This time last week, I would have had well over twenty minutes to get from Studio A to Studio B. I might even have had time to stop into the Green Room for a cup of tea and a Hob Nob between my radio and television reports.
But not anymore. I can still just about fit in a very small carton of orange juice, but I have to drink it on the move, without breaking stride.
The exchange rate's worse than ever today - the minute's gone right down against the minuto. In Italy and Spain, they could fit in a three course meal in the time it takes for us to lay the table.
The Americans, the Australians and even the French are in the same boat as us, though, with their variously pronounced units of time. We all need to make it up somewhere. Maybe two-year degrees are the answer.
Monday 13 December 2010
Monday 6 December 2010
A Miscalculation
Dr Ethelberg dropped her pen and recoiled from the desk. She hadn't, had she?
She took off her glasses, peered at the page and deliberately blinked a couple of times. It was still there: 176.7864.
She must have gone wrong somewhere along the way, missed a decimal point, misread her handwriting, mistaken a dot for a dash...
She turned back to page one. Nothing wrong with any of that.
Page two? No, no problems there.
Page three? All fine.
Page four? Perfect.
The solution was at the top of page five. Dr Ethelberg could not identify any mistakes.
But surely 176.7864 was far too low. She'd been expecting it to come out somewhere around 182.51. No one had ever expected an exact figure, but the Department's plans had all been based on the estimate of 182.51.
This is extraordinary, thought Dr Ethelberg. Of course, if the real figure was indeed 176.7864, then the planet was almost certain to melt within the week. But that didn't matter to Dr Ethelberg. It might have been the end of everything, but her reputation was sure to be at an all-time high.
She sat back in her chair and poured herself a large glass of sherry. She was going to plummet into oblivion with the status her brilliance deserved.
She took off her glasses, peered at the page and deliberately blinked a couple of times. It was still there: 176.7864.
She must have gone wrong somewhere along the way, missed a decimal point, misread her handwriting, mistaken a dot for a dash...
She turned back to page one. Nothing wrong with any of that.
Page two? No, no problems there.
Page three? All fine.
Page four? Perfect.
The solution was at the top of page five. Dr Ethelberg could not identify any mistakes.
But surely 176.7864 was far too low. She'd been expecting it to come out somewhere around 182.51. No one had ever expected an exact figure, but the Department's plans had all been based on the estimate of 182.51.
This is extraordinary, thought Dr Ethelberg. Of course, if the real figure was indeed 176.7864, then the planet was almost certain to melt within the week. But that didn't matter to Dr Ethelberg. It might have been the end of everything, but her reputation was sure to be at an all-time high.
She sat back in her chair and poured herself a large glass of sherry. She was going to plummet into oblivion with the status her brilliance deserved.
Thursday 2 December 2010
Something Magical
I lie in your flowerbed, my body contorted through the twists of the roots of your rosebush...where I wait to be discovered.
I have travelled from garden to garden. I snuck into your place by crawling under the wall; I took a deep breath and plunged down through the stiff, saturated mess at the bottom of the barrier.
I won't wait here forever. I got tired of waiting next door. I lay in the ground for very many years, but no-one ever came. So I've moved on to you.
I never had much faith in Mrs Monkton, but you're different. You're inquisitive. I can tell. So come out into the garden and rummage around the roots of your rosebush. I'm waiting there now, and I'd really love to meet you.
I have travelled from garden to garden. I snuck into your place by crawling under the wall; I took a deep breath and plunged down through the stiff, saturated mess at the bottom of the barrier.
I won't wait here forever. I got tired of waiting next door. I lay in the ground for very many years, but no-one ever came. So I've moved on to you.
I never had much faith in Mrs Monkton, but you're different. You're inquisitive. I can tell. So come out into the garden and rummage around the roots of your rosebush. I'm waiting there now, and I'd really love to meet you.
Tuesday 9 November 2010
Artist/Model
The Artist looked up at The Model and smiled.
"Time for lunch."
"Shall I...?" asked The Model, pointing at the pile of clothes on the chair.
"Yes. I think that might be best," said The Artist.
The Model groaned.
"Stiff neck?" asked The Artist, calling through from the kitchen.
"Just a bit," said The Model.
"Harder than it looks, isn't it?" said The Artist, walking back through with a plate of sandwiches. "This is your first time?"
"Have I been doing it wrong?
"Oh no no no no no. Not at all."
The Model groped for the neck of the pullover and eventually found it. The Artist smiled and tapped on one of the stools. The Model walked across and sat down.
"It's important to have a proper lunch. It's going to be a long afternoon."
The Artist sat, took a sandwich and bit slowly into it. The Model smiled politely and also took one.
"Tell me," said The Artist. "What else do you do?"
"Time for lunch."
"Shall I...?" asked The Model, pointing at the pile of clothes on the chair.
"Yes. I think that might be best," said The Artist.
The Model groaned.
"Stiff neck?" asked The Artist, calling through from the kitchen.
"Just a bit," said The Model.
"Harder than it looks, isn't it?" said The Artist, walking back through with a plate of sandwiches. "This is your first time?"
"Have I been doing it wrong?
"Oh no no no no no. Not at all."
The Model groped for the neck of the pullover and eventually found it. The Artist smiled and tapped on one of the stools. The Model walked across and sat down.
"It's important to have a proper lunch. It's going to be a long afternoon."
The Artist sat, took a sandwich and bit slowly into it. The Model smiled politely and also took one.
"Tell me," said The Artist. "What else do you do?"
Monday 1 November 2010
The Basin
Mikey Monroe grew up in Western Issenland in a city full of hills.
The nearest shops were just a mile away (as the crow flies) but it would take him at least an hour and a half to do his shopping. He would have to go uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill and uphill on the way there, and downhill, uphill, downhill, uphill and downhill on the way back.
Mikey did develop fantastically-toned calf muscles, but this was little consolation; as far as he was concerned, hills were the bane of his life.
_________________________________________________________________
On 22nd February 2011, Michael James Monroe was elected President of Western Issenland.
As was the custom, upon his election, the President would have a brand new city built for him, at the heart of which would be his Presidential Palace, surrounded by twenty square miles of newly-erected government offices and housing.
Each of the previous Presidents had commissioned a city which reflected his or her personality and pre-occupations: Jeremy Jackson's city had been entirely solar-powered, Katherine Kindle's had been designed in the shape of a tree to match her party's logo and Lawrence Llewellyn's had been decked out entirely in his favourite colour, purple.
Michael thought long and hard about what sort of city he would like to commission, but there was one idea to which he kept on returning and which he ultimately decided to carry out. He would build a city without a single hill, no slope of any kind, flat enough to play snooker on if its residents so wished. It would be extraordinarily convenient, thought Michael, a real crowd-pleaser.
_________________________________________________________________
The site which the committee had chosen for the Presidential city was, unfortunately, on the edge of the Matafor range of mountains. The committee asked Michael if he would like to choose a more convenient location, but he declined.
"No no," he said. "This will be just fine. We can flatten it out." And so the builders set to work, dismantling the mountains, tearing up the earth and the rock and pushing it all out towards the perimeter of the city.
After forty-eight days of solid endeavour, the site was ready, completely flat, rimmed by a complete circle of hills, constructed out of the earth that had been displaced.
The palace was built, and the offices and all the new houses. This is perfect, thought Michael, as he moved into his new home. There would be room for seventeen thousand residents in the city of no hills.
_________________________________________________________________
On 12th October 2012, an enormous storm devastated Monroeville. The rains came down and filled up the basin of the city.
Desmond and Doris Faraday were amongst those who tried to drive out to escape the flooding, but the roads were clogged up with traffic and it was not possible to get away. They abandoned their car and tried to climb out over the hills at the edge of the city, but the rain had made the inclines thick and muddy and impossible to climb. As hordes of people clambered desperately over each other up to the top of the hill, the rain washed many of them back down into the city, flushing them into the twenty square mile basin which the city had become.
The last time Doris saw Desmond he too was being swept away, driven back by the water to the base of the hill.
_________________________________________________________________
President Monroe's helicopter rose up out of and away from the city. As the rain continued to fall, he tried not to look out of the window.
The nearest shops were just a mile away (as the crow flies) but it would take him at least an hour and a half to do his shopping. He would have to go uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill and uphill on the way there, and downhill, uphill, downhill, uphill and downhill on the way back.
Mikey did develop fantastically-toned calf muscles, but this was little consolation; as far as he was concerned, hills were the bane of his life.
_________________________________________________________________
On 22nd February 2011, Michael James Monroe was elected President of Western Issenland.
As was the custom, upon his election, the President would have a brand new city built for him, at the heart of which would be his Presidential Palace, surrounded by twenty square miles of newly-erected government offices and housing.
Each of the previous Presidents had commissioned a city which reflected his or her personality and pre-occupations: Jeremy Jackson's city had been entirely solar-powered, Katherine Kindle's had been designed in the shape of a tree to match her party's logo and Lawrence Llewellyn's had been decked out entirely in his favourite colour, purple.
Michael thought long and hard about what sort of city he would like to commission, but there was one idea to which he kept on returning and which he ultimately decided to carry out. He would build a city without a single hill, no slope of any kind, flat enough to play snooker on if its residents so wished. It would be extraordinarily convenient, thought Michael, a real crowd-pleaser.
_________________________________________________________________
The site which the committee had chosen for the Presidential city was, unfortunately, on the edge of the Matafor range of mountains. The committee asked Michael if he would like to choose a more convenient location, but he declined.
"No no," he said. "This will be just fine. We can flatten it out." And so the builders set to work, dismantling the mountains, tearing up the earth and the rock and pushing it all out towards the perimeter of the city.
After forty-eight days of solid endeavour, the site was ready, completely flat, rimmed by a complete circle of hills, constructed out of the earth that had been displaced.
The palace was built, and the offices and all the new houses. This is perfect, thought Michael, as he moved into his new home. There would be room for seventeen thousand residents in the city of no hills.
_________________________________________________________________
On 12th October 2012, an enormous storm devastated Monroeville. The rains came down and filled up the basin of the city.
Desmond and Doris Faraday were amongst those who tried to drive out to escape the flooding, but the roads were clogged up with traffic and it was not possible to get away. They abandoned their car and tried to climb out over the hills at the edge of the city, but the rain had made the inclines thick and muddy and impossible to climb. As hordes of people clambered desperately over each other up to the top of the hill, the rain washed many of them back down into the city, flushing them into the twenty square mile basin which the city had become.
The last time Doris saw Desmond he too was being swept away, driven back by the water to the base of the hill.
_________________________________________________________________
President Monroe's helicopter rose up out of and away from the city. As the rain continued to fall, he tried not to look out of the window.
Wednesday 6 October 2010
The Last Pencil
Diana only has one pencil left. One pencil and no sharpener. She has to write as lightly as possible, pressing so gently on the paper that the words can only just be deciphered.
She ties her notes to the trees, praying that the rain won't wash them away, that the messages will be discovered intact and in time. With each new note attached, she dashes off again into the jungle, desperate to elude her pursuers.
The notes do not say where she is going. All they say is that she is alive and that she is running out of pencils. That is all she can afford to give away.
She ties her notes to the trees, praying that the rain won't wash them away, that the messages will be discovered intact and in time. With each new note attached, she dashes off again into the jungle, desperate to elude her pursuers.
The notes do not say where she is going. All they say is that she is alive and that she is running out of pencils. That is all she can afford to give away.
Monday 27 September 2010
Linus Whiteley's Birthday
It's Linus Whiteley's birthday next week. He's going to be eighty-eight years old. I tell him every afternoon over our game of cribbage, but he keeps on forgetting.
"Eighty-eight?!" His face unfolds to reveal his delight. "Am I going to have a party?"
"Yes, of course you'll have a party. Everyone has a party on their birthday."
"Really? Do they?"
"Yes. We'll have cake and tea and biscuits."
"Oh, that sounds lovely. Will John and Jessie bring us breakfast in bed?"
"No, Linus."
"Will we go for a walk in the afternoon across the Heath? Will we have lunch at Kenwood House? Will we sit outside on the patio?"
"No, Linus."
"Will we go out to the club for a big fancy dinner? Will the Newtons come over before we go? Will Julia Carter be there? And Eric and Martin and Cornelius Quentin?"
"No, Linus."
He smiles at me sadly and I can see that he understands.
The smile disappears.
"You've got lovely hair," he says, listlessly. I squeeze his hand and shuffle the deck.
"Eighty-eight?!" His face unfolds to reveal his delight. "Am I going to have a party?"
"Yes, of course you'll have a party. Everyone has a party on their birthday."
"Really? Do they?"
"Yes. We'll have cake and tea and biscuits."
"Oh, that sounds lovely. Will John and Jessie bring us breakfast in bed?"
"No, Linus."
"Will we go for a walk in the afternoon across the Heath? Will we have lunch at Kenwood House? Will we sit outside on the patio?"
"No, Linus."
"Will we go out to the club for a big fancy dinner? Will the Newtons come over before we go? Will Julia Carter be there? And Eric and Martin and Cornelius Quentin?"
"No, Linus."
He smiles at me sadly and I can see that he understands.
The smile disappears.
"You've got lovely hair," he says, listlessly. I squeeze his hand and shuffle the deck.
Wednesday 22 September 2010
Geoffrey's Castle
Geoffrey returned to his castle one day to find that half a turret had disappeared.
He hadn't heard of any storms nor had he noticed any signs of structural weakness, so the sight of the stunted turret as he cycled down the driveway came as something of a shock.
He made his way inside and ran up what was left of the spiral staircase to take a look. The break was clean; the top section of the tower had been meticulously removed, brick by brick.
But by whom?
Geoffrey asked Ablett, his retired butler, to come in overnight and keep an eye out on the CCTV for anything untoward.
His lordship slept well, reassured by the presence of a guard, but awoke to the news that the portcullis had gone. (Ablett had slipped out the back for a fag around three.)
Nothing further vanished throughout the next day. As evening fell, Geoffrey joined the contrite Ablett to take the onus off the tired old man. The night ticked by, but the thieves did not return. Perhaps that marked the end of it, thought Geoffrey.
As the Sun rose over the castle, he sent the butler on his way and slowly dropped off to sleep. By the time he awoke, the moat had been drained, the oak trees uprooted and the second half of the turret taken apart.
The castle had stood for four hundred years, but was gradually being dismantled, dissected by a determined and elusive band of anti-builders. And Geoffrey had no idea how to stop them.
He hadn't heard of any storms nor had he noticed any signs of structural weakness, so the sight of the stunted turret as he cycled down the driveway came as something of a shock.
He made his way inside and ran up what was left of the spiral staircase to take a look. The break was clean; the top section of the tower had been meticulously removed, brick by brick.
But by whom?
Geoffrey asked Ablett, his retired butler, to come in overnight and keep an eye out on the CCTV for anything untoward.
His lordship slept well, reassured by the presence of a guard, but awoke to the news that the portcullis had gone. (Ablett had slipped out the back for a fag around three.)
Nothing further vanished throughout the next day. As evening fell, Geoffrey joined the contrite Ablett to take the onus off the tired old man. The night ticked by, but the thieves did not return. Perhaps that marked the end of it, thought Geoffrey.
As the Sun rose over the castle, he sent the butler on his way and slowly dropped off to sleep. By the time he awoke, the moat had been drained, the oak trees uprooted and the second half of the turret taken apart.
The castle had stood for four hundred years, but was gradually being dismantled, dissected by a determined and elusive band of anti-builders. And Geoffrey had no idea how to stop them.
A Goose at the Gate
Every day at half past four a Canada goose wanders past my garden gate. I see her in my window as I'm doing the washing up.
It's a reassuringly regular routine. As the minute hand clicks into place at the six, there she goes, waddling complacently along from right to left, beak forward, belly proud.
Only once in the last six months has she not appeared, when I went down to the bottom of the garden and waited at the vegetable patch. She didn't come by that day.
Since then, I have resumed my previous position, drying the dishes with the wildfowl teatowel, and everything has returned to normal.
I've promised myself I won't disrupt the routine again. I don't want to drive my distinguished friend away.
It's a reassuringly regular routine. As the minute hand clicks into place at the six, there she goes, waddling complacently along from right to left, beak forward, belly proud.
Only once in the last six months has she not appeared, when I went down to the bottom of the garden and waited at the vegetable patch. She didn't come by that day.
Since then, I have resumed my previous position, drying the dishes with the wildfowl teatowel, and everything has returned to normal.
I've promised myself I won't disrupt the routine again. I don't want to drive my distinguished friend away.
Thursday 16 September 2010
Jefferson Marlowe, Hero
Jefferson Marlowe woke and sat up. He did not know where he was or how he'd got there, but he was sure that he was awake.
"Hello Jefferson."
He turned around. There was a very tall, very blurry figure floating a few metres away.
"Um...hello," he replied.
"Do you know where you are?"
"No."
"Do you know how you got here?"
"No."
Jefferson's eyes began to adjust to the light. The figure's features started to come into focus. He saw that it was a woman, a beautiful woman, long black hair draped over her shoulders and framing her unfathomably delicate features. He could see now that she was not floating, but appeared to be standing on an invisible box.
"I'm going to leave you now, Jefferson."
Now he could see her more clearly, he wanted her to stay. "No. Stay."
"I just want to say thank you, Jefferson. I know you don't remember, but we owe it all to you. No-one here will ever know what a hero you were, how you slew the mighty Jagalath, how you saved all our lives. But we won't forget. Good luck to you, Jefferson Marlowe. You can find your own way home from here, yeah?"
"What happened? What did I do?"
It was too late. The speaker had disappeared.
Jefferson looked around. He appeared to be in a big hole. No, now he could see that it was a quarry. There were miners chipping away at the huge chalky white wall not fifty metres away from where he was sitting. Little lads in purple uniforms. Must be the Quinto Rock Mining Collective, he thought. So that's where he was: Quinto Rock.
One of the miners put down his tools and ambled over.
"Hello! How did you get in then?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know, eh?"
"No."
"Well, come on. Make yourself useful. We've had a couple of fatalities recently. Could do with some new staff."
"Aren't I a little tall?"
The miner looked him up and down, and tried to suppress a laugh.
"Nah, mate. You're just right."
Jefferson picked up a loose chisel and wandered over towards the rock face. Typical, he thought. He'd finally done something magnificent, the huge deed that he'd been preparing to perform for his whole life... and neither he nor anyone else could remember the first thing about it.
"Hello Jefferson."
He turned around. There was a very tall, very blurry figure floating a few metres away.
"Um...hello," he replied.
"Do you know where you are?"
"No."
"Do you know how you got here?"
"No."
Jefferson's eyes began to adjust to the light. The figure's features started to come into focus. He saw that it was a woman, a beautiful woman, long black hair draped over her shoulders and framing her unfathomably delicate features. He could see now that she was not floating, but appeared to be standing on an invisible box.
"I'm going to leave you now, Jefferson."
Now he could see her more clearly, he wanted her to stay. "No. Stay."
"I just want to say thank you, Jefferson. I know you don't remember, but we owe it all to you. No-one here will ever know what a hero you were, how you slew the mighty Jagalath, how you saved all our lives. But we won't forget. Good luck to you, Jefferson Marlowe. You can find your own way home from here, yeah?"
"What happened? What did I do?"
It was too late. The speaker had disappeared.
Jefferson looked around. He appeared to be in a big hole. No, now he could see that it was a quarry. There were miners chipping away at the huge chalky white wall not fifty metres away from where he was sitting. Little lads in purple uniforms. Must be the Quinto Rock Mining Collective, he thought. So that's where he was: Quinto Rock.
One of the miners put down his tools and ambled over.
"Hello! How did you get in then?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know, eh?"
"No."
"Well, come on. Make yourself useful. We've had a couple of fatalities recently. Could do with some new staff."
"Aren't I a little tall?"
The miner looked him up and down, and tried to suppress a laugh.
"Nah, mate. You're just right."
Jefferson picked up a loose chisel and wandered over towards the rock face. Typical, he thought. He'd finally done something magnificent, the huge deed that he'd been preparing to perform for his whole life... and neither he nor anyone else could remember the first thing about it.
Wednesday 15 September 2010
The Perfect End
A brawl broke out as we left the party, on a small patch of grass by the newly-moored boat.
I might have joined in if I'd had a little more to drink. As it was, I simply stood back and admired the efficiency with which the evening was ruined.
No-one in the mob of enthusiastic spectators seemed to know quite what it was all about. We agreed that someone had done something to someone at some point between Putney and Hammersmith, but who had done what to whom when was not clear. Whatever the excuse, it no longer mattered: we were all taking far too much pleasure in the violence to care.
James and I vicariously enjoyed the ruckus throughout its opening exchanges: small pockets of participants slugging away, sometimes three on three, occasionally five on one; a young man with spiky blond hair crawling out of the battle, shirt bloodied, face blackened, trying hopelessly to light a cigarette; a young woman with ponytail half-undone, mud smeared harshly across her cream dress, standing on the deck of the boat and throwing a table, with a guttural howl, off onto the hordes below...
Once the adrenalin of the pugilists had begun to give way to shame, James and I sloped away for the bus, passing and briefly consoling the devastated birthday girl on the way.
At the stop we sat and we waited and we quietly reminisced, smiling in awe at the frenzy that we'd seen. The occasional shout could still be heard in the distance, and, approaching from afar, the faint sound of a siren. We had had our fill - it was time to go home.
I might have joined in if I'd had a little more to drink. As it was, I simply stood back and admired the efficiency with which the evening was ruined.
No-one in the mob of enthusiastic spectators seemed to know quite what it was all about. We agreed that someone had done something to someone at some point between Putney and Hammersmith, but who had done what to whom when was not clear. Whatever the excuse, it no longer mattered: we were all taking far too much pleasure in the violence to care.
James and I vicariously enjoyed the ruckus throughout its opening exchanges: small pockets of participants slugging away, sometimes three on three, occasionally five on one; a young man with spiky blond hair crawling out of the battle, shirt bloodied, face blackened, trying hopelessly to light a cigarette; a young woman with ponytail half-undone, mud smeared harshly across her cream dress, standing on the deck of the boat and throwing a table, with a guttural howl, off onto the hordes below...
Once the adrenalin of the pugilists had begun to give way to shame, James and I sloped away for the bus, passing and briefly consoling the devastated birthday girl on the way.
At the stop we sat and we waited and we quietly reminisced, smiling in awe at the frenzy that we'd seen. The occasional shout could still be heard in the distance, and, approaching from afar, the faint sound of a siren. We had had our fill - it was time to go home.
Friday 10 September 2010
The Course is Closed
The flags will not be needed again until the spring. The holes will be filled and the greens left to grow. I'll be breaking the news to the staff in the clubhouse: they'll have to find new work until March - there just isn't the demand.
Still, one or two folk will drop by that I know. Mr Jarvis will come in for his lunchtime pint every day, as will Derek Drake and Mrs McBride. There might be the odd game of bridge or Canasta on a weekday afternoon - Phillipa Reynolds will come in and make up a four. They'll sit in the bar and I'll serve them sandwiches and nuts and drinks. Mrs McBride will invite me to play, but I'll politely decline, say I've got to go and change a barrel, trusting them to mind the bar while I go upstairs and lie back and think.
When I come back, Derek will be looking at the photographs on the wall, asking me who this is and that is and if I remember when he went around the Old Course in 64. I'll smile and say yes, and he'll stroke his moustache proudly and return to the table.
They will sit in the bar until it closes, and then Derek and Mrs McBride and Mr Jarvis will be off to their homes, and I'll call a taxi for Phillipa Reynolds because she lives fifteen miles away. And while we're waiting for it to come, and the others have left, Phillipa and I will go and sit by the fire and hold hands and I'll wonder silently about what might have happened if we had met twenty years earlier, and I'll kiss her goodbye on the cheek, and watch from my room as she gets in the cab and goes home.
Yes, it will be just the same as ever this winter - the old routine - they'll be in every day. But they won't be going on the course. Oh no. The course isn't open in the winter. The course is closed.
Still, one or two folk will drop by that I know. Mr Jarvis will come in for his lunchtime pint every day, as will Derek Drake and Mrs McBride. There might be the odd game of bridge or Canasta on a weekday afternoon - Phillipa Reynolds will come in and make up a four. They'll sit in the bar and I'll serve them sandwiches and nuts and drinks. Mrs McBride will invite me to play, but I'll politely decline, say I've got to go and change a barrel, trusting them to mind the bar while I go upstairs and lie back and think.
When I come back, Derek will be looking at the photographs on the wall, asking me who this is and that is and if I remember when he went around the Old Course in 64. I'll smile and say yes, and he'll stroke his moustache proudly and return to the table.
They will sit in the bar until it closes, and then Derek and Mrs McBride and Mr Jarvis will be off to their homes, and I'll call a taxi for Phillipa Reynolds because she lives fifteen miles away. And while we're waiting for it to come, and the others have left, Phillipa and I will go and sit by the fire and hold hands and I'll wonder silently about what might have happened if we had met twenty years earlier, and I'll kiss her goodbye on the cheek, and watch from my room as she gets in the cab and goes home.
Yes, it will be just the same as ever this winter - the old routine - they'll be in every day. But they won't be going on the course. Oh no. The course isn't open in the winter. The course is closed.
Wednesday 8 September 2010
To Summer
I twisted the spoon, wrenched out a dollop and put it into my mouth to melt.
The cool mint mixture lined my throat; chips of chocolate wedged themselves between my back teeth. I didn't bother to fiddle them out.
"Who finished it?" Jess looked angrily at the tub and accusingly at me. "I bought that."
"Pip did." I wiped my mouth and turned towards the door.
I stepped out onto the balcony, hearing the wheeze of a bottle being opened behind me. Jess appeared with two glasses of lemonade.
"To summer."
I put my hand in hers.
"To summer."
She turned to me and kissed me. She smiled and said I tasted of mint.
The cool mint mixture lined my throat; chips of chocolate wedged themselves between my back teeth. I didn't bother to fiddle them out.
"Who finished it?" Jess looked angrily at the tub and accusingly at me. "I bought that."
"Pip did." I wiped my mouth and turned towards the door.
I stepped out onto the balcony, hearing the wheeze of a bottle being opened behind me. Jess appeared with two glasses of lemonade.
"To summer."
I put my hand in hers.
"To summer."
She turned to me and kissed me. She smiled and said I tasted of mint.
Tuesday 7 September 2010
The Dandelion Field
Jefferson Marlowe took a swig of papaya juice. It had been a long trek back to Batahausen - he was hot, sticky and in need of a sit down.
The view from the top of Mount Devesham was really quite something: fields stretching back as far as he could see, out across the valley and up the other side.
But there was one in particular which really caught his eye, standing out against the green and brown. At first it looked as if it was covered with snow, but, as Jefferson scrambled down the mountain, he realised that the field was, in fact, full of dandelions, the heads of every flower blurring into one, stitched together like a thick silver sheet.
_________________________________________________________________
As Jefferson sat down, he felt the dandelions on his bare knees, flicking idly against his canvas shorts. This was the perfect place for a bit of kip, he thought, as he lay back.
He pulled out a flower and blew on it carelessly.
As he did so, a tuft of silver particles flew away, the Sun disappeared behind a cloud and the sky got suddenly darker.
Jefferson shivered.
Before he'd had the time to question himself, he'd blown away another clump.
The night got darker still. He wrapped his arms about his chest and looked up at the sky. The moons were quite visible now, Juliet and Portia, two crescents in the gloam, and the stars were piercing into sight.
He looked at the flower, a few dusty fruits still clinging to its stalk. He brushed them away and the darkness completed its descent.
Jefferson remembered everything at last. The world was coming to an end and it was all his fault. The hoot af an owl signalled that the time had come: Jagalath had awoken and was ready to emerge.
The view from the top of Mount Devesham was really quite something: fields stretching back as far as he could see, out across the valley and up the other side.
But there was one in particular which really caught his eye, standing out against the green and brown. At first it looked as if it was covered with snow, but, as Jefferson scrambled down the mountain, he realised that the field was, in fact, full of dandelions, the heads of every flower blurring into one, stitched together like a thick silver sheet.
_________________________________________________________________
As Jefferson sat down, he felt the dandelions on his bare knees, flicking idly against his canvas shorts. This was the perfect place for a bit of kip, he thought, as he lay back.
He pulled out a flower and blew on it carelessly.
As he did so, a tuft of silver particles flew away, the Sun disappeared behind a cloud and the sky got suddenly darker.
Jefferson shivered.
Before he'd had the time to question himself, he'd blown away another clump.
The night got darker still. He wrapped his arms about his chest and looked up at the sky. The moons were quite visible now, Juliet and Portia, two crescents in the gloam, and the stars were piercing into sight.
He looked at the flower, a few dusty fruits still clinging to its stalk. He brushed them away and the darkness completed its descent.
Jefferson remembered everything at last. The world was coming to an end and it was all his fault. The hoot af an owl signalled that the time had come: Jagalath had awoken and was ready to emerge.
Wednesday 25 August 2010
Bound Together
I first caught sight of them as my bus turned the corner, gazing through the windscreen as I clung on to the bar.
They were necking at the bus stop in the rain: an elderly couple, he stooping, she on tiptoe, heads gently tilted, eyes lightly closed.
He'd burrowed his hands into the pockets of her raincoat; her's were on his face, brushing back his wet white hair and curling it behind the ears. We all thought they were waiting for the bus, so we stopped and waited ourselves.
The doors opened, but they did not come. They did not even look, his back angled towards the road, oblivious to the bus-full of passengers who were, for that minute, their audience, tapping at the window of their world.
We waited and watched. His hands were on her bottom now, I think, grasping through the pockets of her coat and the starched linen of her skirt. Their faces were creased up, wrinkles interlocked, gathered together in a comfortable fervour.
The doors closed - the bus rolled on, but our attention did not. Through the rain-flecked windows, the elderly couple continued to embrace, bound still together as they drifted from our view.
They were necking at the bus stop in the rain: an elderly couple, he stooping, she on tiptoe, heads gently tilted, eyes lightly closed.
He'd burrowed his hands into the pockets of her raincoat; her's were on his face, brushing back his wet white hair and curling it behind the ears. We all thought they were waiting for the bus, so we stopped and waited ourselves.
The doors opened, but they did not come. They did not even look, his back angled towards the road, oblivious to the bus-full of passengers who were, for that minute, their audience, tapping at the window of their world.
We waited and watched. His hands were on her bottom now, I think, grasping through the pockets of her coat and the starched linen of her skirt. Their faces were creased up, wrinkles interlocked, gathered together in a comfortable fervour.
The doors closed - the bus rolled on, but our attention did not. Through the rain-flecked windows, the elderly couple continued to embrace, bound still together as they drifted from our view.
Monday 16 August 2010
Mitchell Craddock
Mitchell Craddock strokes his moustache with one hand and slicks back his hair with the other. He reaches into the pot of chalk, scoops out a handful and slaps it between his preposterous palms. He adjusts his handstraps - they are firmly in place. The tight lycra clings to his skin. He is ready for the clean and jerk.
Craddock looks straight ahead, like a blinkered horse, picking a spot in the middle distance on which he can focus and unfocus, focus and unfocus. The same routine for the past fourteen years: one man, one bar.
Craddock squats. The lycra is pulled harshly across his buttocks. It is strained but does not split. He feels the seams dig into his inner thighs - a slight, sharp pain that concentrates the mind. He gently rests his fingers on the bar. He drums them lightly, then settles. The same routine...
Craddock looks back up to his middle distance point and focuses, unfocuses, urges all thoughts from his mind. But, try as he might, the world slithers in.
Mitchell Craddock, Olympic Champion. He grips the bar tightly.
Mitchell Craddock, MBE. A tear dribbles down his cheek.
Mitchell Craddock, National Hero. His knees sink to the floor.
Mitchell Craddock is spent.
Craddock looks straight ahead, like a blinkered horse, picking a spot in the middle distance on which he can focus and unfocus, focus and unfocus. The same routine for the past fourteen years: one man, one bar.
Craddock squats. The lycra is pulled harshly across his buttocks. It is strained but does not split. He feels the seams dig into his inner thighs - a slight, sharp pain that concentrates the mind. He gently rests his fingers on the bar. He drums them lightly, then settles. The same routine...
Craddock looks back up to his middle distance point and focuses, unfocuses, urges all thoughts from his mind. But, try as he might, the world slithers in.
Mitchell Craddock, Olympic Champion. He grips the bar tightly.
Mitchell Craddock, MBE. A tear dribbles down his cheek.
Mitchell Craddock, National Hero. His knees sink to the floor.
Mitchell Craddock is spent.
Wednesday 28 July 2010
The Banolo Tree
I've planted a Banolo tree in my back garden. Made of iron, its branches clang against its trunk in the wind.
I want to make pipes from the branches - new guttering. Shave off the bark and make a thousand tiny magnets and whack 'em on the fridge. Maybe grate them into iron filings, sprinkle bits around the place, then attract them all together so I can spell out my name.
I'm going to carve out a chunk of the trunk and make myself a bath, hear the shimmer of the water on the bottom of the tub.
The leaves of the tree bleed molten metal - I'll put them in a salad and drizzle them with oil.
I want my life to sprout out of the Banolo tree - it'll feed everything I do. I'll be connected, at last, to nature - my life will be linked in.
I want to make pipes from the branches - new guttering. Shave off the bark and make a thousand tiny magnets and whack 'em on the fridge. Maybe grate them into iron filings, sprinkle bits around the place, then attract them all together so I can spell out my name.
I'm going to carve out a chunk of the trunk and make myself a bath, hear the shimmer of the water on the bottom of the tub.
The leaves of the tree bleed molten metal - I'll put them in a salad and drizzle them with oil.
I want my life to sprout out of the Banolo tree - it'll feed everything I do. I'll be connected, at last, to nature - my life will be linked in.
Tuesday 27 July 2010
More Than a Consolation
Charlotte found the note on the kitchen table, scribbled on the back of a receipt and weighed down by a 1961 Tottenham Hotspur commemorative mug.
"Dearest Charlie, " it read. "Sorry to burgle but needed the cash. Emergency. Will pay you back one day. Thanks for understanding, Clive. X."
Her eyes widened in anger - the "X" was one step too far.
Charlotte left the kitchen and wandered back into the sitting room to take another look. The TV was gone. So was the laptop. And the iPad. And the signed picture of Jermain Defoe. And the 7" of Diamond Lights. And the Official Club Calendar 2002/03. "Needed the cash" my arse, she thought.
What else had he taken?
Suddenly panicked, she ran across to the dresser and pulled open the drawer.
Thank God. The season tickets were still there.
Charlotte smiled. He could have taken those tickets, but he'd left them for her.
It meant a lot. It meant that she was going to White Hart Lane on Saturday. It meant that everything was going to be ok.
"Dearest Charlie, " it read. "Sorry to burgle but needed the cash. Emergency. Will pay you back one day. Thanks for understanding, Clive. X."
Her eyes widened in anger - the "X" was one step too far.
Charlotte left the kitchen and wandered back into the sitting room to take another look. The TV was gone. So was the laptop. And the iPad. And the signed picture of Jermain Defoe. And the 7" of Diamond Lights. And the Official Club Calendar 2002/03. "Needed the cash" my arse, she thought.
What else had he taken?
Suddenly panicked, she ran across to the dresser and pulled open the drawer.
Thank God. The season tickets were still there.
Charlotte smiled. He could have taken those tickets, but he'd left them for her.
It meant a lot. It meant that she was going to White Hart Lane on Saturday. It meant that everything was going to be ok.
Friday 23 July 2010
Six Months of Questing
Jefferson Marlowe was riding along the sandy trail from Quinto Rock to Batahausen, when his horse reared up and flicked him off her back.
As Juniper galloped off into the distance, Jefferson blinked away the dust from his eyes and stumbled to his feet.
"Stay down," a familiar voice boomed from over his shoulder.
Jefferson shot back down and buried his face in the dirt. He dared not turn around.
"Do you know who I am?"
"No," lied Jefferson.
"I am Alfonso Barsquador. Now hand over the keys."
Jefferson reached into his right trouser pocket and fished out the keys to Outrock Cave. He tossed them away to his right.
"And now the book."
Jefferson reached into his left trouser pocket and fished out The Ancient Book of Caldidot. He tossed it away to his left.
"Now stand up and walk away."
Jefferson stood up and walked away.
After ten minutes of silence, he decided that it was probably safe to turn around. The wizard had disappeared, as had the keys and the book. Six months of questing, all gone up in smoke.
Jefferson shouted out for Juniper, but she was long gone.
Batahausen was seventy-eight miles away. He wiped away a tear and started to walk.
As Juniper galloped off into the distance, Jefferson blinked away the dust from his eyes and stumbled to his feet.
"Stay down," a familiar voice boomed from over his shoulder.
Jefferson shot back down and buried his face in the dirt. He dared not turn around.
"Do you know who I am?"
"No," lied Jefferson.
"I am Alfonso Barsquador. Now hand over the keys."
Jefferson reached into his right trouser pocket and fished out the keys to Outrock Cave. He tossed them away to his right.
"And now the book."
Jefferson reached into his left trouser pocket and fished out The Ancient Book of Caldidot. He tossed it away to his left.
"Now stand up and walk away."
Jefferson stood up and walked away.
After ten minutes of silence, he decided that it was probably safe to turn around. The wizard had disappeared, as had the keys and the book. Six months of questing, all gone up in smoke.
Jefferson shouted out for Juniper, but she was long gone.
Batahausen was seventy-eight miles away. He wiped away a tear and started to walk.
Monday 19 July 2010
Survival
I lay in the box with the other remaining matches in our usual undignified heap. Since Nigel had gone, I was now on top. I didn't have to bear any weight any more, but it also meant that I too would soon be picked out, lit up and burned away.
I was not unhappy to have reached the summit. Every one of us would eventually face the same fate, so what was the point of stringing it out? Some of the others used to hope that the box would be lost, buried at the bottom of a kitchen drawer, that another set of victims would be purchased and used in our stead, but I was never so optimistic.
Indeed, before long, it was my turn.
The light rushed in as the box slid ominously open. Suddenly and unexpectedly fearful, I prayed that he would shake us up, pick someone from the other end, but then I felt his fingers on my toes and knew that it was me. I braced myself and waited for the violent strike of the box against my head.
But it never came.
Instead, he smothered my left side in goo and pushed me firmly against something. I didn't know what. Something hard.
I opened my eyes and realised that I had been attached to Roger. I hadn't seen Roger for ages. I'd thought he was dead. Bit of a pain in the arse, Roger. A moaner. I would have preferred to be next to Dave, but being alive still was enough, I guess. Can't have everything.
It's been a couple of years since I left the box now and, although I'm happy to be here, I do wish that I knew what we all made up. A boat? Or a house, perhaps? Doreen, who stands on my head, thinks that we're a model windmill. Maybe we are. Whatever the answer, we're going to have a bloody long time to speculate.
Friday 16 July 2010
Slowly Unstitched
As Helen Kennedy brushed her teeth, her left arm was gradually becoming disconnected from her shoulder.
She spat away a mouthful of minty saliva and looked up at the mirror.
She could feel something pulling on her arm, something which she could not see, something at her side. Not tugging, just easing it away from the rest of her body.
It was not an unpleasant experience. In fact, the whole process felt completely natural. She just calmly watched her left arm being slowly unstitched.
It floated away. It was not dead, but was no longer hers. Gliding out of the bedroom window, off down the street. It waved as it disappeared around the corner.
Helen's shoulder healed itself swiftly into a perfectly smooth curve, leaving no trace.
She looked in the mirror and sighed. It was time to go to bed.
She spat away a mouthful of minty saliva and looked up at the mirror.
She could feel something pulling on her arm, something which she could not see, something at her side. Not tugging, just easing it away from the rest of her body.
It was not an unpleasant experience. In fact, the whole process felt completely natural. She just calmly watched her left arm being slowly unstitched.
It floated away. It was not dead, but was no longer hers. Gliding out of the bedroom window, off down the street. It waved as it disappeared around the corner.
Helen's shoulder healed itself swiftly into a perfectly smooth curve, leaving no trace.
She looked in the mirror and sighed. It was time to go to bed.
Tuesday 13 July 2010
A Letter for Jefferson Marlowe
Jefferson Marlowe was in the middle of cutting his toenails, when a postdwarf poked his hand round the door and thrust a missive into the tent.
“Darling Jefferson,
I yearn for you, for your body, for the tender ecstasy of your embrace.
Meet me by the dandelion field at 2pm.
Forever yours,
Hermione.”
Jefferson did not know any Hermiones, but he quite liked the sound of the letter. Particularly the bit about his body. News of his exploits must have spread across Berynthia...which was understandable.
He pulled out his fobwatch. Half past one. Just time to make it.
He brushed his toenails down the side of the mattress, saddled up his horse and rode off.
As our hero swept towards the horizon, the postdwarf crawled out of the bushes and made his way towards the tent.
Good old Jefferson, he thought, as he loaded his rucksack.
Friday 9 July 2010
The Round Room
“Please be quiet. They are filming in the Round Room. Other rooms are open, but the Round Room is closed.”
“Sure. No problem. What are they filming in the Round Room?”, I asked.
“A short film,” she answered.
“What sort of short film?”
“A short documentary film.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about the Round Room.”
I walked up to the open double doors and looked inside. Cameras were being set up in a circle and a boom mike was looming overhead.
“Looks exciting,” I said.
“Watch your back,” she replied.
A four poster bed was wheeled in past me through the open double doors and positioned at the centre of the room. The cameras and the boom mike were all now pointed at it.
Two people followed the bed into the room. A young man and woman in identical white wool dressing gowns. They smiled nervously at each other and sat down.
As their bottoms hit the mattress, the double doors slammed shut.
“Please be quiet. They are filming in the Round Room. Other rooms are open, but the Round Room is closed.”
Tuesday 6 July 2010
On Mount Bernard
Professor Miles lives in a tiny hut on Mount Bernard, forty feet from the summit and twelve thousand from the base.
He used to be a Lecturer in Philosophy at the University of Marshton, but is too old to teach there now.
After he retired, he returned to the city of his birth, where he gave lectures in the streets.
But no-one ever listened, so he moved to the mountains.
His city-lectures were convoluted and difficult to follow, but in the mountains the air is too thin for city-lectures.
It's important to be brief up there, to say what you need to say and then shut up before you run out of breath.
That's why all of Professor Miles’ greatest lectures have been given on Mount Bernard.
It’s just a pity that there’s never been anyone around to hear them.
Thursday 1 July 2010
Jefferson Marlowe's Horn
Jefferson Marlowe blew three times on his magic horn and waited for the pixies to fall out of the sky.
But none did.
So he blew on his horn again, twice as hard and for twice as long.
Still no-one came.
He sat down on his rock and tried to work out what he was doing wrong...
He had taken out his horn at two minutes to three, just as the wizard had instructed. He had pointed it in the direction of the easternmost star, just as the wizard had instructed. He had blown it with his chest out and his chin up, just as the wizard had instructed.
Hmm...
“Bloody horn,” said Jefferson.
“Not enough puff,” said the horn.
Turns out the magic horn needed a magic blower.
Wednesday 30 June 2010
Fitzwilliam's Mount
30 miles to Meryton. Did you see the sign? A good, steady gallop and we should be at Lizzy’s by dusk. Come on. I don’t want to spend the night in a tavern.
You’ll like it at Longbourn. Comfortable stable. Top-notch fillies too. Plenty to feast your eyes on there, mate. One in particular - Blossom, I think she’s called. Really glossy coat, lovely legs. You might not get much sleep, but you’ll have a bloody great time, I promise.
So do us both a favour and giddy up.
You’ll like it at Longbourn. Comfortable stable. Top-notch fillies too. Plenty to feast your eyes on there, mate. One in particular - Blossom, I think she’s called. Really glossy coat, lovely legs. You might not get much sleep, but you’ll have a bloody great time, I promise.
So do us both a favour and giddy up.
Tuesday 29 June 2010
Peace
I walk straight down the middle of The Mall, along the tightrope of white dashes which mark my route. Cars speed towards me to my right. To my left they speed away. When they coincide, I am almost spun around.
They blow their horns. They raise their hands. They look at me as if I am a fool.
Then they get close enough to recognise my face, and the anger turns to amazement, and subsequently deference.
I am a fool. But I am also the Prince of Wales. So anything goes, really. They know this. I know this. We all know this.
There is a helicopter overhead. Good. There is a film crew now, pulling up alongside. That is also good.
I don’t want to be the future king. I want to have a restful, undisturbed six months in a small residential facility in the middle of the countryside.
And this, it turns out, is the easiest way to get it.
They blow their horns. They raise their hands. They look at me as if I am a fool.
Then they get close enough to recognise my face, and the anger turns to amazement, and subsequently deference.
I am a fool. But I am also the Prince of Wales. So anything goes, really. They know this. I know this. We all know this.
There is a helicopter overhead. Good. There is a film crew now, pulling up alongside. That is also good.
I don’t want to be the future king. I want to have a restful, undisturbed six months in a small residential facility in the middle of the countryside.
And this, it turns out, is the easiest way to get it.
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