And I can't believe how gorgeous your girlfriend is - my friend pointed her out at the coffee house - she is way out of your league. What imaginative lies you must have told her. [ok, I apologize, that was a cheap shot]

However, unlike Mr Grumpy's face, I am not bitter and I sincerely hope you never grow up.

See you around.

Writing class (story)

2009-06-11T23:37:00.000+01:00

ERNEST (name tag pinned to pink shirt) is attending a creative writing seminar. EMINENT WRITER is in residence as mentor. Everyone is very excited to be there.

EMINENT WRITER:
Now, everyone, I want you to close your eyes. He looks around to make sure everyone had closed their eyes. Everyone had.

EMINENT WRITER:
Now. I want you to visualise the moment when you decided who you wanted to be when you grew up. Not what kind of job you wanted to do, but what kind of person you wanted to be. OK?

ERNEST sneaks a quick glance through a half closed left eye. SHEILA is wearing a flowery dress that makes a funny sound as she sways this way and that, her eyes closed. Everyone is trying hard to remember something really poignant.

Eventually, EMINENT WRITER:
All done?

Heads gently bob in confirmation and the group opens their eyes slowly, as if worried something nasty may happen if they opened them too quickly.

BEN, tall, lanky, TV executive type, vocalises what everyone is thinking:
You can never be sure if there hadn't been someone laughing at you while you had your eyes closed, right?

There is a collective shuffle and few appreciative snorts. EMINENT WRITER raises one eyebrow and curls his mouth in disapproval.

EMINENT WRITER:
Tabitha, he turns to the woman next to him, would you like to tell us about your experience?

TABITHA, name tag askew on the ample chest, takes a deep breath, bats eyelashes a few times:
I was about 9 years old and my family were visiting an old aunt who lived near an abattoir. The smell was just awful and when my parents explained what happens there I was so upset I made a decision to never eat meat again. I've been a vegetarian ever since.

There is an awkward silence in the group after TABITHA’s tale. Some people nod sagely. Some roll their eyes. Everyone is feeling uneasy, bums shift on seats, feet shuffle under chairs, fringes are adjusted and glasses taken off and examined for imaginary specs of dust.

ERNEST is examining his cuticles. EMINENT WRITER nods to Tabitha, then turns to ERNEST:
And what about you Ernest?

ERNEST (somewhat startled):
Oh. Well. Erm. Well, I was 10, or maybe 9, it's hard to remember exactly, and my friends and I were passing time, talking about this and that, and eventually we started talking about what we wanted our tomb stones to read, you know, once we were dead. And I remember saying, I want mine to say: Ernest Kidwell - he made people laugh.

There is an audible, possibly slightly relieved, chuckle from the group. Even the EMINENT WRITER laughs. ERNEST allows himself a little smile.

BEN, looks around the room and laughing a tad too loudly winks at ERNEST:
Looks like you've achieved your life's ambition, mate! [snort]. So, what will you do now? [inane grin]

ERNEST is visibly shocked. The group stares at him, unsure half smiles frozen on their faces. Aghast, he stares at BEN hard, then blinks once. The truth hits him like a Tornado. He slides of the chair wordlessly and entirely without humour.

ERNEST is Dead.

True story, although names have been changed to prevent lawsuits

Books

2009-06-09T14:46:00.001+01:00

I don't remember how old I was when I started reading, but I do have a photograph of me, aged 4.5, holding a children's book I'd borrowed from a neighbour. I don't remember having a lot of books that were my own at that time, although I must have done, I just don't remember them.

On the beautiful and memorable day that was to be my eighth birthday, my wonderful, most special and bestest auntie in the world gave me a present that ‘will last a lifetime and will grow in value, but in the meantime would be treasured and enjoyed' and that my parents argued I was far to young for - an entire collection of books by the most famous children's author of the day and the place.

It was a day very long ago in a place far far away although arguably not as far away as the kingdom of Far Far Away where Princess Fiona and Shrek live, though I digress.

It was true, I was far too young for any of the books in collection, save perhaps one, which I'd read and re-read about 200 times by the time I was mature enough to move onto its siblings. It was also true that the gift was far too extravagant, as were all the gifts my wonderful auntie gave me before and since.

The books were bound in red leather. On the front cover, the title, the author's name and the name of the publisher were embossed in gold. On the spines, the red leather was hardly visible from the layer upon layer of thin gold lines. And inside, each book had it's own, silk threaded bookmark, woven into the spine, never to be lost.

Had I been capable of thinking of heaven and death, I am sure I would have thought that I had died and gone to heaven.

Instead, I spent hours rapturously caressing these treasures, at first, with my eyes only, for fear that I will somehow break and spoil their loveliness like I did with so many toys. Then, later, when I gained in confidence and worldly wisdom, I'd run my fingers lightly over their spines or just hold them, feeling the cool leather on my palms, eyes closed, my brain melted, as if from a spoonful of Nutella.

Years passed and I read all the books in my collection and then some. I read my mother’s antique copy of Little Women so many times that all the pages fell out and it took me three days to put them all back in order. And then I read it again. I read my parents books; Camus, Kafka, Sartre, Ibsen, Hardy, Kerouac, Melville and even, once Freud (I wouldn’t recommend it at 12, it’s a bit startling and, as it turns out, misleading plus mother did tell me to start with Jung as he was ‘easier’).

As I grew, I devoured entire libraries, like some child tsunami; always an apple in one hand, book in the other. Sometimes, days would pass with me blissfully lost in a book, just like my heroine, Jo March. Sometimes, I’d sneak the books into school and read surreptitiously under the desk and at recess when everyone else was chasing each other up and down the corridors.

I never grew out of it. I don’t think it’s possible. I’ve spoken to others, crazy, like me. They too recall many a time when they had to call in sick at work because the previous night had been given over to a good book.

I love books. Old or new, paperback or hardback, trashy or classy. I love them all.

And I will never forget the awe of that first, devilishly red and all mine, bounty of books.

Gothicisity

2009-06-07T17:17:00.000+01:00

I looked up Goths on google and this came up (as expected):

"Goths are likely to grow up to be doctors, lawyers or architects, a study by Sussex University says.

They are refined and sensitive, keen on poetry and books, not big on drugs or anti-social behaviour. They are also likely to carry on being goths into their adult life.

They have an ability to express their feelings and are believers in romance rather than one-night stands, it says. In fact, the only things dark about them are their clothing and their sarcastic sense of humour."

image and text from: TimesOnline 2007

Searching further back, I find this article from Sussex University, which tells us how Goths are basically middle-class emo kids with a thing for pink hair.

Not so, the website on What is Goth, argues. We are free thinkers who shun the sheep like dogma of the masses - or something. They do, however, agree with Sussex about the sarcastic sense of humour .

And here, at long last (have I lost you yet) we arrive at the reason for my interest in this topic.
But first, hang on a bit longer, we have to go back in time a bit; oh, all of 20 years back, I'd say.

And it so happened that one sunny day, I was asked by a newly acquired acquaintance if I saw myself as a Goth.

"'Tis hard to say," I responded with my customary sneer, looking the guy up and down with laconic indifference John Wayne would have been proud of and trying to make my mind up weather to cut him down with one quick sharp witticism or let him stew for a bit first, "what's a Goth?"

To my surprise, he seemed surprised. "Oh. Well, er, are you joking?"

"Nope," I said, quite seriously. "What is it then?"

"Well, you know," the guy hesitated, not quite sure what to make of this now, "people who dress all in black and are all dark and snidey and stuff." And he looked at me pointedly with raised eyebrows.

I looked down at my all black clothes and at my nails covered in black varnish and at the shop window from which my black lips pouted derisively from a seriously scornful pale face.

"I see what you mean." I conceded eventually.

"Well," he persisted, "are you?"

"Nope." I said. "I just like black, the rest is a coincidence."

Two decades later and I'm neither a doctor nor a lawyer; I love wearing vivid colours and have never died my hair pink, not even a tiny bit. My sense of humour has devolved from sarcastic to downright rude and most days it borderlines on heckling.

However, I still have enough garments in my meager wardrobe to dress top to toe black if I so chose. And it's not because it's slimming - coz it isn't. It's because wearing all black is like being permanently wrapped in a gauzy cloud. And underneath this cloud is a barrier, impentetrable to all evils, that clings tightly to your skin. And you walk around knowing that noone else can touch or harm you as long as you wear your black armour.

Things Cat

2009-06-05T16:37:00.000+01:00

We love paws
they have claws
that grow in rows

We love fluffy fur
when stroked, it
emits a purr

We love all things cat
even the ones that are fat
and not only our pet

We love the sleep
in dreams that leap
somewhat like sheep

We do, so love paws
with their neat little rows
of bejeweled claws

It's a rainy day, albeit not in Georgia.
Cats have been asleep until recently and now there is only one sleeping, the other two are outside, watching the muggy coloured, rainy world with some suspicion and a hint of interest.

The fourth cat is still missing. I speak to him in my mind every day and plead with him to return soon. It's unreal how much a person can love a cat if they let themselves. And I did.

And don't get me wrong, I am not sitting here thinking that the poem above is good, or even not bad. It's just that it was inspired by playing with my cat and that makes it brilliant. Please don't send the men in white coats just yet.

----

In other news, the neighbour's kid is practicing his drumming again. It's been three years and he is not getting any better.

I, on the other hand, am getting scarily good at imagining various scenarios in which both he and his drum-kit meet with an unwholesome, tragic end. Inevitably, there are a fair few of a head-on collision between the parts of the kit and their owner. Importantly, and unlike the high action thrillers, the collisions are soundless.

I know, I know, you think it can't be done but, trust me, I've thought it all through and I have a plan. I'm not telling you the details, however, I'm thinking of patenting the soundless head slamming, there is bound to be a market for it.

-----
And now, for your viewing pleasure

Video of my tabbies, when they were very tiny. Backbeats included. Humorous ending guaranteed.

Baby airplanes - what happens when you don't wake up properly

2009-06-04T09:36:00.001+01:00

Image credit: BBC Cambridgeshire

There is a small city airport not very far from where I live. It's an airfield really, truth be told, but since there is a row of lights leading the way and a control room, I guess it has to be called an airport.

Along the edge of this tiny airport are parked tiny, incy, wincy airplanes - Baby Airplanes.

There is a sign on the side of the big, scary, barbed wire fence that tells you that they like to be called Tiger Moths.

Which made me wonder what they eat before they can become big, scary, double-decker air buses.

I looked up what moths eat and they usually eat liquid food through a long thin tube. I have seen that baby airplanes also have a long thin tube that goes in their belly. Only, there is some sort of greasy man holding the tube to the plane, which is weird because I think moths are supposed to have this tube coming out of their body and not the other way around. I wonder if moths also have a tiny man to hold their feeding tube?

Since there aren't many flowers on the green of the airfield, I am now starting to wonder if those fly overs I sometimes see from my garden aren't baby airplanes searching for food. Which reminds me of that really scary airplane that was big and loud and looked like a triangle and it flew with the noise of 20 million devils just a hair width above my hair. Well, that's what it felt like at the time. The triangle plane made flips in the air so much so that I thought it had lost control and would come tumbling in a roaring ball of spitting fire straight into my vegetable patch. Happily, it didn't, but I'm still nervous of any sudden noise. I bet that kind of plane eats little planes for his food, just like the sparrowhawk which was hovering above the honeysuckle bush last Thursday was looking to eat little finches from the cherry trees.

And then, what happened is, that I had to stop for petrol, and this kid behind me said:

"Excuse me, but would you mind terribly if I went in front of you, because I'm dreadfully late for school, you see, my school starts at 9am!" and he brandished his crisps in my face as if they were some sort of self evident defence.

What could I do? thinking of baby airplanes and moths and finches, I nodded and he went ahead with his rusty coloured hair, standing on tiptoes to reach the counter, which was, lets not be unkind, quite high.

Beginning (story)

2009-06-01T23:23:00.002+01:00

Beginning, The

“Now, wait just a minute!”

“What?”

“You can’t just go barging in like that.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” the flustered voice faltered, “it needs proper consideration.”

“I’ve considered it and I’m ready to begin.”

“You can’t be ready!” A polished shoe stomped an exclamation on the floor. Tiny clouds of dust rose up and settled down again, some of them on the shoe.

“Why not?”

“Stop saying that.”

“Why?”

“Oh for heaven’s sakes, can’t you be serious for one minute?”

“I am being serious. This is a very serious matter to me. It matters a great deal. Fact of the matter is, I couldn’t be more serious if I tried.”

Dusty shoe turned its tip accusingly towards its pristinely polished, gleaming counterpart. It may have felt victimised by the dust, or that it was unfair it should be singled out; it’s generally quite hard to tell with shoes. Farther up, the immaculately pressed pinstriped trousers trembled anxiously. Farther up still, a pair of pale, rice-papery hands clenched and unclenched with tiny, vigorous spasms. And still higher, a voice strained by decades of choked-back opinions squeaked in an incomprehensible rage.

“Knghhhhhh…ahghgh…knknkkn..”

“What?”

Ancient, thin lips puckered up in a childish pout, unable to make the right words.

Bertram shrugged. He didn’t have time for this. Not now. He was ready and he would begin, the old codger would just have to bear it. He walked over to his desk, sat down, grabbed a pen and, with particular gusto he hadn’t felt for over a year, wrote on the 110gsm paper he had prepared especially for this occasion:

Shame it wasn’t Tuesday.

In the middle of the room, slightly trembling, First Undersecretary, Sir Waleter Discordant, closed his eyes, fully expecting a plague of locusts or, at the very least, a bolt of lightning. Neither occurred. After a few minutes fraught with inner turmoil, Sir Waleter chanced a peek through his left eye and spying no immediate danger, but seeing Bertram feverishly at his task, let both his eyes shoot wide open.

Tuesday is generally known to be a good sort of day. Not like Monday, which everybody hates, or Sunday, the day before the day that everybody hates. It is a day after all the bad days have passed but before the week reaches the peak of tedium. In some ways, Tuesday is possibly better than even Friday. Bertram continued to write in his large, round handwriting, scraping the biro on the 110-gsm papers designed for heavy printing. The ink soaked in, leaving no smears.

“We are ruined, ruined!” intoned the First Undersecretary into his palms, which were pressed tightly over his long, drawn face.

“Nonsense, pure nonsense!” Bertram managed a quip amidst his frenzied pen strokes.

“You have no idea what you’ve done, have you?”

Sir Waleter turned sharply towards Bertram, or rather, Bertram’s hunched, yet still broad, back. “And at least straighten up when you are writing, you look like a…like a…like a person of poor breeding,” he finished huffily. Or it might have been haughtily, it wasn’t always easy to tell with the First Undersecretary; huff and haught were pretty much it, as far as his tone went.

Bertram straightened up in his chair and continued.

Had it been Tuesday, by golly, it would have been glorious. Birds chirping, sun shining, merriment and cheer all around. One could get used to that sort of Tuesday, Felibrant thought to himself, tying his shoelace for the fifteenth time. Why can’t they make the blasted things stick, he thought crossly to himself. Now, it may be argued that thinking is usually done to oneself, but it has also been said, by certain classes of new wave thinkers, that some thinking can be, and in fact often is, done aloud, for all to hear.

Sir Waleter, having read the latest paragraph over Bertram’s shoulder, groaned loudly. Bertram studiously ignored him and continued to write.

In any case, even if Felibrant were thinking aloud, which he wasn’t, there would have been no one to hear his thinking, for he was alone, there wasn’t a soul around. That is to say,

“And another thing, why in the name of all that is holy do you insist on using that daft implement?” Sir Waleter wrinkled his nose at the biro in Bertram’s hand. “Honestly, with that sort of attitude, you might as well use a typewriter or,” Sir Waleter hesitated, as if the words he was about to say would cause him actual physical pain, “even that evil contraption you use for your daily correspondence.”

Bertram paused for a moment to examine the biro in his hand. Apparently satisfied, he gave it a fond little smile and pressed on; there were souls around; of birds, small mammals, flowers and such, if those things had souls, on which point Felibrant was somewhat unsure; but there wasn’t a human person to be seen anywhere, and that was the point. Or rather, that would have been the point if, indeed, there was a point to be made, which wasn’t altogether clear.

Sir Waleter walked over to the overstuffed chair by the fireplace and sank into it wordlessly. His wispy, white hair stuck limply to his head and his knees appeared even bonier than usual. Truth be told, they worked themselves up into two sharp points of worry. At least that’s what a casual observer would have thought, had they been observing him, which they were not, because Bertram had his back turned to him and there was nobody else in the room.

Sir Waleter looked forlornly at the italicised words floating in the air around him. He was done for, he knew. There was simply no way to get himself, or that buffoon, Bertram, out of this predicament.

Just then, a heavy candlestick, the one on top of the marble fireplace in front of the gilded mirror, fell off and landed with a thud on the Persian carpet at the First Undersecretary’s feet.

Sir Waleter stared at the candlestick at his feet and then at Bertram, still writing furiously. He narrowed his eyes and raised one sharp eyebrow. Taking a deep breath, he glanced about, bracing himself for the next italicized calamity.

The air in the room grew heavy with anticipation and dewy with the pressure of discordant realities. By the large bay window, old damask curtains twitched in a ghostly breeze, their mustard yellow fabric appearing to change hue in fits of creative pique.

And then, Bertram stopped writing. He leaned back in his chair, pen poised in mid air and a faraway look in his eye. After a few moments that seemed to Sir Waleter to last an eternity, Bertram exclaimed a small “Ha!” and hunched, once again, over his desk.

In the fireplace, the fire crackled excitedly, sending small, orange cinders flying in all directions. Sir Waleter gripped the arms of his chair with bony hands and waited with bated breath.

Bertram paused to scratch his chin, wiggled slightly in his seat and, pressing his pen tightly to the 100gsm paper, methodically crossed out the last two paragraphs.

Sir Waleter draw back in surprise as the candlestick repositioned itself back on the top of the fireplace. His knees, too, were no longer wrapped in a gauzy cloud of italics.

“How can this be?” he exclaimed excitedly. “I’ve never heard of such a thing! It cannot be done!”

Bertram turned slightly in his chair and half-faced the old man. “Not to be pointing out the obvious, or anything, but, it seems to me that it can, indeed, be done, for it was done, by me, just now, as you sat there watching.” He didn’t add ‘you daft old bag of bones’ as he would have liked to; after all, Bertram wasn’t of poor breeding, no matter what the old dust jacket said.

“But…but…” Sir Waleter grappled for words.

“It seems to me, Sir Waleter,” Bertram continued, “that for one who professes himself the foremost authority on Scribe Cognitive Spatial Displacement, you find yourself inopportunely short of fitting words.” He now turned around fully to direct an accusing stare at the First Undersecretary. No sense ruining the occasion with a lack of appropriate dramatics, he had always been fond of saying, and never had his adage held truer than at this precise moment.

Sir Waleter remained silent. He had been hoping his lack of response would entice Bertram to continue with his discourse. In truth, he would gladly have subjected himself to the most unbearable of insults if that had stopped Bertram writing. Yes, he had to admit, he had never witnessed this type of spontaneous nullification before, but he had enough experience to know that this type of anomaly could not exist without some type of unwelcome recompense. Thus, he leaned forward slightly and assumed an expression of polite interest.

“If you ask me,” Bertram continued, “it is difficult to imagine what use is your presence here. All you ever do is tell me not to do anything. How am I to achieve greatness by not-doing things?”

Sir Waleter brought the tips of his fingers together in front of his gaunt face.
“There will be repercussions,” he said.

“What kind of repercussions?”

“I don’t know yet. But you’d better prepare yourself Bertram, it could be anything.”

Bertram scoffed. He was growing confident, he could feel the power of creation coursing through his hands, which were itching to get back to writing. He made to turn back.

“Look!” Sir Waleter called out.

“What?” Bertram snapped back tersely.

“Look at the candlestick!” Sir Waleter pointed towards the mantelpiece. In place of the candlestick that had been written onto the floor and then crossed back into place, now stood a small, yellow rubber duck.

Sir Walter suddenly twitched and bent closely over his knees. They appeared as bony as ever, but otherwise unchanged. He breathed an unguarded sigh of relief.

He stood up suddenly and pointed at the rubber duck.

“See. I told you!”

“Hmm,” said Bertram.

“Don’t you just sit there hmming, young man. You get your behind off that chair and away from those writing implements this instant. There is no way of knowing what will transpire next, whether you write it or not!”

“Interesting.” A sly smile spread across Bertram’s face. “Regardless of whether I write it or not, you say,” he continued. “By Gods this is extraordinary.”

“No! I mean yes, it is extraordinary but not in a positive sense of the word. Bertram, please, keep your wits about you, boy, this is the most delicate of situations.” Sir Waleter allowed a certain amount of pleading to creep into his voice.

“I don’t see that there is anything to be worried about, Sir Waleter. In fact, I would go so far as to say that nothing will ever cause me worry from now on. Can’t you see? I’m all powerful, I could do anything I wanted..”

“Stop, stop that at once!” Sir Waleter screamed, turning a paler shade of pale.

“Why should I?” Bertram raised his bulk slowly off the chair and drew himself up to his full height of 6 feet and 4 inches. “Are you afraid of me?” he looked quizzically at the First Undersecretary, who was renowned throughout the known Universe for his laconic absence of any kind of fear.

“Bertram, I implore you,” Sir Waleter pleaded wretchedly, “you must stop this now. Any which way, you must stop.”

Bertram tut-tutted impatiently. “You are spouting pure nonsense, Sir Waleter. Frankly, I’ve lost interest in discussing this issue with you.” He sat down again. “And now, back to my writing.”

Sir Waleter started to protest but instead of words, he spouted pure nonsense: “jshdfweup dsfhwoeh w apsrowf cfwo.” Astonished, he clapped his hands to his mouth.

Bertram picked up his pen, “Before I get back to it, Sir Waleter, I must tell you …” He flourished the pen in the air, as if it were a quill. ”I feel, if I fancied it, I could erase the Whole World …”

P I N G

And just like that, there was no world. No Bertram, no Sir Waleter, no curtains and no fireplace. Even Felibrant was no more. It was a shame though, because tomorrow could have been Tuesday and we all know what a corker of the day that can be.

However...