Aeolia 03

It was just about noon when I crested the rise. Since mid-morning the climb had been steady but now it was over and I stood and gazed at the scene before me.
Two valleys met here forming a giant T and I stood at the corner of the crosspiece and upright, gazing down upon a lush forest that spread like a quilt across the slopes of the hills. On the far northern side of the crosspiece and running east to west, the mountains themselves rose from the floor of the valley, looming immensely all around. Scant vegetation could be seen here and there clinging impossibly to the almost vertical surface.
From my left a waterfall issued out from the mountains and cascaded downward to form a sizeable lake which in turn spilled out to the east in a raging, swollen torrent of water that raced below me along the valley floor.
I started down the slope into the valley that formed the upright of the T, which turned out to be a bit steeper than I thought so by the time I hit the bottom I was running in free-fall.
I slowed eventually and became aware of my surroundings. I had entered a forest of considerable age. The trees that stood around me had trunks of immense girth and the broken branches that littered the floor of the woodland bore layers of moss coated in moisture. I felt older simply by being there. I also felt that I was trespassing.
I became aware of the sound of water and in a short while I came upon the reason when I stepped into a boggy, grassy patch beside a fast running stream. Just across the stream a clearing rose up and looked a reasonable place to make camp for a while.
I took off my boots and stepped across. The water was cold but tasted delicious when I scooped a handful to drink. I began to forage around for firewood and see what food was available. The late autumn yielded a plentiful supply of berries and a few nuts and the lake when I reached it showed ample sign of fish.
I cast out a few lines and tied the ends to a tree in hope of the fish being hungry for the worms I unearthed and then continued my foraging, heading westward along the shoreline of the lake. At the far end of the lake the shore did a right-angled turn toward the mountains and there a few metres out from the shingle stood an island. Square(ish) in shape it looked like a box had been stepped upon at one end so it tilted upward, the high end facing into the sun that drifted ever lower as the afternoon progressed.
It came as a bit of a shock to discover that this ‘island’ bore signs of habitation. I rounded a boulder half the size of a house and discovered a cave entrance but no ordinary cave. This had been created by man. The walls were straight and the floor level and rooms led off to each side and at the far end it opened out into a wider area with a small window looking directly out to the east across the lake and on up the valley. A niche on one side held evidence of a fire having been lit. It had been a long time since anyone had actually been in the place but the very fact that it was here gave cause to wonder. Whatever the reason for it being here, it was a darn fine place to stay for a while.
Returning to the fishing lines I had cast earlier yielded a meal-sized fish and I set out a further trap for any passing rabbit. I then armed myself with as much firewood as I could carry and returned to the new-found home.
It wasn’t long before a plume of smoke rose up through the vent that had been made for the purpose and heat wafted out into the cavern.
Over the next few months I made the place very comfortable. A bedroom in itself was a luxury, a kitchen was undreamed of! A warm place to sleep, a place to store food, a place to fish for food and a place to hunt those that did not swim; what more could one ask ?
I began to get to know the area, the best runs for rabbit and deer. I learned the way of the lake, where to look when the weather cooled or where the fish sheltered when the sun warmed the surface. I began constructing a small canoe from the woods around me, trying to remember all I had learned way back then. Carefully selecting tree bark from the Birch that grew thick around the base of the mountains, trimming and shaving the framework. Sometimes I got it wrong and had to start over and sometimes it all fitted together and I learned as much as I already knew.
The seasons turned and the autumn display the trees gave made my heart sing with joy at the beauty of it. Winter arrived and the snow lay deep, lean times for those that had not prepared; My store grew less as the days passed and the traps remained empty and the fish vanished. Sometimes days passed before I was able to get out, blizzards raged and the snow got deeper.
When I was released by a milder spell the walking and hunting proved hard but I found enough to keep hunger at bay, always supplemented by the nuts and berries I had gathered and dried beforehand. Smoked fish and venison still could be found in the larder as the temperature began to rise and herald the Spring.

Cynics R Us

£12bn. Which is probably about 20 something billion dollars. It’s a lot of money isn’t it? Even if I work overtime I could not get close to that target.
The amount is astonishing but the fact that it may exceed that total is horrifying.

I am not a computer expert but I AM a computer user. At work I rely on them to produce information whereby the Operators (I work in a Switchboard) can identify who is on call for the various Medical and non-medical services that the Hospital provides. - It is worth noting that when I first started, this information was written out with one of those old-fashioned pen type things! This was a long laborious process that meant accurate copying of names and (phone) numbers. As anyone can see, the system has an immediate flaw; No matter how good you are, mistakes will happen.
So I got a PC and typed out the full list of on-call contact names (amounting to a couple of hundred). Then I designed a form that could be easily used by a simple drag & drop method and thus, a new era was born. We dragged ourselves into the twenty first century.
Life became easier. The Operators gave thanks for a clear, legible sheet of paper with clear and concise information. True we still rely on the various Departments to supply us with rotas and timetables of the said information, but overall the system works well and we are happy to go with it. I have even gone to lengths to design and build a Database (via Microsoft Access, that gives more information than is actually required.
However, enough about my part.
Government. They are ultimately responsible for the NHS (National Health Service). The dear old Department of Health. Bless ‘em. Sitting in their ivory towers without a clue as to what goes on in the real world… They decided one day that what was needed was a Super Duper Computer System that could record and hold ALL Medical Records for everyone in the Country. All Hospitals will need to sign up to it and it will allow a Doctor In Scotland to gain access to a visiting patient from Cornwall’s’ medical records. Wonderful. Think of the advantage. No more cumbersome, bulky folders of notes written in dubious handwriting. Instant access to x-rays or notes at the touch of a button. Ahh, visionary!
Go for it they said. Let the bits and bytes beckon as bids are brokered.. Contracts were handed out. MONEY was spent. And is still being spent. Hundreds of pounds pour daily into purses held open for the purpose. Some contractors have pulled out saying that it is doomed to failure. Cynics!
We (the Hospital) embraced the new order. We have a live version of the system up and running. And everyone seems to hate it. It is cumbersome, slow, unclear and unhelpful. But, it seems to occupy Managers who battle on as best they can. Which is not saying much really, Managers as a breed in the NHS are a complete waste of time because they do not actually produce anything that comes close to Patient Care.
With the OLD system we (switchboard) were given a printed list of in-patients at the end of every working day. This was printed out on an old daisy-wheel printer onto double width paper and it gave details of who was where and when people phoned and asked if we happened to know what ward someone was on, we had a list ready and waiting to refer to. Alas modernity in its dark veil has got in the way.
As a department we ask for little. A simple list of patients is though one of primary importance. However it is also one that befuddles the brains of the administrators of the wonder-system. It seems that this new all-encompassing IT wonder is not capable of producing a simple list in A-Z order of patients.
Now, it seems to me that any database should be able to give results at the touch of a couple of buttons. I have a database on my PC at work and it can do exactly that. It can give me a list of Bleep numbers and who holds them, Pagers likewise. Mobile phones and home numbers can be pulled out easily. But, this wondrous new system is incapable of doing a straight list of patients.
I have written (e-mails) to a whole host of people within the Hospital. Some have responded, others have shrugged and passed it on. After some three months we are still without a list…
The solution (after an e-mail to our Chief Executive) is to plug us into this new CRS System and then we will have access to details of who is where. Which sounds fine, until you realise that this will mean spending money on extra computers so each individual can log into the system. New desks to turn the Operators desk into a proper workstation. Before this can happen we need to be trained (overtime needed here to get those that work nights to come in during the day to take part in the training), and numerous forms to be filled in to make sure that we are who we say we are and to swear oaths to the gods of IT that we shall not divulge information (that we don’t want) to other people. Add to this the time that this will take…
£12bn and counting!
I am willing to take a bet… I am willing to bet that someone with access to this CRS CAN produce an alphabetical list of patients. Even if it means a little bit of copy & paste work. I will do exactly that in (no timescale here, we await the trainers and experts to come and show us how to use it). I remain cynical; but that is something I have grown used to. Rest assured that I will produce a list for my Operators to use. I am betting my job on it.
… Watch this space.

Aeolia 02

Parallels may be drawn where they may. Some choices cannot be made, they just Are. There exists the possibility for anything to happen; and Parallels? They remain nevertheless.

Aeolia, The City, dominates most of the landscape of Aeolia, the Land. A vast, conical, conglomeration of buildings of every size and shape inhabited by some thirty million souls, of which a full half live within the central core where it is doubtful that they ever see any ‘real’ daylight or feel the rain on their faces, but they endure it for the sheer quality of life associated with the technological wonders of the metropolis.
I have difficulty with describing Aeolia because it is so different. I come from out under the stars where the wind blows and the rain soaks the ground. Except that now I learn that what I thought was the wild blue yonder is in fact a mirage, a figment of a designers imagination and a computer program.
Allow me time to explain what Aeolia is really like, and how I came to be here.

I was born in a small, bare room on the farm belonging to Dale and his family. My parents were workers for him along with a number of other families all of whom shared a block of apartments Dale had specially built for the purpose. Mother did the cooking for the whole farm-community while my father was retained as the carpenter. So the first few years of my life were spent hovering between kitchen and workshop. I can remember that we were happy and that is about it really because at the age of five I became an orphan. I then went to live with my aunt and uncle (my fathers brother) in the village (Riverdale) where I stayed until the age of fifteen. Aunt Iris ran the bakery shop in the village square. She worked strange hours and enjoyed her work to the full always giving time to the customers, she had set up a table in the corner of the shop and would encourage people to have a cup of tea and take the weight off their feet. She had time for me also, she taught me the basics of right and wrong along with reading and writing.
Uncle Jerald had charge of the smithy that sat in the corner of the square across from the bakery and the locals brought along their wheels and horses, carts and cooking pots for shoeing or repair. It was here I learned many of the skills that stood me in good stead in later life. Jerald was a practical man and instilled in me a simple understanding that if something needs doing then it is best to get on and do it to the best of your ability. It is not a lesson I learned at the time though.
Life was good and I had many friends in the boys and girls of the other shopkeepers and traders of the village. I have vivid memories of the high-days and holidays and it is those festivals that make up most of my early memories, mainly because of the adventure of being away from the village.

Riverdale has evolved over a hundred years or so and has settled down into a market town with thriving farm communities all around and it sits in the south-east corner of Aeolia. To the South and West the Blue Mountains dominate the skyline and the whole district nestles in the shelter of their foothills.
Crops grow on the plains to the East and dairy herds, cattle and sheep, graze across the hills to the South and during long summers Karl and I along with a few of the younger children would venture out into those foothills as far as the river that flows fast through the gully it has carved out in the rock over time. In places sheer drops of twenty-five or thirty metres make access to the river impossible without ropes but further downstream it is possible to clamber down the bank and fishing becomes an option in the more placid waters. It was during one of these trips that my interest in what might lay beyond the mountains ridges first planted itself in my mind.
We had been engaged in a wrestling match and Kaarl had gained the upper hand due to his extra weight and I lay on my back and saw the mountain loom upside-down above me. It made me feel dizzy, the sheer scale of it filled me with a feeling of being so very small and in danger of being overwhelmed. I was also in danger of being overwhelmed by Kaarl so I called a truce and he released me from the hold. I recalled the incident later that night as I gazed at the stars from my bedroom window.
The size of the mountain had been big enough to fill my mind but coupled with the idea that there was also room out there for all those stars was making my head spin and I went to bed and dreamed strange dreams of rooms with no doors that had no walls and seemed to go on forever.
The thought that there might be more to the world than I could see became a constant companion from then on. It was awakened again during my first trek to Central Fayre.

I looked out of the bedroom window to behold another sunny day. A sense of excitement came over me as I remembered what day it was; today the trek to Central began.
These treks occurred twice a year in spring and autumn. In spring the cattle are driven across the plains to Central, where they are slaughtered and despatched to the city or north to Lakeside who, in their turn trade fish and furniture, furs and feathers. The autumnal trek is the time of the harvest and a caravan of carts and wagons loaded to the top with produce creak and groan their way along the trail. Central is not a town or village in the accepted sense, it only exists for the time of the fayre. The rest of the time it lays dormant and consists only of a series of roped off areas for the vendors to erect their traditional tents with a few more permanent structures dotted about to house cattle and the drinking dens.
Hurriedly I dressed, ate breakfast then I grabbed the pack that had been lying in wait for nearly a week and fled out into the square.
Aunt Iris called me back before I had got very far and gave me a parcel of bread to deliver to a customer on the opposite side of the village. With a sigh I took the package and ran all the way there and most of the way back. I had slowed to catch my breath when I heard footsteps behind me and I turned to see Kaarl puffing loudly to catch up.
“I called at home for you,” he gasped, “your aunt said where she had sent you, I did not think I would have to do a lap of the village to find you. Where are you going?” He said all this as he slowed and fell in beside me.
“I wanted to see the horses being harnessed, uncle Jerald said he was going to let Keet handle the harnessing for the experience, so I came this way.” I looked at my friend whose cheeks glowed in the still cool morning. “You’ll have to lose some weight, you have gone very red.”
“My father thinks this trip will help me lose some weight, he has threatened to make me walk all the way if I don’t behave!”
I laughed at the idea Kaarl of walking five hundred kilometres, even though’ I had no concept of the distance.
When we reached the square we found a scene of mild confusion. Keet, not at all sure of himself, was not having a great deal of success with the team of horses in his charge and a couple of the beasts where snorting and stamping their feet alarmingly. The other stable hands were shouting advice and dashing about trying to grab the loose reigns and only served to make matters worse.
Jerald was a big man with a loud voice that belied his normal gentle manner. His face was dark as he restored order, none to pleased at Keets lack of confidence. He restored order and ticked-off the lad then calmly talked to the horses and picked the loose traces off the ground and backed the still snorting animal into place. Within a short time thereafter he led the first of the many wagons out into the square where many people had gathered to see them off and hand over last minute gifts and food for the journey.
The trek takes some time and is achieved in stages, stopping off at established staging-posts along the way. A week before the trek begins an advance party set out to provision the staging posts in anticipation of their arrival then they make their way onto the fayre to begin trading.
Kaarl sat on the tailboard of a wagon that was heavily laden with giant barrels filled with the juice of grapes grown on the lower slopes and now deemed fit enough to trade, and he munched on an apple.
I walked alongside chiding him. “That is the third apple you’ve eaten since we left. At this rate there will be none left to sell. Besides you should be walking, I saw your father coming down trail, I imagine he is looking for you.”
“All right. I’ll walk for a while.” He jumped down and joined me, “Do you think we will get to the first stage before dark?” he asked.
“I don't know, perhaps we should go and ask uncle Jerald, he’ll know. Let’s wait for him.”
We walked off the trail and sat down by the roadside, waving at the wagon drivers as they passed. Eventually Jerald came by riding a huge grey mare, he pulled over to where we sat.
“You’ll not get far like that.” He gazed down at us from on high.
“Kaarl is worried that we won’t make shelter before nightfall.” Said I, reaching up to stroke the neck of the mare. I produced an apple of my own from my pocket and fed it to the animal who nuzzled at my shoulder. “Hello Ash, have a quick munch.”
“Hold him Daevy lad, I’ll stretch my legs with you for a while.” He flung a long leg over the head of the horse and slid to the ground.
I held the reigns and walked the grey and Jerald placed a hand on each of our shoulders, “So you think we’ll be out in the dark do you?” He said smiling. “No fear of that. we should be able to see Firstpost from the top of this rise. It’ll not take long after that.”
“Can we ride on Ash please?” I asked.
“Of course you can, I’ll go and have a word with the Warden while you do.” So saying he hoisted the two of us onto the back of the big grey handed me the reigns and wandered across the road to wave down the Warden who rode along in the company of the following cart.
From the back of the horse we had a fine view and in the far distance the blue smudge of the mountains caused me to ask how far away Kaarl thought they were.
“Farther than I want to go tonight, thank you,” he replied, “I’m looking forward to supper.”
Jerald returned and Kaarl voiced my question.
The man paused while he gazed at the mountains in question. “How Far? Well if you take account of the fact that from one end of Aeolia to the other is four thousand kilometres, then you think that it is nearly two thousand wide and you remember that we are travelling more or less straight down the middle; then I would say that over there is about three hundred and fifty kilometres. Would that be far enough for you?”
“What is beyond the mountains?” I asked, my mind still trying hard to grasp the idea of four thousand kilometres. I had know idea things went so far. Even Firstpost was a lot further than I had imagined.
“Nothing.” Came the short answer.
“How can there be nothing.”
Jerald sighed heavily as he always did when confronted with a difficult question. “Well I cannot say how the nothing came to be, but I can tell you that at the top of the mountain Mikel and I climbed there was nothing. I have spoken to others who have made the climb and they are in agreement, there is nothing there.”
“But what sort of nothing?” I persisted.
“Mist. A grey mist that goes on forever, we reached the top and started walking into it and got completely lost and giddy and eventually we ended up back where we started. It was not a nice experience. And now, if you don’t mind, I would like my horse back so I can go about my duties.” He lifted us from the horse and remounted. “Don’t get lost, supper won’t be long.”
He rode off leaving us to trudge down the hill toward the string of camp fires that shone brightly in the gathering evening and giving promise of hot food and a welcome mug of wine. By the time we reached the staging post the food was being served and we took our places quickly and tucked in ravenously.
Later when supper was eaten and I had taken a walk with Jerald to check the horses I came across Kaarl eating yet another apple as he leaned against the wheel of a wagon gazing out across the plains to the east. I sank down beside him and accepted an offered apple, took a bite and followed Kaarls stare.
Stars shone brightly in the deepening gloom and I automatically started naming them to myself, running through the list in my mind. “What do you make of it then?”
“What?” Kaarl looked round at me.
“All that out there. What do you think?”
“I don’t know what I think. I was wondering whether I ought to have another apple or save it in case I get hungry in the night. I’m off to bed, you coming?”
I chuckled. “No, not yet. I’ll finish this first. See you in the morning. Goodnight.”
I returned my gaze to the stars. I didn’t care what Jerald said, I was sure there must be something out there.

Aeolia 1

Brother Jon had not been amused when I told him of my plans. He had plonked the plate down in front of me and spilled gravy into my lap. A lecture on the wicked ways of the world and a few tips on how to take care of myself and that was it. I had expected full- blown wrath, but instead I got a whimper. It was almost disappointing until I realized he had spent the greater part of my life in trying to enforce a way that was not of my calling. He was giving in gracefully. Twelve years I had spent among the Brothers, most of them very happy. Just the occasional hiccup along the way like anyone else but now it was time to leave. I had given Brother Jon a chance to change my mind but he just wanted me to do whatever I decided. He gave me a backpack as a final farewell
So within the week I left. Brother Edd gave me a stout staff to help me along the way and Brother Jorge had given me a small but highly detailed map of Aeolia. I still have it and very useful it has been.
I wandered around the local vicinity for about a week getting used to the idea that I was out and about in the big wide world all on my own. Survival was not difficult as I had been hunting ever since I could remember and the area was rich in wildlife. I popped back to the village a couple of times for a few items; a knife and small axe, a length of rope and the like but I didn't go and see Brother Jon, I had closed the page on that chapter of my life.
I will always be grateful to the Brothers for their care and comfort when I became orphaned at the age of three. A fire had taken my parents and the last thing my father had done was to throw me out of the window into the arms of the helpless villagers below. Now it was time to sever the ties and go out into the world by myself.
I wandered far and wide. Stopping here and there at various villages and townships, I would make myself useful by being a hunter-gatherer and exchanging my efforts for a resting place or a meal. Mostly I prefer to live by myself and camped out, self-sufficient and alone.

Outside in the crisp night air a vixen gave voice and I heard another answer from across the valley, the cry echoing in the stillness. Frost penetrated into the makeshift tent and bit the end of my nose. I shivered and decided that there was little point in laying on cold ground shivering so I shrugged out of the sleeping-bag and dressed quickly. The few biscuits I had left were hard and the water I swallowed was coated with a thin film of ice which made me shiver again.
I crawled out into the pre-dawn night. The cold penetrated through to the bone and I started to run. The ground sloped slightly upward and within a few hundred yards I was breathing heavily but I kept going, determined to get the blood warmed up somehow.
At the top of the rise a copse of trees grew and I had to detour round them as they loomed up in the bright moonlight. The fox yapped again from away to my right and I answered with a whoop of my own simply for the hell of it.
I was beginning to enjoy myself. My heart pounded in my chest and the blood coursed through my veins and finally bringing feeling back into my limbs.
As the ground began to level out once more I slowed the pace to a gentle lope and bounded the rest of the way to the river with a series of giant, soaring leaps that seemed to keep me floating along the track with the minimum of effort. I swam naked across the river, raced round an old oak-stump and swam back to where I had left my jump-suit.
With this cold weather there was no point in staying out here looking for any more mushrooms so I might as well get back to a bit of comfort. While I still could.

The secret now it was out would not stay a secret for long and it might mean it was time to move on again. I did not really want to go because it had only been three weeks since my arrival and I had been hoping that I could stay until the end of winter before starting out again, it would be a lot warmer then.
The trot back to the tent, via the traps I had laid gave time to think it through and by the time campsite came into view I had made up my mind to go as soon as I had been shopping. The late Autumn harvest had been good and I reckoned I would get at least five hundred apiece, and I had managed to find thirty nice juicy, fat ones! There were also a couple of Coney in the bag that would make cooks eyes light up. At least I could afford to buy some essential supplies if it came to it.
It did not take long to gather my few bits and pieces; a bedroll and a canvas bag do not take long to put together and the mushrooms I had been gathering were already inside the bag, carefully covered with duck-down gathered from a few dozen nests to keep them warm.
Problems always arrive if you keep secrets, I wondered sometimes if I should adopt a forthright manner and look and dress a bit more girlish but the result is the same eventually; sooner or later some dirty old sod will want to take liberties. So I just don't say much. I have a fairly deep voice so people generally assume that I am a young man and I try to do nothing to make them think otherwise.
Deceitful? Maybe but I don't care really, people will be what they are no matter what and I am not in a position to change them. They can take me or leave me, I don't mind as long as they don't get any funny ideas.
It took a full days of hard walking before I got back to the village and as I made my way up the hill beside the stream I could see that the wattle fencing had grown considerably during my three week absence. There had been a lot of talk of wolves over the last few months and I would be expected to report to the Elder of the village about how many I had seen. I did not relish this task.
Jerald who was the current Elder, was a big man with a loud voice who had more than once broken a mans jaw for not telling him what he wanted to hear and somehow he had got it into his head that wolves were all around us and we must do what we can to protect ourselves. Load of hooey if you ask me, I get about quite a bit and I have never seen wolves this far south in all my days of wandering and this latest mushroom-gathering trip was no exception. I suspect that his advisors had a lot to do with it but I try not to get involved with village politics because it always leads to trouble. Whatever, he was not going to be pleased if I said he was wrong. As it turned out I would have to wait for my audience with him as he had gone hunting.
Determined to make the best of things I headed for the Trade square to see how much I could get for my harvest. The answer was good, six-fifty each, and the highest price for a long time probably due to nobody wanting to go out into the wild with all those wolves about. The cook was delighted to see the rabbits, paid well and gave me a good handful of dried jerky as a reward.
I picked up a few essentials on the way round the square and was well laden by the time I got back to my room where I dumped everything before heading off for supper in the eating house. Halfway through the meal Jerald returned and it was instantly apparent that he was in a bad mood, his hunting had been poor.
The heavy door flew open with a crash and he bellowed for mulled wine as he stomped to his table near the fireplace. Those of us that were still eating tried to make ourselves invisible as he cursed about the cold, the meagre heat from the fire, the lack of wine and anything else that came to mind. His wine arrived and was not to his liking and he hurled it into the fire and cuffed the server round the ear and tore at the meat on the plate placed before him in the hope of finding something wrong with it, luckily it was as delicious as the meat I had been eating and with a grunt he tucked in.
While he ate his eyes darted around the room looking for something that he could find fault with and my luck was out as his gaze settled on me. He chewed a few times then called me over.
So, you are back. I thought perhaps the wolves had eaten you. He laughed at his little joke and one or two others joined in. Well, what news. He demanded.
Should I tell him the truth? To do so would not improve his temper. "Well sir, the southern wood seems clear at the moment but the northern fringes have signs of their presence and I think I saw a pack of them heading toward the lake near Flathill." It was nearly true, I had in fact seen a herd of deer ambling across a clearing without a care in the world. The only wolf near here was the skull of a vagabond that had been killed five years earlier and hung on the door of the herbalist across the main street.
"Huh! You didn't pay much attention. I have been told of plenty of them in the south wood. You will go out tomorrow and search properly. What else did you see? Any sign of deer or boar?"
"None sir."
"You are a useless hunter. It is time you started making some sort of contribution here or else find a home in other parts. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir." It was definitely time to leave this place.
I made my escape as he called for more food and headed off to find somewhere quiet to digest the heavy meal. I begged a jug of ale from cook then made my way to the rear of the smithy. A shed that had once been used as a stable backed onto the main building up against the forge and the end wall was always warm and it had become a favorite spot. It provided a warm shelter in the dark and with a sigh I leaned back and closed my eyes.

At some ungodly hour before daybreak I was rudely awakened by a guard. "Get up, Jerald wants to go hunting and you are leading. So Move!" He emphasized the order with a prod from his spear.
I mumbled curses under my breath while I struggled to wake up and move at the same time. The damned ale had addled my brain, I hadn't heard the guard coming. I pushed him out while I shrugged into my jump-suit and then joined him out in the cold morning.
There was little point in argument, it would only bring out the dogs involving a long chase. In my current state that was not something that appealed.
Wild boar! That's what he wanted and I had been chosen. It would 'show my worth to the village'. I wanted to argue but I couldn't. he was intent on it and ready to go.
In no time at all I found myself on horseback and galloping out through the main gates. He was quite a good horseman for a big man but I saw a couple of times that he used his weight only to bully the horse into submission.
"Did you have somewhere in mind Sir?" I asked as there did not seem to be any particular direction to the mad flight across the pastureland that lay around the village.
"What? What do you mean?" he spluttered drawing slightly on the reigns.
"I mean sir, that I have no idea where we are going. Do you?"
He drew sharply to a halt. I reigned in and circled back to join him.
"I thought you said you were a hunter." The snarl on his face was not pretty.
"I am sir. But not like this." I waved a hand. "If you want boar we are in the wrong place."
I thought he was going to hit me. His face turned purple and he spluttered a bit before taking a deep breath and yelling for the column to halt. He turned to me and asked where exactly we should be going.
"The forest would be a good start. Preferably in silence when we get close." I looked him in the eye and saw them narrow. Perhaps I had pushed a bit too far.
"Very well. The forest it shall be." He spoke through gritted teeth. He called for his attendant and gave a few crisp orders. "Perhaps you would care to lead the way." His sarcasm wasn't lost on me.
We approached the outer fringes of the trees a couple of hours later. Jerald called for silence and motioned the column to spread out. We slowly made our way into the thicker cover. I hadn't been paying attention to what was going on around me, my mind was focused on the idea of getting this bunch of rabble into the thickest part of the forest and leaving them there whilst I made my escape. I doubt that I would have done such a thing but it gave me comfort inside to think about it.
I was aware of the rustling in the undergrowth and I saw a brown blur come in from the right and take out both Jerald and his horse. The commotion that followed caused the boar to swiftly about-turn and trample Jerald again, this time to deadly effect. I lifted my spear and threw with all my might at the drooling creature.
The business end caught in his flank and he twisted round in agony, his bone shattered. One of the followers let loose an arrow swiftly followed by another. Both found their mark and the beast dropped to the ground, the arrows jerking less and less as the life disappeared from the beast.
Our return was slow and silent. I was horrified, a man had died and I had supposed to be leading the hunt. Losing the chief of the village was not the ideal way to encourage good relations.
Messages must have sent ahead because as we approached the gatehouse it seemed the whole population had come out to watch our passing. They removed their caps and hats as we rode through and lowered their eyes to the floor in silent respect.
We came to a halt outside the main hall where the Chiefs body was immediately taken inside and almost as quickly out again and carried across the intervening space to what passed as the village square. Here his body was laid. Orders were given by the Accountant and people ran off in all directions. The Elders gathered together and whispered amongst themselves for a while before calling to me and and few of the attendants who had witnessed the events.
It became clear that I really had outstayed my welcome in the village. Whilst I was not entirely to blame it was felt that I could have done more to prevent this awful tragedy and I was asked to leave.
Having delivered the verdict on me the Elders then went away to elect a new Leader. When it came to political shenanigans I have always kept myself apart and whilst I now had no choice but to leave I was glad to be away from it.
Within the hour I was on the road.

The Strain of it all

It used to get busy on nights and I daresay it still does. Not all nights are composed of sitting around or just getting up to mischief, some nights we had to work. Depending on the shift-mates this can be a blessing…
On some nights we talked a lot.
On some nights alcohol was consumed.
On some nights strange concoctions were burned.
On some nights – nothing happened.
On some nights we just had fun.
On some nights we read books.
It all depends on the shift.

There is a Laundry-Chute on every floor. Laundry bags are provided to put dirty laundry into. The Nurses know that a Red bag is for Infected stuff while White bags are for general stuff. OK, sometimes they forget and infected stuff gets put into the chute-room which means you get the chance to go back into the ward armed with the offending article and SHOUT really loud at the Nurses. This can be fun.
Mostly, we simply put it into the container provided for such bags and said nothing.
The chute should by rights have claimed lives. On the wards it is located in a tiny alcove that will allow the storage of about half-a-dozen laundry bags. At about waist height is a trap door which, when opened, allows the easy dispersal of bags into the chute. The air pressure at the basement compared to any of the floors above is considerable. Lifting the trapdoor is perilous, getting the darn thing halfway open and then dropping it makes for a LOUD bang. It is hard work because you have to fight the weight of the door and the air pressure and then, when it is fully open, you can feel the air pulling at you and papers in far away offices lift from desks, trolleys move along corridors toward the tugging draught and nurses uniforms are ripped off in spectacular fashion… well no, not that; that was a dream I had. But the chute is a Heath & Safety nightmare.
At one time we played host to the Psychiatric Unit. They have a place all of their own now but then it was the first floor. More than one of the patients tried (without success) to hurl themselves down the chute. One, more enterprising patient, actually managed to gain entry to the locked door and climb into the chute and then drag himself up the floor above!
In the basement (where else?!) is the receiving room. About ten feet along each wall and beside the door that provides entry, the metallic chute does a dramatic turn through ninety degrees in order to eject the falling laundry bags, dropped from high above. The bags give a loud thud as they hit the turn and are spilled across the room to hit the opposite wall and there they pile up and await clearance. (The safety implications here I leave for you to consider...)
One of the chores that befalls the night-shift is to clear the floors of all laundry and then empty the chute. The clearing meant loading up a trolley (gurney?) with the nasty, sometimes very smelly, bags and wheeling them out onto the bay ready for the collection mid morning.

Trolleys. In a Hospital they come in many shapes and sizes. The ones used for patient transport can vary and old ones get put ‘downstairs’ and become general purpose. Two people, one at each end, can handle them well enough but if alone it is a different matter. Some, like the ones used in A&E, are easy to handle, others tend to have a direction of their own that needs to be countered continually.
Porters look at things in a different light. Well, that is - WE looked at things differently, I cannot speak for the new wave. Where others saw just a trolley, we saw a potential race. When others asked for the collection of a body, WE saw Death-Race!
Not something to be undertook lightly. Let only a trusted workmate take charge of the steering. Not really dangerous but it can lead to slight disorientation.
A Death-Race was not a race at all. It was merely someone laying on the Mortuary Trolley (empty), and a second person pushing said trolley.
No great shakes you might think. A ride on an empty trolley, so what?
OK. I admit it. The very idea of using a mortuary trolley can sound a bit gross. But, hey we did a job of work that could get tedious. Only human. It is just a trolley.
For the squeamish I could explain that the bodies went ‘inside the trolley. The top and sides provided a lid for the tray upon which the actual body would lay. A clean sheet draped over the whole thing gave it a less mundane look and leaned toward the “we are here to collect …”, look. And we never ever tried the same thing when the trolley was occupied. We had standards!
Now. The ride itself… Some may come away from the experience with nothing to show for their pains, tho’ these people are, frankly, dull. To truly appreciate a Death-Ride you have to just go with it. And go with it we did, on most occasions.
You lay on your back and let your head fall just over the leading edge (just so the world appears upside down, and it is possible to see where you are going.) Once in position it is best to grip firmly onto the sides of the trolley, tho’ this is not easy as it has nowhere to hold onto. You need to trust fully the driver, this is what makes the Death Ride all the more interesting. A novice driver can turn the hair grey.
When the trolley starts to move all dimensions cease to exist and there is only ceiling as floor speeding past at an alarming rate and with all the pipe work and ducting and wires it feels like you float amongst them and then you come to a corner and direction changes and the walls come into view from the wrong side and you wince and cringe but you still hang on because the thought of slipping brings horror to mind and so you cling to the sides and hope that it will end soon but it doesn’t and corners come and go and walls flash past and the ceiling as floor moves up and down and doorways seem like giant steps as you flash through them and your life follows and then you stop inches from the lift door and you realise that you have been holding your breath and you let out a scream and slide off the trolley and onto the floor as ceiling and try to stand and the legs turn to jelly and you collapse in a gibbering heap onto the floor. After a while normality returns and life gets better.

Loki earned his spurs by beginning working-life with the biggest bunch of degenerates that the Hospital has seen or indeed will ever see again. (I can say that now. Some of the protagonists are deceased, some have moved on, very few still remain.) He started work straight from the Work Experience Program. This was a ill-fated attempt to manipulate the figures by sending youngsters straight from the classroom into places of work on a sort of slave-labour basis. The theory then being that they would be offered the job as soon as they left school. This of course enabled the Men in Suits to delete the numbers from the “how many people are unemployed” list.
That is NOT to say that Loki is a statistic. Not to those of us that shaped him into the man he is today…
The three other starters fell by the wayside. – Actually, after a few months one of them set himself up as a patient. He was found on an empty ward used to store beds. There he had laid out some ampoules of some drug he had pinched from another ward, a syringe, his clothes (he had donned pyjamas) and a colourful display of tablets that he also purloined. He lay himself on the bed and covered himself with a blanket and played at ‘Being a Patient’, until Lunchtime when he was discovered by the Sister in Charge who was looking for a bed to replace the old one in the ward next door. He left suddenly. - The two remaining starters lasted a few years before going, though neither in such remarkable style. One of them went on to open a market stall and was last heard of as doing - very well thank you very much.

Loki was introduced to Death Rides quite early. He was tough tho’ and after the event he decided to show us that he could still perform to the same level as before and he began to prance about. Moving with the grace of a walrus he gave us a few balletic flights as he jumped around. As a finale he decided to leap into the lift from a good distance. He ran and leapt high, high into the air to gain the distance. In his disordered state he forgot to take into account the height of the open lift. His forehead met the steel frame of the lift with a very loud crash that reverberated up the lift shaft. He fell into a heap of tangled limbs. We rushed forward to help him up but he beat us to it and scrambled to his feet and ran up the corridor toward the loading bay shouting that he was alright. We followed behind and as the loading-bay doors crashed behind him we heard the almighty scream he gave in pain and anguish. The doors opened and he stood before us with hands on hips and said. ‘I’m ok now.’

No Imagination - right on time

Its around here somewhere. It’s here somewhere. Just need to find it. It was here a while back. Need to remember where… How does it feel? How does it feel? To be on your own? With no direction home? Like a complete unknown? Like a rolling stone? Nothing happening. Let the mind go free. Go free? Reminds me; I was looking for that.
- Looking for Godot? It is free: The mind.
It’s waiting.
- Waiting?
Yes. Its ‘Waiting’ for Godot. Not looking.
- I know. I was using irony.
Where did this start? It must have had a beginning. - Once upon a time? No, that wasn’t it; Before that….
- What!? You want the whole thing? No way! You just pay attention to the Here and Now.
But it is so dull. Nothing happens here. It is …dull.
- Wait and learn. Listen to what there is to learn. Await further instruction. This message is bought to you from our sponser...
Dull I tell you.
- In my day we had to make our own amusements.
?
- A matchbox and a piece of string was all we needed.
? …Wha…?
- Put things in. Always need somewhere to put those beetles and bugs. String is simply string; tying is of course the usual option with string. But I always had a preference for tripping.
?
- double-entendre intentional.
Yeees. What was I looking for?
- Hope? Inspiration? Oh no, I know – Freedom.
Yes. That was it. It was here wasn’t it? It wasn’t just my imagination?
- Your imagin…! No dear thing, it certainly would not have been that. Your neurosis..? mmm, maybe. Albeit a freely associated neurosis.
Free. There it is again.. Free association.
- Armadillo
Ah! I know this. Ummm, errr,
- You haven’t quite grasped it have you? Try this : How many Surrealists does it take to change a light bulb? Answer : Badger
I hear that damn tune again.
- It has been on a lot lately. Goes on a bit doesn’t it?
It IS good though. Just listen to those words…
- I may be a tad over enthusiastic but not only listen but perhaps opening the eyes as well. Drastic, I know, but go ahead, open ‘em. You never know what might be out there….
“This time I’m asking for freedom” I would want to ask him about how he puts words togethere and
- Just open them dammit!!!

Running on empty - 6

Since retiring Steve had tried hard to keep himself active and the dog had helped. He also liked a routine, a short spell in the Army had given him that as a legacy. Sundays for instance, he liked to wander across to his favourite takeaway – Smiths Fish & Chips. Danny was a large, almost black alsatian and he appreciated the fish that his owner fed him bit by bit on the way home.
With both pieces of fish eaten, he eschewed the chips, Steve crossed the road to deposit the wrapping only to find that the waste-bin had gone. This upset the routine because the nearest bin he knew of was over by the triangle. With a shrug he gave Danny a tug on the lead and set off.
At least it would gave a chance to see how the garden was developing. He had kept an eye on things from the outset. It was pleasing to see a bit of ground get a bit of life put back into it. Also, the girl who was overseeing the creation and who lived in the caravan might be there to chat. When, through talking, she had learned that he too liked gardening, she questioned him mercilessly about what shrubs he grew. - It turned out that they both favoured the Native species over some of the delightful yet showy cultivars. Roses, of course, being excepted.
Danny could have a runabout whilst they were there and they could take the canal path to get back to on the original route and complete a good walk.
As the evening was a pleasant one he decided that while the dog had his run he could sit and roll a smoke. Danny ran across to the far wall to cock his leg and Steve made himself comfortable on one of the new seats and assembled a cigarette.
The ‘grey-area’ had certainly changed. He mused on the amount of change, admiring the new seats cleverly cut from solid logs from trees that had fallen in last winters storms. The sturdy pergola that followed the curling path now had wisteria growing up one of the supports. From the other end a rose had been twisted around another support and some way across the top and had been donated in its entirety from a house due for demolition. He had heard the tale of how she had begged the owner to let her dig it up (along with a couple of other plants), and replant it. The length of the climber gave thought as to how she had got the damn thing here! Pathways curled and twisted hither and yon. Shrubs dotted all over, some in groups others alone in isolated beds that were freshly dug.
Before he could put a light to the constructed cigarette Danny alerted him to something amiss - the timbre of his bark changed when trouble was at hand. He ran across to the caravan where Danny stood barking.

When she came-to, she could not quite make out where she was, the ceiling swirled, her head ached and she felt sore and cold and she had vomited.
The muffled staccato sound in her ears was something that she thought was coming from within and she struggled with the conflict of information and then lost out to the void once again.
A few moments of darkness then; Hands moved and straightened her, lowering her to the floor. Eyes stared into hers. A dog barked. Her limbs were sorted into a comfortable position. Words were spoken. Mobile phones were used. Other people came and then she was carried and doors slammed and movement and then more people. Corridors. White lights shining bright even through closed eyes. Voices. Darkness. Humming from machines. Light again. Movement and confusion. Voices and then a sharp pain and oblivion.

Running on empty - 5

In retrospect it seemed that the summer had skimmed by with hardly a pause in its endless rush to meet with autumn, now just a breath away.

It had felt a little awkward the first time she had attended the Sunday Service, but she had been welcomed as an equal from (almost) all. After a few weeks had passed she came to look on it as a couple of hours of meditation. A time when she could relax and be herself in the knowledge that these people were not about to turn on her.
Special services came and went and each showed up another facet of the Church as Community. Which seemed right; after all, the mere fact of ‘communing’ with God, gives community a true meaning. She got to know the members and was pleased to accept many of the invitations to pop round for tea - or coffee, or dinner, or just to cut the grass. Best of all she got to hear about peoples Lives and how they had lived them. For her own life she always felt ashamed and did not reciprocate in the exchange.
After a while she switched to the evening service. She found it even more friendly because of the – coffee-round-someone’s-home-for-the-evening; an informal, entertaining round-off to the weekend. Weekends being something of a novelty, she was used to just ‘days’.
It was just a gathering of people at a loose end on a Sunday after church. Most weeks it seemed to fall on Mike Preston and his wife, mainly because they had a big house and, as yet, no children. Other times they went out on a drive. Cecil had a van that could house about six if they sat really tight, and sometimes Paul, who had a good business hiring-out his 12-seater would be available to ferry people out into the country for an evening stroll. Maybe down to the Thames for a bankside walk in the setting sun. Maybe just to the local park to wander through the trees and amble past the old Lodge and admire the history.
Nine of the attendants at the evenings gathering had driven up to the West of town and climbed up the steep incline to the top of the hill. Breathless they had paused beside the church to watch the slowly sinking sun. Some had wandered through the ancient graveyard reading the dates and wondering. Some had flopped onto the grass and let the air wash over them.
It had been a lovely time. The conversation had waxed and waned as they walked, time had flown and all to soon it was time to go home. Goodnights had been said and she had found herself back in her little sanctuary.
It was one of those days when the night seemed to hang forever in the wings but never quite get on-stage, when all was quiet. She layed out on the roof of the caravan and contemplated the weeks work ahead, when she heard a sound and turned her head.
Her mood evaporated as she looked down on Trevor, he waved back and said he was just passing and would she care for a drink; he had a bottle. He held it aloft so she could see.
She had not sought his company at all but he had seemed to be there at every turn. Always beaming in that disarming way he had. Able to foresee a need and be there to forestall it.
He it was who had caught the branch that was about to swing back into her face. He was there when they had climbed over the stile to shorten the route back and had offered a hand, opened doors for her. Had been first out to say goodbye when they had stopped outside the plot to drop her off.
He was a little unsteady. She slid down the roof and joined him, invited him in. She shared the whiskey he had brought. She listened to his 23 year history and found it dull. That he was unused to drink is not in doubt. He moved about a lot, fidgeting and looking around a lot, and staring at her. His voice was louder and he tried to hold a stern countenance but his vocal chords could not do it and he showed himself up. She tried to placate him and leant across the table at which they sat, to touch his arm reassuringly. Secretly hoping that he might be embarrassed enough to go. There was something a bit creepy.. .
It began to get late and she made clearing-up movements. Tidying magazines and washing up, looking at her watch. The whiskey took a hold and his face flushed.
As spoke she bit her lip, realising the double-meaning: ‘I’m ready for bed.’ She said.
He needed no second bidding. He leapt out of his chair and lunged toward her. He fell short, she backed away and that was a mistake.
The snarl that appeared on his face was startling and she backed away. He came at her and without pause grabbed her waist and twisted her onto the couch/bed. As she fell her head caught the wooden end of the cupboard a crashing blow. Such was the force of his throw she fell into unconsciousness instantly.

Continued….

Wilf

Wilf liked fishing. He liked caravans too. He had a host of, err, (interests). If you did not know it upon meeting him, he would tell you within the first thirty seconds, or less. He was like that. Tell you his life-history at the drop of a hat. Indeed it would be true to say that he did not really the need the hat-dropping at all, he would tell you regardless.
My first ten minutes into the new job may well be the most traumatic event in my life…, ever.
Order of Rank – The Head Porter held sway, He had a deputy, appropriately called Deputy Head Porter (this position being held by Wilf); On down the food chain came Senior Porters (all five) and immediately below them came The Porters (many and varied. Encompasses Departments and Areas). - Strictly, on a rung several below the lowly porter, there lurks a ‘Kitchen Porter, but no-one has spoken to one of them in years and rumours of their existence may be stretched.)
Day one – Man down due to flu. Into the breach steps Wilf. New recruit just starting (me) and unto Wilf behoves the role of Teacher of the job. The man was born to this moment.…
Within two minutes I learned of his passion for fishing. I also knew that he had been married (and divorced, twice) had sons, lived alone, went on holidays to fish and had experienced THE MOST heaviest downpour in the whole history of rain. As the shift went on I came to learn much more.
I also learned another thing about him. He knew what to do, he just didn’t do it. He could spend five minutes telling you why he was asking you to do an urgent job when it would have taken only two to do it. He would tell you what he would do if, when you shifted a tray of cups onto the trolley, he was doing it; But he never did it.
I placed trays onto trolleys. I pushed the first one into the lift and dragged the second because as Wilf had pointed out if I pushed it in I would be at the wrong end of the lift to reach the control. I pulled out the first at the appropriate floor and hauled it, under careful guidance from Wilf, and delivered to a spot on the Ward that was verified and scrutinised by Wilf. I returned for the other trolley and delivered it to the Ward on the other side of the building. A job that perhaps in the interest of Patients awaiting their breakfast could have been done at the same time as I had….? Silly of me to contemplate. If he had done that, he could not have mentioned the fact that I had forgotten to stop by the kitchen and lift off the tray of cups so we would have to return and retrieve them because if he had mentioned it beforehand, I might still forget, this way a sharp lesson was learned and I would remember in future to stop at the kitchen…
The same method was used when it came time to collect the rubbish sacks from the wards, something else I needed to learn was the, (don’t forget to put the laundry bags down the chute on the way round) lesson. It went on and on, lessons learned the hard way and talking amiably along the way. Talk is what he did. He got paid for it. In fact, I pay taxes therefore I pay his wages…?
The canteen became a frequent area in which to inform me of further episodes of his life. We stopped by there every time we went off to do another job. The bleep would sound and Wilf, who had charge of the instrument, would answer it and relay the call to me and then we would find ourselves back in the canteen. I bought yet more tea and learned that he had short arms and deep pockets. The other thing is that I came to realise that I just could not believe a word he said about himself. I know for a fact that my co-workers at the time would say the same.
As stories go Wilfs was not a happy one. He always maintained a smiling, slightly fawning, nature when talking at people. (And At is right word, he only ever talked AT you.)
He had led a wide life. Born in Wales and often returns there to spend time in his caravan, fishing from the stream which never fails to flood and endanger the van every year. Tragedy had befallen him early in married life when his son was lost by falling from a cliff where their caravan was parked. He had been in the RAF and had flown as a sort of all-round pilot/navigator/bomb-aimer/gunner and repairer of broken engines under fire, type. The Royal Air Force had lost a good ‘un when they let him go. His Wing Commander had come out specially to see him off and wipe away a tear as he told of how much the service would miss him. Tragedy had struck again when his wife had committed suicide and his second wife had moved in within the week. If he caught a good sized salmon he brought it back with him and presented it to ITU who would auction it off to raise funds for the Unit. He would pack it ice straight from the river. He got a plastic bag of ice cubes every morning from the Hotel down the river about three miles and would haul it back up to his preferred site. A stupid Pilot had nearly caused his death by veering suddenly and causing Wilf to fall over and halfway through a hatch which was open in the floor of the aircraft and headlong he had tumbled, managing only to save himself by jamming his boots in the webbing that held down a crate. His fellow crew had hauled him back from the brink. Why hatch open? Who knows? The divorce was long and bitter, his second wife accusing him of violence (something he vehemently denies, and the red glow in his eyes is only imagined), and an acrimonious end is ongoing. The remaining son does not speak to him but they see each other on a regular basis, once a year when Wilf hands over a cheque for five hundred pounds. The ones that got away held a particular interest for him because he liked to describe them in detail. One fish has been eluding his line for years. It knows him now, but one day he will have it. It is a canny old fish and has been a challenge that Wilf has risen to. It does no good to point out that a salmon lives an average of five years, Wilf has been on his mission for twelve. He has had ailments. The latest of which is a recurrence of one he had about three years ago. It had swollen horribly and would I (the answer here is NOOOO!) like to see it?
And he showed me.
And I ran…
I ran out of the canteen, where he had lifted his leg and described how the only way for him to see it was to sit (in his undies) and use a mirror to reflect the glorious coloured infectious lump, and through the doors and on into the courtyard beyond and there I paused for a moment; I took a deep breath, and I screamed.
I get nods of sympathy from the rest of the crew. They look at me with pity in their eyes and acknowledge that I had become a true Porter.

Running on empty - 4

And come they did. For a while.
Two office blocks had taken up almost a third of the available space that had been left since the demise of the furniture factories.

The small, age-old chair manufacturers had made this part their own. Wood was cut from the nearby hills and in the woods they turned out furniture. The original Bodgers.
Year upon year the factories had grown, merging and growing in stature, they became giant houses of brick to house the new machines that could take a piece of wood and shape it by lathe or drill to exact dimensions on a scale that befuddled the brain. They could produce more chairs than there are people to sit on them in next to no-time. Far faster than a man on a foot-powered lathe in the woods. Household names arose, International recognition. Then it became cheaper to produce the furniture in far off lands, whose forests they now plundered, and where there was space to put them and there is cheap labour.

She lowered herself down the rope another notch. Up here was a good view and she paused once more to look. What she saw was the railway and canal swapping aspects.

The canal continued straight through from left to right and disappeared behind the hills that rose to the west while the railway drove over the water then curled away east and then south, away across the town proper and on through the valley toward the big City. If she had hauled herself back up to the roof she now hung from, she would be able to see the northern end of the valley; the fields that stretched outward and the woods and copses that scattered the land. In the meantime another giant-sized vine-eye awaited a home.
The site below was a hive of activity. A workforce armed with hammers and picks and spades and forks worked the soil and drove in stakes and raked out pathways. Her chosen role was to tackle the wall.
A feature that had been ignored on the plans, but such a gigantic feature could not be left to simply become a mere backdrop. It needed more attention. So it was that a cunning plan had been hatched by the very person hanging from the roof - drilling holes and inserting plugs and screwing in eyelets from which she would later string wires.

Beyond all the frenetic activity at the site she still had odd feelings about it all. The whole thing was somewhat surreal. Used to more mundane things like survival, she had adapted with some shyness.
Adoption had not been on her agenda but that is what seemed to be happening. She had been adopted by the Church.
Something was needed that was for sure. How long could a life of debauchery go on? The overwhelming feeling that had been given was one of forgiveness for sins. Which was odd; It was true that sometimes she despised herself but she had never approached anything without a healthy degree of suspicion: But Sin? She wasn't sure about any of that.
So, in essence the Way of the Christian was as blind as that of the heathen – they both put faith into something outside themselves.
Simple when it is reduced to words. The academic treatise on the nature of Man.
But inside her soul, that very piece of her that these Christians wished to plunder, deep, deep in there she held out a respect for Anyone(thing) who could knowingly lay down a Life to the Greater (foreseen) Good. That was impressive.
The downside was how it made her feel inside. She did NOT want to confront those horrors thank you. The deeds she had done, sights seen and life lived gave pause for thought. They send a shudder through a frame that tries to withstand the pressures of living day to day and taking opportunity first. A world where Love is an alien concept but something that is sought after but remained unspoken as tho’ by agreement.
Inside of course she felt like sh*t!
Inside it was awful.
A sense of WORTH was being instilled where a sense of shame had previously reigned.
Not liking the contradiction that her own mind gave her she had begun to worry about things. Far more used to trying to bury memories and deeds she found difficulty in shaking off the strands of a chance to hand them over to some(one/thing) else. Awesome was not even close.
So the Word hit home and days were spent in close examination of faults and of possible repair.
Look inside to find the face.
Each day bringing new things, new people, new ideas. She began to absorb the fraternity. Began to experience the ‘joining of minds’ set aside for these disparate folk. Each of whom had a story to tell.
The mind was in turmoil. These lovely people had led lives of family and of care and love, they could not relate to a lowly, wretched slut such as her…

Being proved wrong can be a revelation...

...continued

Running on empty - 3

Moving day came and went in a blur of Purpose. No time to stop and think, only time to do.
And when the caravan had been put on-site and plans had been presented, days spent rushing from here to there to visit Architects and Planners and men in suits that shook her hand and looked at the lowly with scorn in their eyes and she had wanted to get out of those places and back to more familiar territory, but the days had worn on with further meetings and breathless introductions and she felt the whole world must now know who she was and didn’t like it at all and still they kept coming – details, attention to detail, give us what we want to know, let us Help you….. – at the end of those awful days, one glorious evening when the sun had hung in the air all day but had resisted the urge to set until now and was dipping below the bridge so the shadows of the girders were projected onto the wall of the factory; she sat cross-legged on the roof of the tiny hut and regarded the area of land which had been entrusted to her.
The caravan looked tiny against the backdrop of the vast wall. She eyed the habitat with suspicion. It represented a far more ‘permanent’ feature than she was used to. The word itself was almost anathema. During the rest of the evening and into the darkness she played with the idea of Permanent, watching as the shadows raced up the wall.

The months passed quickly due to busy-hands. The plans as shown for the garden were simple and consisted of a lot of concrete paths that swirled around a central seating area. The rest of the space was filled with groups of trees. When finished it would have looked fine in any shopping mall anywhere in the world, but for here it was just – wrong. She went back to Arthur and demanded a few answers….
She discovered that some things are open to interpretaion. Some things can be negotiated. She learned that ‘People’, are not always right. And she found a little bit about what Love is in its many aspects.
In lifes’ inimitable way she discovered many other things as well, not least among them was the power of Worth.
With the passing of the seasons came other lessons – Nature is fickle.

The caravan had presented problems to her from the start. As the weeks went by it became an issue. At first she had been thrilled by the idea. A roof to call home. Then the doubts had set in – what is Home anyway? What do I need a Home for? Will I be able to run across town or even to the next city with it?... Isn’t a Home made up of more than one? How do I make a Home?
When the evenings grew darker the temperature took an early tumble and cold swept through the hut, still she slept in the hut and not the caravan, despite the oppulence of a sealed roof and a door that closes to keep out draughts. Other than use it as a kitchen she had loftily ignored its presence. She wanted to maintain that Hard-edged lifestyle to which she had become accustomed. She was, she thought, invulnerable to any further hardship than had already befallen her throughout her life, The simple truth being that she was caught in the trap of wanting something more than her pride would let her, but she pushed that thought away. Pride was NOT an option.

Years in the planning, months of arguments over the design, weeks spent over settlement over the cost (cheaper to do without concrete, better to let the land find it’s own paths.)
It was wild. Much use was made of wild flowers and grasses. A little judicious weeding would be required, much as a meadow should be mowed; Trees had been included because trees are needed. Besides, trees are good to look at, especially if lots of seating for the wayfareing folk to sit and gaze upon them is included. Water was provided by the canal, no need of water-features. Let the framing of the canal through arched panels provide the views. Let the railway take its place with its wild flowers showering the banked earth just before the bridge. Let the factory provide the shelter for fruit trees along the base and climbers to ease and shuffle their way upward and outward to smother the vast expanse of brick and provide a fitting green setting to this lost oasis in the midst of desolation…. And let the people come.

The Secret People

Every now and then somethings catches the eye. This did it for me.

I like pomes.

The Secret People.

Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget,

For we are the people of England, that never has spoken yet.

There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,

There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.

There are no folk in the whole world so helpless or so wise.

There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes;

You laugh at us and love us, both mugs and eyes are wet:

Only you do not know us. For we have not spoken yet.

The fine French kings came over in a flutter of flags and dames.

We liked their smiles and battles, but we never could say their names.

The blood ran red to Bosworth and the high French lords went down;

There was naught but a naked people under a naked crown.

And the eyes of the King's Servants turned terribly every way,

And the gold of the King's Servants rose higher every day.

They burnt the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind,

Till there was no bed in a monk's house, nor food that man could find.

The inns of God where no man paid, that were the wall of the weak,

The King's Servants ate them all. And still we did not speak.

And the face of the King's Servants grew greater than the King:

He tricked them, and they trapped him, and stood round him in a ring.

The new grave lords closed round him, that had eaten the abbey's fruits,

And the men of the new religion, with their Bibles in their boots,

We saw their shoulders moving, to menace or discuss,

And some were pure and some were vile; but none took heed of us.

We saw the King as they killed him, and his face was proud and pale;

And a few men talked of freedom, while England talked of ale.

A war that we understood not came over the world and woke

Americans, Frenchmen, Irish; but we knew not the things they spoke.

They talked about rights and nature and peace and the people's reign:

And the squires, our masters, bade us fight; and never scorned us again.

Weak if we be for ever, could none condemn us then;

Men called us serfs and drudges; men knew that we were men.

In foam and flame at Trafalgar, on Albuera plains,

We did and died like lions, to keep ourselves in chains,

We lay in living ruins; firing and fearing not

The strange fierce face of the Frenchman who knew for what he fought,

And the man who seemed to be more than man we strained against and broke;

And we broke our own rights with him. And still we never spoke.

Our path of glory ended; we never heard guns again.

But the squire seemed struck in the saddle; he was foolish, as if in pain.

He leaned on a staggering lawyer, he clutched a cringing Jew,

He was stricken; it may be, after all, he was stricken at Waterloo.

Or perhaps the shades of the shaven men, whose spoil is in his house,

Come back in shining shapes at last to spoil his last carouse:

We only know the last sad squires ride slowly towards the sea,

And a new people takes the land: and still it is not we.

They have given us into the hands of the new unhappy lords,

Lords without anger and honour, who dare not carry their swords.

They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;

They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.

And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,

Their doors are shut in the evenings; and they know no songs.

We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,

Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street.

It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first,

Our wrath come after Russia's wrath and our wrath be the worst.

It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our rest

God's scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.

But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.

Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget.

G.K. CHESTERTON

Don't ask me - I just see this stuff!

A man walks into a room. In the room are five people. It is a waiting room for a city bus-station. He takes from his pocket a watch, a bus ticket and a short piece of string. From another pocket he produces a lighter and a pencil.
He kneels and puts the watch on the floor, stands and then stamps his heel upon the watch smashing it to pieces. Kneeling again he places the bus ticket onto the remains and then, with the pencil, he writes upon the floor. The word FAKE appears and satisfied he flicks the lighter and lights the piece of string. When it is alight he lowers it onto the ticket until it too is alight. When the string begins to burn his fingers he carefully drops it into the centre of the pile of cogs, wheels and ashes. He stands, kicks the heap away and laughs.

He leaves…

Running on empty - 2

The words of a song came to her as she lay up against the heating pipes in the darkness of the Church. -

"Now there’s a wall between us, somethin’ there’s been lost,

I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed.

Just to think it all began on a long-forgotten morn.
“Come in,” she said,
“I’ll give you shelter from the storm.” "

Walls. Signals. Memories. Promises.
Falsehoods.
She sorted through the emotions in the words and the patterns they made in her head and she let sleep take her into a warmer, more familiar place than the coldness of the Here & Now.
Sleeping rough was not the problem - it was the waking rough that perturbed her.
There had been so many times when ‘help’ had arrived and had offered a hand along the way. On occasion she accepted, but she still had a few scars, both mental and physical that still showed from the times that had turned sour, so she tended to shun ‘help’; It was always sex, ‘Care’ was way down the list.
Care was a memory.
Love was an alien.
Sometimes, just sometimes; there appears a genuine hand.

“Who’s there!?” The voice was strong and demanded an answer.
She lay herself full length on the floor trying to look like a pew but could feel the pipe against her bare leg getting hotter and hotter. Gritting her teeth she slowly started to twist her body.
“It is warmer in the Manse. Fancy a cup of tea? Come on then.”
“Sorry vicar.” She mumbled. “Just on my way. Sorry.” Lowering her eyes. She wanted no trouble. She stood up.
“I repeat. Fancy a cup of tea?” He smiled a smile that showed no malice and his eyes shone bright with something that eluded her.
Tea did sound nice. And she heard herself saying, “Thank you, yes. Yes please.”
“I’m the Vicar as you know. Come and meet Mrs.Vicar.”
“How do you know I know?” How could he know what she was thinking or what she knew?
“You were here on Sunday last. You sat at the back and listened intently. It was raining and it was cold and you sought shelter.” He smiled again.
“That’s right…” words came back to her – Shelter from the storm.
“I also know where you live.” He said amiably. Then hastily, “I haven’t been spying on you, I was going about my clerical duties.”
She smiled. “It’s ok. Though, what Clerical duties would take you to that forgotten corner of town? No one lives there.”
He shrugged. “The Church owns that corner of land. Has done for years. It was bigger, but we sold some to the railway company generations ago when they built the bridge. It has been a bit wild ever since. I go along and check it over every day or so.” He locked the door to the church and gestured across the green where a cottage sat back off the road and glowed with light from within. “Lets get that tea.”
Mrs.Vicar greeted them. “Saw you from the window, come on, it’s cold out there. Hi toots.” She kissed her husband fondly and ushered them into the wide warm kitchen. “Now then, sit here girl.” Indicating a seat by the range. “You must be frozen! Look at you with no coat!” Protest was futile.
She sank into the warmth of the chair that seemed to wrap arms of comfort around her. “You are kind, thank you.”
Without moving a cup of tea was produced and passed over. “My name is Gwen. Nice to meet you. Now that is the formal nonsense dispensed with. Where do you intend to sleep tonight?” She folded her arms and gazed down.
Before she could draw a breath Gwen interrupted.
“DO NOT tell me you intend to sleep in that hut.” An order.
“I won’t say it then. But it is what I planned.”
“Huh!. Arthur, talk to our guest.” She crossed to the kitchen area and began to rummage in cupboards.
His smile had not diminished. He kept it throughout. “Gwen tends to get a bit uppity about these things.” He settled into a chair that had taken on his shape and moulded itself to his frame. “There is a bathroom upstairs if you want. Please, feel free. The only thing I want you to know is, you will NOT be sleeping in that hut tonight.” Matter-of-fact.
He said more. He said they wanted her to stay. He said that they could offer work. He said they ‘cared’. He also said they had a duty…
‘Duty’, was something she knew about. She had being doing what she thought was her ‘duty’ for years… much good it had achieved.
To meet someone who readily admitted to having a Duty was different.
He talked. He spoke of his Stewardship. He spoke about words that had faded from her vocabulary, love was mentioned.
Throughout the talk she knew one thing. Truth is hard to find, she knew this to her cost, but she saw no lie in his eyes neither did she hear it in his words.
Later, as she wallowed in a hot bath she reflected on the offer. A bolt from the blue. From being destitute she was being offered employment and a better place to live in, And the chance to oversee the installation of a wild garden in the heart of a metropolis.

The sheets on the bed in the Guest room were crisp and clean and smelled of the wind and she slept.

Continued…

Running on empty - 1

The stillness lay as thick as the mist that hung in the pre-dawn air, coating everything with a thin film of moisture. A fox travelled across the empty ground and across his pelt could be seen a halo against the glow of streetlamps that lit the sky and caught its light in the droplets of water on his back. The fox stopped and shook himself, lifting his nose to the damp air hoping to catch a scent, his ears flicking back and forth to locate a sound. But the silence remained and the air did not move.
After the fox had moved on a sound did stir the air. It was a groan that came from the old railwayman’s hut beside the tracks, just before the bridge over the canal. Through the clapboard planks came the sound of pain and suffering.

For the umpteenth time she promised her brain that she would stop inflicting this hurt upon the cells within. Her brain gave no answer except to release more pain behind the eyes and cause another grunt. Eventually she drifted back to sleep and the silence returned.

The sun made a brief appearance as dawn broke through the low cloud but it was unable to penetrate the mist and was only seen briefly as a washed-out watercolour picture might show, before the clouds closed in again.

She awoke with her belly complaining and the headache still there. With a lot of mumbling and stumbling she had voided her bowels and even climbed down to the canal to clear the debris around the bottom step so she could wash her face in the cold water. The pain at the back of the eye sockets dropped a few notches and she was able to summon up the energy to think a little. In the hut, she had pulled a backpack from its hiding place (under the floorboards) and found an apple and a still-wrapped meat pie. Mindful that her mouth felt like the floor of a budgies cage, she decided to leave the pie until later. She took the apple outside and climbed up onto the roof to eat her breakfast.
The triangle of empty land lay still. To the left the railway, angled to the right the canal which disappeared beneath the railway bridge. To mark the top of the triangle the blank wall of a derelict printing factory joined the two. Steel, water and brick. Almost a prison. She had been here for months and had seen no-one. Which was odd, areas that had accommodation are hard to come by and the hut she sat upon was in a desirable area. Views over water – good transportation links and a blank canvas. A prime location; so why did nobody come here?
She changed into the cleanest ‘dirty clothes’ she could find in the capacious holdall. A rummage around also produced a linen tie-up bag into which she stuffed her laundry. She hid her rucksack and shut the door, carefully placing objects to show if anyone had entered.
She found enough change in her jeans pocket to pay for a Service-Wash and decided to kill the hours waiting for the washing with a good read so she set off for the library. Her mood was light as she stepped into the grand entrance of the public building and as she headed upstairs for the reading-room she came upon a photo exhibition.
Pictures lined the wall of the staircase – a portrait of a town through the eye of a camera. The photographer in question was a student at the local college she read from the introduction pamphlet at the foot of the stairs..
One by one she climbed the stairs, taking in the vast array of black & white pictures. They showed a good selection of views from oblique angles upon a town that had lost its way. Alongside the essential views of the high street and the civic buildings lay interesting and candid portraits of the population along with strangely lit pictures of decay and urban desolation.
It was a good balanced collection and then, there, suddenly was a picture of her current home – a beautifully structured picture; taken from the brick wall end and showing the railway and the canal meeting; forming, on the print, a perfect triangle. The tiny, leaning shed that stood alone at the apex said it all – derelict - Nothingness.
As beautifully crafted as the picture was, it held an air of despair that grated the nerves and with an effort she averted her eyes and then - fate being fate, halted their progress by bringing them to rest upon another image that sent a shock throughout her body and made the bile rise in her throat…

He had a flat. Clean(ish) sheets! How could she not like it? It had been a good party. They had met at Geralds party, who had done everyone proud by throwing money at the booze; they had exchanged pleasantries and talked and at home-time he had offered a lift – or maybe, a coffee? A nightcap perhaps?
The coffee was gross. But he did have a nice flat and she had agreed to it. He had eyes with a slight squint, not unnerving but a tad off-putting. She had been with worse.
His grunts of passion had dissolved as he fell asleep on top of her. She caught an odour of his breath and heaved him off.
Climbing out of bed she padded her way to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. An hour passed.
She left a note thanking him. - Never let it be said that she wasn’t grateful. A good nights sleep in the arms of another did do something for the soul. Not nearly enough, but it went partway.
It was later that afternoon when their paths crossed.
She wandered the shelves of Safeway looking for instant gratification -though without the need for a microwave oven. Fresh fruit along with bread and cheese had so far made up the selection.
The arm that led her away from the cooked-meats clung firmly. The voice held a further warning that resistance was futile…
A debt was owed it seemed. She had not fulfilled her part of the ‘bargain’. She had walked out on him. She had hurt his pride. She placed the basket on the floor and followed him.
The immediate assumption that punishment was due became apparent when he closed the door to the flat. She took it. What followed was worse. She took that too. The dismissal was final.
During early evening when the day hovers between light and dark she had returned to her hut. The feelings she held within now came out and she vomited without reservation. She tried to let all the hurt and hate exit her body and stain the ground but she had been left heaving and hurting …..

The picture showed that moment. The photographer had been there and focused in on her as she let the day vent from her body. He had intruded upon her solitary moment and put that moment up for all to see. The shock of seeing the picture was to much. She held her hand to her face and cried out…

to be continued...

just the one..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fGTzEuk6-8&mode=related&search=

or maybe

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7RDuqJiayc&mode=related&search=

Days like these...

Some days interest and care wanes. You go to work and try to get through the day – but, others get in the way…. Then there are days when a job well done can work wonders.

“No. You cannot transfer the number of a bleep and expect it to bypass the transfer.”
“I NEED a bleep!” Shouting.
“Yes. You do. And you have one.”
“I need a bleep that will find me. This only gets the Ortho SHO. I want you to get hold of me. I am expecting calls.”
“You have a bleep.” Sighing. “WE know you are on that bleep because your number has been transferred to the Emergency bleep you now hold in your hand. That way WE know that YOU are on that bleep. If we want you we can find you – if you answer the thing.” Another sigh.
“Are you telling me that because I forgot my bleep this morning I am now non-obtainable?”
“No. I am telling you that should anyone come to us and ask for you by name or title, we WILL be able to bleep you personally. Because that’s what we do. We provide a service. We have serviced YOU with a bleep this morning because you forgot to brings yours with you. It behoves the Hospital to keep running in the face of such adversity and needs must, so, thus – We have given you a way around your singular predicament and allowed you to go about your clinical duties without any concern over your personal contact ability. Safe in knowledge that as long as the bleep you have about you is functional (easily tested yourself by dialling it), and performs to its maximum, you WILL be found. Far be it from us to cast a shadow upon your day.” A yawn.
Click
I have said it before and I will say it again; Doctors may be Clever – but they are not very bright.
The everyday objects that us ordinary mortals take for granted are anathema to Doctors. For varying reasons:
Some are prone to ultimate Professionalism they loose track of reality.
Some lean toward the effusive behaviour that belies the person underneath.
Some are so far Up themselves they all have brown eyes…
Some are just plain dim.
I carefully put the headset into its charger. I pushed back the chair and stood uttering another cry to the heavens and rolling my eyes. I saw sympathetic eyes as the others looked up.
With a casual glance at my desk I set off for the Post room. (As a Department we are lower than the bottom rung of any ladder and we fail to show on any charts, so we do not get our mail delivered like everywhere else.. Not that I mind, I like the walk through reception and the canteen to get a ‘feel’ of the place.)
Besides, David would brighten my day. He always greeted me with a broad grin and a loud hello. True, some mornings did not warrant such enthusiasm and anyone else would get their head bitten off, but David gets away with it through no knowledge of any over-indulgence on my part the night before. He doesn’t feel the pain between my eyes and the throbbing in my head. He only knows that he has to get the post delivered in five minutes, therefore approach with caution upon the – otherwise engaged.

This day, Daevid was engaged. His eyes and mind focused upon an envelope that he held in a vice-like grip and peered at with suspicious eyes. It did not convey language to him that he understood –
Indignant tone ~ “What’s this?” The letter thrown onto the desk. The moment passed.
I entered the post room and said “Good morning all, morning David.” I headed for the pigeonhole where my post is kept, To the left Steve mumbled a sound that could have been a greeting. David gave another envelope a thorough scrutiny.
I grabbed my post and made my exit.
I was halfway along the corridor almost at the slightly different coloured tile in the floor when I heard the response…
“Morning! Mand” Shouted David.
“Hello David.” I glanced down at my handful of post and saw a name that was unfamiliar. I stopped and turned and retraced my steps up the corridor. The address on the envelope was for another department and I reasoned that they might want it more than me. As I re-entered the room two heads as though’ joined peered down at an envelope held in Davids hand.
“But what does it mean?”
He thrust out his hand toward Steve who took it and peered through bloodshot eyes at the thing before him and tried to focus. “I dunno. Means nothing to me. Get George to look.” He turned to put the offending article to one side and noticed me. “Oh, hello again. What did we get wrong?” He picked up another pile from the open sack and began to deposit them in the appropriate compartments.
“No problem Andy, just this one which belongs in the hole underneath mine I believe.” I flicked the offender into the gap and turned away again.
“What do you make of this?” Said David as he thrust the envelope under my nose. “We can’t understand it.”
I glanced at the envelope. It had clear writing on it, it said; - ‘Adams wife – Hamlet Ward.’
David gave his thoughts aloud and with some indignation, “How do we know who Adam is.?” He snorted derisively, “How does he expect us to know his wife.” He laughed at the mistake the silly person responsible for writing that into the address box had made.
I shall admit no collusion here. I have come across this ‘clever’ addressing of envelopes before. - In a previous incarnation (or was it this one?...) I used to be a humble Porter who had the task of post-sorting. It is now tho’ an established position in its own right. To have sent it deliberately would be to admit to a massive amount of forethought on my part. – I rest my case.
“Perhaps David, you Do know, but he has written it in code that only You may know.” I gave him back the envelope.
He snatched it from me and looked at it with more suspicion than before. He began to see more in the words on the letter. “Are you sure?” He glanced my way and looked hard for the right answer.
“I reckon so David. You are up to it. Just think it through one step at a time. First think of Adams wife. I will see you later and check if you have any success, I am interested to know.”
“Did you send it?” He called down the corridor.
“No David.”
Steve may have helped a little. Who knows? I didn’t ask. I returned toward eleven a.m. because the first round has been done and the internal sorting is almost over.
David was eager to impart news of his progress. “Guess what!” He demanded.
“About what?”
“The letter!!” His eyes rolled at my stupidity. He was on a quest – and I appeared to be distracted from it. Then he added, “Perhaps you have been working and forgotten.”
“I am afraid so David. But I remember now, how have you got on?”
“Well,” he shuffled his feet a bit and stared at the floor. “I think I know who Adams wife is.” Before I could ask he blurted out the answer. “EVE!”
“Of course!. SO, where does that leave things? Have you got the letter to the rightful owner?”
“No.” He returned his gaze to the floor. “I was just thinking of Hamlet Ward. I don’t know anyone called Hamlet.”
“Ever heard of William Shakespeare?”
“Course.”
“And what do you know about Shakespeare David?”
“He wrote a lot of plays and things.”
“yes he did. Do you know of any?”
He threw back his head and gave the speech…. “To be or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing, end them. …”
“Wow! Where did you learn that?”
“I read it” He looked at me as though I was a simpleton. I felt one.
“OK, go back to the beginning. What is the first line?”
“To be or not to be. …that is….”
“Stop.” I held up a hand. “Say that again.”
“To be or not to be.”
“Give me just the first two words.”
A moment of digestion. “To be.” Triumph! The light came on. “2B!!!! It’s ward 2B!!!!” He almost danced with joy. “Andy!!!, it’s ward 2B, we need to ask if they have anyone called Eve!”
I wandered off. It was nice to see success, but much better to hear it fading into the distance and enjoy the moment for what it was.
I had just past the different coloured tile when I heard a voice call up the corridor and my heart glowed.
"Thanks Mand"