Introduction

! Welcome to the twenty-fourth Anthology of Abbeydale Writers. I am pleased to say that the work continues to maintain the high standards set by the group.

We are looking forward to our public reading during the launch of this Anthology in this year’s “Off The Shelf” festival.

Barry J Nicholls

Acknowledgements

! I am grateful to the WEA for their continuing support of Abbeydale Writers.

! Thanks also to Maria, Su, Lesley and the Sheffield City Council Leisure Services for their assistance in the launch of the Anthology.

! Thank you also to Gabrielle Latham for proof-reading, Mary Greatorex for Cover Design and Support, and Bob Lockett for typing, maintaining the website, and doing a fine job as secretary and treasurer.

! Thanks also goes this year to for donating materials required for the production of this anthology.

! Abbeydale Writers are a WEA Course and meet once a week, during term time, on Tuesdays at Totley United Reformed Church, Totley Brook Road, Sheffield, between 7 – 9 pm. !!! For further information, please contact the tutor, Barry Nicholls, tel. 01909 560 887 or Bob Lockett, tel. 0114 274 6895 Alternatively, go to our website and follow the links.

www.abbeydale-writers.co.uk

© Copyright of all work printed herein is retained by the respective authors. Reproduction in any form whatsoever without written consent is an infringement of

their copyright and constitutes appalling bad manners.

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Contents

Poetry

One for Sorrow Two for Joy ! ! ! ! ! Ken Windle! ! 7Metapoem! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Neil Davis! ! 8Even Lower Brow Corollary! ! ! ! ! Neil Davis! ! 8Blackberry Picking! ! ! ! ! ! ! Owen Barber!! 9Blackberry Picking 2! ! ! ! ! ! Owen Barber!! 9I Wish!! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Owen Barber!! 9 Girl at the Station - 1900! ! ! ! ! ! Roy Goucher!! 10Yellow Boat! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Roy Goucher!! 10I can hear the sun in your voice! ! ! ! ! Sarah Murphy! 11City Scape! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Sarah Murphy! 12Words!! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Sarah Murphy! 13Taking Stock! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Sarah Murphy! 13This is the Red Herring Chase! ! ! ! ! Sarah Murphy! 14

Prose

Miracle in the Magpie! ! ! ! ! ! Ken Windle! ! 17Creatures of the Night! ! ! ! ! ! Ken Windle! ! 20And… Here… We… Go!! ! ! ! ! ! Tom Hewson!! 22Blood! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Suzi Hithersay! 32Untitled! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Neil Davis! ! 34Mischief in Marseilles or The Succubus! ! ! ! Ivone M FitzGerald! 42Experience of the Lake District! ! ! ! ! Owen Barber!! 45Breakfast at Morris’s! ! ! ! ! ! David E Sotheran! 46Dear Mr Fetch! ! ! ! ! ! ! Janet Grover!! 50One Thousand, Two Thousand, Three Thousand, Check!! Gabrielle Latham! 52Mermaid Monologue! ! ! ! ! ! Gabrielle Latham! 57 Momentary Misery on the Costa Calida! ! ! ! Bob Lockett! ! 58

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Poetry

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Ken Windle

One for Sorrow Two for Joy

I saw five magpies in a tree,Bold as brass.Black and white.Hooligans readying for a fight.Hopping loosely branch to branch.Participants in a maypole dance.Not in flight.Gathered after blackest night.Mobsters of a lowly birth.Klu-Klux-Klan orMafia born and bred.Always hungry never fed.Villains in numbers.Loiterers with intent.Never benevolent.Hades sent.Intimidators of the feathered realm.Take up your positions,Overwhelm.Steal the fledgeling from the nest.Never rest.Murder with your evil beaks.Just a chick that lived three weeks.I am watching from above.Not a blackbird or a dove.Seeing with my orange eye.As I patrol the endless sky.I am an eagle.King of birds.In magnificence lost for words.Watch you magpies as you fly.Should I mark you out to die.I swoop from a lofty height.To tear your body with delight.So repent,Or I,Hell bent,Will destroy,Your chequered magpie plans.

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Metapoem

This poetry thing is just hard.I battle with every verse.Should I write in rhyme?That just makes everything worse!

I’m just not a poet it seems.Why must I be so obtuse?I still persist in this writing.Why this bizarre self abuse?

That Erato, well she’s a bitch.And that Calliope she’s worse,They’re supposed to be our muses.But they’re really just perverse.

Yes, this poetry’s hard.As I think I’ve just saidThe thought of any more verses,Fills my soul with dread.

The stanzas all are choked,and the words really don’t flow.So, should I give it all up,or just have one last go?

Even Lower Brow Corollary

There was a young man on my road.Who tried to write a great ode.He made Vogons sound sweet.In itself no mean feat.So a poetical life was vetoed.

Neil Davis

Owen Barber

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Blackberry Picking

Now, September, and most of them are gone nowyou know the ones in the sunLined up in hedgerows or bordering woodland.But in the shade they are black-golda rush of colour. To the hand that picked them.Then, I heard, up in the sun-filled meadow, the streamcascade its blue-chocolatey waters andMillie and Seamus tethered to a post.I know their names now. One brown and one white,I met the two girls who owned themand I was the one with the blackberries.Seamus seemed interested.

Blackberries 2

I was down at Harper LeesWhere I spent many an hourpicking many blackberriesthat red-juicy flower.September, this yearand still there are morein the shade of the riverwith banks offering their store.And through the field we wentin search of this fruitand bountiful it wasstirring the soil and the root.Whilst far down belowTwo horses walked back homesunshine on their backwith two girls they call their own.

I wish

I wish, the darkness would serve me silenceand leave me to relish it in bed.I wish, the sun when it does come outto warm my cold, wild head.I wish, when breakfast downedI would have another in a minute.I wish, it would never rainbut yet I’d like to be in it.I wish, I’d see rarer birdsbut the garden will do for now.I wish, the sky would be bluerand the clouds fluffier, somehow.I wish, it would go on and onand leave its list quite long.I wish, it would never stopto hear the larks' beautiful song.

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Girl at the Station – 1900

GirlIn black hatRed ribbon round the brimBlack coatAnd boots to match –A cream frill adorns the hem.She cradles her dogCompanion and friend,Waiting for the Truro train,Patiently sittingin the cold, winter rainA small valise lies at her feet,Within, among her girly giftsA Christmas treat for her petPerhaps?The train arrivesTen minutes late –As a porter engulfed In steamAnd travellers’ casesStruggles through the white station-gateThe girl now in a window seat with her dog,Waves to everyone –Yet no one in particular,As the train, slowly grinds from the halt.

Yellow Boat

Water calm,As the twenty-third psalm,Yellow boat floatsIn Poole harbour,Bobbing gently.White foamlike bubble bathNudgesAgainst the blue hull,A shrill, shriekOf a gull.Fish hideFrom the lone anglerOn the quay,Just a hintOf a busy, buzzing bee.Sky blue, Passing clouds,And in spite of the birdsAnd the bees,There’s a kind ofPeace.

Roy Goucher

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I can hear the sun in your voice

I can hear the sun in your voice.I travel along your intonation,Past camphor trees,Here the earth is orange and the sky sits palm to palm with the dirt,Stars litter the skyline and the night is not dark.

I climb down her vocal chordsand drop into rock pools naked,startled by the coolness of water.In this place the mosquitoes are gods,everywhere and unseen.Rich black coffee bubbles on clay stoves,dogs flaunt their balls on stick thin bodies,And dated cars fly down graveled roads.She speaks in music,Rhythm sneaks into gaps in sentences hungry to dance.The air, sweet and musky clings to her like perfume.

Fragile cadences of revolution colour your accent.Together, we run through the streets,Glass crunches underfoot,Clouds of dust sting our eyes,The taste of iron and salt in our mouths,Paths strewn with hues of red,Apricots rotting next to dead bodies,And all the while there is a background droning in your speech,Of rockets and empty shells.

His conversation is deep, guttural.Cold nights and housing estates cast shadows on words spoken,There is an inflection of boredom,The sun is more aloof than the Pope,And time inches past us.Steam rises up from soup bowlsAs raindrops race each other down.Notes of grey shade his quiet chit chat,A smattering of green lacing his brogue.

English sits heavy in their mouths,A gobstopper, sticky, cumbrous,Words roll off the tongue infused with flavours of Cancer and Capricorn.Language stretches.She holds out her hand and partners with gifts from Babel.She wears dog collars and hijabs,Shrouds and quilts,She makes love under tin roofsAnd starts wars in back rooms.

I jump on the ox and journey through your mouth to distant lands,You take me across prairies and plains,Past places, past tea houses,To your motherland of shanty towns or mountains,Dirt floors or high ceilings,Unknown, unseen,Shadow puppets weave tails in the foreground of your voice,Whispering of other people, other lives livedTill you coated your tongue in English,Yet unable to hide the sound of yourselfYour voice seeps through.! ! ! ! ! ! ! Sarah Murphy

Sarah Murphy

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City Scape

Rip the bricks off and what you’ll find isbattery farmed living. Lego blocks stacked skyhigh. Post-war pre-fab council housing, now grade two listed buildings, mingle likereluctant dinner guests with the red bricklegacy.

Blue sky, sun, an easterly wind, punctuated bythe occasional riot. Outside the petrol stationsand chicken shops stand the forgotten youth,the overlooked, the good-for-nothing x, y, zgeneration.

Parks pop up like market stalls, the treespenned in. The lonely, the rootless, theshiftless congregate around benches, half adozen cans at their feet. Oak and elmexchanged for tar and steel. Production,consumption, an endless cycle of movement and money.

Once a generation of tea drinkers, we are nowthe ‘enlightened’ connoisseurs of coffee, butnot quite. Cathedrals hark back to the forgotten days, maintained for history notreligion. Revolutions bricked up, bloodcovered up, bones bulldozed, all hiddenbehind a thin veneer of ‘progress’. Knockeddown, built up, built out, lanes, streets, roads,the exotic cul-de-sac, all leading to snippetsand snap-shots of lives; conversations trappedbetween doorways.

At night the PG viewing ends. Out come the short skirts, ironed shirts, the trainers dousedin piss and sick, the questionable cabbies, the scallies, the chavs, the hipsters, the wankers,the thud of music as it evades the bouncerswhile they flex their muscles. Neon lights onthe skyline like an E.T. calling card to themasses. The darkness a look-out for the artistas he defaces, embraces walls. No wageneeded. Rip the bricks off and you’ll barelyscratch the surface.

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Taking Stock

You took stock,split memories like tissues.Your day’s work,poured the contents on the side and stacked them in piles like loose change,next to tablets and Kleenex.You became tired with the day.The way it woke you up.The way it made you live.The way it wouldn’t let you die.In protest you hid,stole inside your body,pulled everything in, inwards, turned your face from the sun.Your once powerful handshake, the one that smuggled cattle across borders, the one that brokered deals,became a faint rumbling in your palm.

Sarah Murphy

Words

We were carried alone across deserts,Cracked soles on hot sands,We mingled in the mouth,Flirting with saffron and cinnamon,And shaking off the persistent dust.

At night we stopped off at caravans,And to cross the distance,We were shared, picked up, and exchanged,And on we went,Back into the heart of it.

This is the Red Herring Chase

Who are you? Stranger, Lover, Friend?There are defined boundaries where your flesh finishes and the air begins and yet you are an object unknown… Unknowable. Within your pantomime of gestures I still cannot see behind you, beyond the motions, the shrugs that stand like bread crumbs in amongst the trees hinting, gifting glimpses of something tangible, something you.I take to the task like a mathematician but I confuse you like a Rubik Cube, trying to fit you in some half cooked theory, a formula, that makes you accessible, your brain cells penetrable. Yet I stumble down neurone pathways, your double helix a spiral staircase towards a being, your being, forever beyond grasp. A concrete existence, not abstract, you should be surmountable with words, defined into a submission, into existence. But your centre ever shifting. You evade description, detection, you slip through the net.

Sarah Murphy

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Prose

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Miracle in the Magpie

! The day-trippers flooded into Brighton on a tide of trains, cars and coaches, despite the day being dull and overcast. A cold breeze wafted in from a flat, grey sea. Some, hell-bent on mischief, rode on Vespas, Lambrettas, or on powerful motorcycles. It was the Bank Holiday clash of the clans, and anything might happen. ! The army of holiday makers invaded every inch of ground and moved like a horde of barbarians, advancing as a plague of locusts devouring everything in their path. By mid-morning the town was humming head to toe with activity. ! It was a scene of bright buckets and spades, stripy deck-chairs, clanging bells on skinny donkeys, and big wheels and fairground rides sprung into perpetual motion. Pop music blared from invisible fairground rides. ! ‘She Loves You’ competed with ‘You Really Got Me’ by the Kinks. Burly men with faces like a bag of spanners worked the rides, short changing whenever possible. The arcades bulged with humanity. The slot machines coughed up money. Their mechanical retching brought more people inside who then fed the machines as if they were pets. The cycle was endless. ! The young gorged themselves on doughnuts, toffee-apples, rock and candy- floss. Some kids slurped on slush puppies colouring their faces like beetroots. ! ‘Look at the state of 'im,’ shrieked a young mum. ! Adults, baring their legs, sat on the promenade eating fish and chips beneath circling, angry gulls. A few gulls fought noisily over fishy morsels on the grey, concrete, sea defences. A group of toothless, old men bemoaned the younger generation and chewed on stringy, everlasting whelks and jellied eels. They huddled in beach shelters, sporting an assortment of tweed caps. People of all classes, age and colour passed like ships in the night. ! The pier was a kaleidoscope of attractions. Bearded ladies ventured to guess your weight with the lure of Peruvian gold rings if they couldn't. Shops nearby sold stain removers to remove green tarnish from your fingers. Rosy cheeked sailors encased in arcade machines laughed raucously frightening young children. Ghostly, ghoulish sounds echoed from ghost trains and faint hearted kids hurried past with their heads bent. Noises of all sorts blended into the sound of bedlam.

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! Fishermen cast their rods off the end of the Victorian pier. A teenager with a crab line landed a flat fish which wildly flapped about and smacked a fat woman across the face. She laughed it off as she waddled away. ! A gull, perched on a flag pole, gazed down upon the procession of motley day trippers, craning its head as if watching and listening. Maybe it did not pin- point Dylan in that soup of humanity. Whilst everyone seemed hell bent on pleasure seeking, Dylan was tormented by his inner demons. Dressed in dark shades and bush hat little could be seen of his face. The rest of his body was swaddled in clothes hiding his shape. Dylan was a fully blown albino, white haired and pink eyes. He hid from the sunlight and lived his life in the shadows of Hades. This was his physical affliction. Today was an exception. To hell with everything, he thought. ! Besides his limiting physical afflictions, Dylan fought demons within himself. For weeks on end he was plagued by that haunting image of John Mills the actor. John Mills would appear in black and white in that bar in Alexandria, waiting for that mouth watering glass of lager. ’Ice Cold in Alex’ was the cult film. To Dylan this meant torment; watching, waiting for that iced cold lager. Dylan was a hopeless alcoholic. He could go for days then fall off the wagon when John Mills appeared in his nightmares. Then the long, slippery fall would begin. ! Yesterday, on Whit Sunday, Dylan had taken the pledge at Ashbury Methodist Church. Reverend Killey had prayed over him and spoken a few encouraging words. He prayed for a life of peaceful thoughts and that Dylan might find a way towards teetotalism. Words, just words, Dylan thought. Do words change lives, he thought? ! As he walked through Brighton, Dylan began to feel under attack. He passed bar after bar; it was never easy. Then, slowly, the image of John Mills would appear in his mind, waiting for that ice cold lager. He could resist no longer and he entered the Magpie Inn to his immediate left. A bar was Dylan's wonderland. ! Hand pumps, black and shiny, chromed taps, brass taps, and everywhere festooned with shining, sparkling lights. It was so strong it beckoned him forward. There were rows of crystalline glasses and optics filled with gold and amber nectar. Barmen held the fort, fighting back the drinkers. His pulse raced and his heart beat like a battle-drum as he watched cold perspiration on a glass being filled with lager. As he watched, it seemed to wink at him.! ‘What'll it be?’ asked the barman.

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! ‘Lager,' said Dylan shaking with anticipation. ! Dylan took the glass, his hands shaking uncontrollably. He took a swig of the amber nectar.! ‘Urrrgh!’ exclaimed Dylan, almost gagging. It was vile. Dylan spat the remains back into the glass. He had never tasted anything so foul in his life. Eventually, he realised his hands had stopped shaking and a sense of wellbeing invaded his body. He hurried to the gents to bathe his face. As he took off his shades and leaned forward to splash water on his face, he noticed a miraculous change in his appearance. His eyes were now blue and his hair was now brown and mousy. He looked long and hard into the mirror taking in the new reality, trying to remember the words Rev. Killey had spoken over him. ! That night, Dylan returned home from Brighton a changed man. He dreamed of Chimpanzees and P.G. Tips tea from the advert. Dylan no longer feared a slip into alcoholism. You could say Rev. Killey's words were truly meaningful. He would seek out the Reverend and tell him of his new visions.

Ken Windle

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Creatures of the Night.

! The night was unbearably hot and humid. A full moon sailed overhead and the man waited for sunrise. The night was an ordeal and it seemed endless. He could hear the bedside clock ticking away second upon second, yet he could not sleep. He had attempted to count sheep but the benign sheep had turned into images of the things he most feared, the creatures of the night and that plagued his thoughts. He must hang on till sunrise, and then he could open the sash window and breathe in the cooling morning air. For now he must sweat and suffer. They must not gain access. They were the symbols of darkness attempting to flood the purity of the light. Should they succeed they would devour him and take away his sanity. They were as plagues of locusts ready to destroy the harvest.! He must never turn on any light inside the house. To them, out in the darkness, it was a readying signal to attack. He gazed at the windowsill and froze as he saw flickering shadows, silhouettes of dappled greys that danced, forming patterns. The curtains were closed but he knew they were massing outside, settling on the walls and shutters as snowflakes. They had ventured forth from holes and beneath rocks to invade the village. There was nothing he or anybody else could do. He must wait for sunlight to drive this army of darkness back into its black kingdom.! As he recoiled in fear his thoughts drifted back to childhood memories. He remembered a night in particular when he had gone outside to stargaze, since astronomy was his new discovered hobby. His mother switched on the outside light so that he would not trip or injure himself. Within seconds the moths were upon that lightbulb, attacking from all angles. It was a vicious aerial dog fight. Moths of every size and colour mobbed that bulb. They circled, some slowly, others dancing like savages round a totem pole. Some threw themselves into the onslaught as kamikazes on a mission.! Fear gripped his stomach like an iron fist squeezing an apple to pulp. One big- bodied fiend seemed, in his imagination, as large as an aeroplane, a tiger moth. It dive- bombed the bulb, then attacked him, dancing upon his head and flapping at his ears. He could see its luminous eyes, big orange orbs, full of malevolence. He let out a scream, and, as his lips parted, the moth entered his mouth and fluttered down his throat. He retched as bile welled up inside him. His phobia of moths had begun that

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night, and every successive night for the last thirty years had become an ordeal to survive the dark hours till the sunshine cheered the skies.! He knew that they had entered his body. What else did they want, his soul? He knew they were outside biding their time till he was careless and opened a window. They would not enter. They must never enter. Outside, brushstrokes of red creamed the eastern skies. Not much longer now, he thought. The sun would drive them back to their twilight zone. He fell asleep.

Ken Windle

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And... Here... We... GO! (work in progress)

! I don't think it had ever really dawned on me quite how far from England Australia actually is. Since making the journey, I have discovered that my journey from London to Melbourne was 10,496 miles. That figure may as well just be a number plucked from the air, not really meaning anything inside my head; it could easily have been 5,000 miles, or 20,000 miles. The sense of scale of the 10,496 mile distance was further lost due to the relatively short length of the journey: only two airplane flights, lasting approximately 20 hours of total flying time and 34 hours of total journey time (including transit at Singapore's Changi airport). This was just two vehicles, for a mere day and a half, taking me across the globe! ! I thought about allowing myself the luxury to feel bleak at the prospect of a 13 hour 50 minute wait in transit, sandwiched between a 12 hour 50 minute flight from Heathrow and another 7 hour 20 minute flight on to Melbourne, but then I reminded myself that I was travelling to Australia. If I had made a similar journey in 1787 by boat from Portsmouth to Sydney as Captain Arthur Phillip did when he took the convicts out to exile (104 miles further as the crow flies than my own journey), it would've taken a whopping 252 days, or 8 months, before I arrived at Botany Bay. But the year was 2013. I was flying by jet, not sailing by boat like Phillip did. I took a relatively direct route over Europe and Asia before dropping down over Oceania. Phillip took a 15,000 mile journey that involved the detour of crossing the Atlantic twice in order to catch favourable winds. I also spent my 34 hours in a clean, comfortable chair eating warm (if not fresh) food and watching movies. At Changi I was able to shower and grab some kip in a snooze lounge. The journey was unrecognisable from spending 8 months on a ship eating what I imagine to be quite unappetising food to say the least, and enduring living conditions that fell somewhat short of luxury. The hardship of a 10,496 mile journey had just flown away. ! I booked my adventure in April, and flew out late July in order to spend almost the entirety of August Down Under. Working in a school meant that I was confined to travel during the school summer holidays, and I had no quarrels with going in August for an Australian winter - in all honesty, with only a few weeks to acclimatise, the extreme heat of an Aussie summer may have been too much for me to bear. I found

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booking a trip away where I was to be traveling solo quite scary - especially seeing as it was the first time I had ever been away on my own... and the first time I would be leaving Europe. I also found spending such a large sum of money intimidating; the moment when you depart with all of your savings in one go (especially when it is on something that is scary in itself) is one that makes your stomach clench. But when it was done, it was done, and I was going. ! True, I was going on the trip on my own, but I was not actually going to be on my own - not really. For the first part of my trip, Melbourne, I had arranged to stay with a friend from secondary school, Hannah Askew, who was taking her PhD out there and was sharing a house with two others. I had planned to take in Sydney with her too. After Melbourne and Sydney, I had booked a tour called 'South to North' with a company called G-Adventures, which was to take me from Melbourne down the Great Ocean Road to Adelaide. From there, we would snake north into the Outback, visiting Uluru and many other places, to Alice Springs where we could catch the famous Ghan Train up to Darwin. From Darwin I would delve into tropical crocodile infested Australia before concluding the tour back in the city that was named after the revolutionary scientist, Charles. This section of the trip was inevitably going to be filled with interesting people, so I had no worries about that part of my journey. ! After Darwin I was flying to Perth where I would be staying with family and catching up with a friend I knew from working with a few years previously: Eloise Horley. The flight to Perth was to go via Melbourne (the reason being it was half the price of a direct flight) and thus it presented me with my second view of the immeasurably vast Aussie desert (the first being my international flight into Melbourne from Singapore). It would also put into perspective how fast a plane travels: 4 hours 15 minutes to do a journey back to Melbourne and I would have just spent 15 days travelling away from Melbourne! ! So there we have it, I wasn't really going to be on my own at all. In fact, when I thought about it, it was actually only going to be the flights where I would be on my own; I might start to crave a bit of time to myself come the end of the trip!

Tuesday 30th July 2013: this was the day I was leaving England and blasting off out of Europe for the first time although technically I guess it was actually going to be Wednesday 31st that I would be leaving the continent, due to a 22:05 take off time. Oh my God! It seemed utterly surreal. I had packed and re-packed my bag

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several times. I had been lent a proper traveller’s rucksack from someone at work and I was feeling ready to see what planet Earth had to offer: this was to be the start of a new me! ! I had decided that from now on I wanted to invest my time and money in travel. It is said that going to new places and having new experiences is one of the few things you can spend money on that makes you richer; already this year I had been with Dad to Italy to see Pisa Florence and Sienna and felt better for it. And I learned a valuable lesson from that holiday: plan. I am not referring to the itinerary of our trip, that worked perfectly, but merely the logistics of travel. Due to a lack of organisation, both my Dad and I hadn’t properly located the airport car park on a map when we were to fly out of London, and due to spending time desperately trying to find where to leave the car and then catching the shuttle bus to the airport proper, we walked through the doors of Stansted at 5:57am, with our flight leaving at 6:30am - Yikes! We caught it however, (amazingly not being the last people to board the plane) and I have since learned that if I want to have a relaxing experience of customs I need to plan better. I was not going to make the same mistake leaving for Oz from Heathrow.

My Mum, who was travelling down to visit her parents in New Milton, near theNew Forest, gave me a lift to London. It was also an important day for my brother Harry, who was off for his first interview to become a Cadet Officer in the RAF regiment (a long recruitment process, one that he saw through to the end, finally being offered a place by letter on Saturday 1st February 2014), so he was dressed up in his suit. It was a monumental moment for us; potentially both of our lives were going to change because of today - EXCITING!

My Mum and I were about halfway down the M1 from Sheffield when her phone began to ring. ! ‘Hi Harry, is everything okay? Aren't you supposed to be in the interview?’ It was a drama that made my Mum feel sick, and Harry even worse: this was the product of a last minute email being sent, but not being received. He had turned up at the correct location at the right time, but had been informed by the guy behind the reception desk that he was in the wrong city: his interview was in Leeds, not Sheffield. I digress, for this is another story for another time, but rest assured that he managed to get his interview rescheduled, and he was obviously successful through

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the many succeeding rounds of interviews before starting his new career on 13th April 2014. ! Getting to Heathrow Terminal 3 is easy. We drove straight up to the airport with no issues at all and easily found the short stay car park. We paid an extortionate fee to leave the car and made our way down the multi-story into the hustle and bustle. It was hours before my flight, but I didn't mind. In fact having hours to spare was a luxury after the Italy episode. ! So I spent my final half hour or so with Mum having a coffee. We sat opposite each other with my luggage tucked away to the side of the cafe table. It was a weird emotion. It was not as though I was going away for any particularly long length of time -four weeks is no time at all - and yet, because it was to the other side of planet Earth, it quite rightly felt like a slightly poignant moment. I rang Dolly (Grandma on the train, as she used to be known in my youth due to obvious reasons linked to her commute from London to visit us in Sheffield), to say a farewell and thank her for the spending money she had sent me; it doesn't matter how old you are, your grandma can't resist doing things like sending you money for a trip such as this, and she had been very generous sending me a huge £500. ! I had also received £500 from Mum and Dad, as this trip was partly contributed to from my 21st Birthday present. It had taken me to this age of 24 before I had realised what I wanted as my major turning-into-a-man present, and I'm pleased I did wait, because this trip created no regrets, and the memories made will live with me for the entirety of my life. ! After I had spoken to Dolly, and finished the coffee, my Mum and I left the cafe and ambled slowly up to the check-in desk. It was still half an hour before I was able to check in. I had tons and tons of time. No worries. But there was no real point in Mum hanging around any longer. We said our goodbyes, and she disappeared, leaving me with a couple of bags and a passport. ! It is worth mentioning now how cheap planes are in the modern era. People grumble about airport tax and high prices, but I protest, I think it's insanely cheap. In the early 1950s, a return flight to Australia would've cost as much as a small house, and by the end of the decade (as this was when air travel was beginning to develop) the cost dropped to the price of a car. My ticket, which was technically a round-the-world ticket, cost a mere £1,100 (just over my month's wage at the time) and was

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inflated because I had left it late when I booked it in April. Plus, it was during the school holidays. Flights could be purchased for as little as £650 if you flew off-peak. ! Finally on the check-in board: Flight SQ0321, London to Singapore, Open. There was practically no queue, and I had no reason to keep hold of my luggage. I walked up to the desk with my documents at the ready. ! ‘Just one bag sir?’! ‘Yes,’ I replied. I was keeping a small travel rucksack with me for the flight, but I put my main bag, my backpack, on the conveyer belt to be weighed. ! The man peered at my travel itinerary. ! ‘You're flying into Melbourne, and out of Perth. How are you getting between the two cities?’ ! ‘Domestic flights. I'm getting around a bit.’ ! ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Would you like to have access to your luggage in Singapore?’ ! ‘No, could you send it straight through please.’ ! ‘Certainly.’ And with that he strapped a tag onto my bag, printed off my plane ticket, and gave me directions where to go. Being unaccustomed to flying, I was surprised to find that it was that easy. Then my bag shot down a conveyer belt and disappeared. I was not going to see it again for another 34 hours. So that was that. Heathrow had my things and was sending it to Australia. There was absolutely no turning back now. ! I went through Passport control and security (inevitably being frisked), and ended up sitting in the terminal lounge. I had Joe Simpson's book with me, “Touching the Void”, that I was planning to read, but I just couldn't settle. I think I managed about two pages before I got itchy feet and began to meander around the shops and duty free. I love airport shops because you can find things there that are so outrageously expensive. At the back of the lounge was a little shop called ‘World of Whiskies' that I simply couldn't avoid no matter how hard I tried. Within, I found a bottle for a humble £17,500. Bargain. ! After a few hours (yes - that really is how much time I had to spare as I was compensating for all possible and disastrous outcomes, including eventualities such as massive standstills on the M25 and my passport not working!) spent browsing the shops and nipping into WH Smith’s for a drink and a sandwich, the departures board revealed that my gate was ready for me to make my way down to.

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! And then, finally, I was sitting on the plane. I was waiting to take off on a flight to Singapore. I was going to spend the next 12 hours and 50 minutes sat in a small metal vessel. I texted Mum, Dad and Harry to say where I was, and received an incoming message from Dad... 'Bon voyage, old chap’. ! There are few things quite as exciting as being on a plane that is taking off. The moment when the jet engine kicks in, and you are propelled backwards in your seat as you are accelerating like a rocket down the runway, is wonderful. You are being taken away. You are about to spend the next few hours in a cabin. Then you land. And you are somewhere new and exciting. There is no feeling like it. At all. ! At 22:05 the jet glided upwards. I was sitting in a window seat and I watched the street lights of London slowly fade into a distant glow as we climbed up and up. In order to secure enough precious legroom, I had opted for the front row when I checked-in online. This meant sitting next to a family with a baby (as the cot was secured against the wall in front) but this was definitely a sacrifice worth paying on a long haul flight: the distance in cramped conditions would’ve been tough! As it happened, the family were really nice - originally British, they had emigrated to Australia a few years ago and were returning after spending a few weeks visiting family back in old Blighty. It so happened that they too were Melbourne bound, and we spent an hour or so chatting about what the city had to offer before we tried to get some kip. Not to my surprise, they had no regrets about their life-changing move. ! Soon after take-off, I ordered my dinner: curry. Unfortunately all I ordered when I spoke to the flight attendant was a curry - whereas if I'd expressed my preference more exactly, being a lamb curry, the mistake could've been avoided. You see, I had accidentally ordered from the Singapore to London flight menu, and when my London to Singapore curry arrived, I took my first mouthful and tasted fish. Fish curry is not good. When the couple who were sat next to me had their baby asleep in his cot they tried to nod off themselves. I tried to fall asleep too - I wanted to sleep for as long as I could, to try to lose track of time slightly and make the travel more bearable. As the woman next to me had said, the first rule of getting through a long haul flight is to not look at your watch... as soon as you start measuring time, you're in trouble! The problem with such long flights is that even if you do manage to sleep, and you wake up pleased that six or seven hours have passed, it's not long before you then

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remember that that means there are still another six or so hours left of flight time. And that is hard to take. ! As it happened, I did no better than doze. When I found myself completely awake, I tried to occupy myself so that when I next had a genuine attempt to sleep I might be more successful. There was no window gazing to be had. All the window shutters were closed to help with jet lag - flying east as we were meant that the sun would rise very quickly, and the plane interior was to remain dark to encourage sleep. I decided to put a movie on. I chose Zero Dark Thirty from the impressively large choice on offer. The film was about the capture and kill of Osama Bin Laden by the Americans; I got about half an hour through it before it became a distant noise through the headphones in my ears, and I slipped back into a doze. ! I didn't sleep well at all. I was alert again before the end of the film, which was good because I watched the climax when the Navy SEALS broke into Bin Laden's compound in Abbottabad. Then the film ended and I didn't have the energy to turn off the screen before I was shutting my eyes once more. ! I awoke again, this time to stomach cramps. Every time the plane wobbled in the air, my stomach ached something rotten. It was horrible. I didn't know whether the nerves of the trip were catching up with me, whether the ever so slight turbulence was making me feel unwell, or whether I was genuinely ill. I was too tired to think straight, but I was alert enough to feel the pain, and I was definitely alert enough to worry about negotiating the rest of my journey if I was doubled up in agony. I spent a good hour or feeling horrible. ! The next thing I knew, there was birdsong. At first I wasn't sure what was happening, but then I realised it was the wakeup call echoing out of the tannoy system. My stomach was feeling better, which was a huge relief. I opened my window shutter an inch or so and bright sunlight darted in from behind it. I closed it again quickly. ! It was not until way after breakfast and we were approaching Changi Airport that we were allowed to open our window shutters. I went to the toilet a couple of times, not so much because I needed to go, but just to give my legs a stretch. About half of the people on the plane seemed to be making their way to Australia, and I was easily able to engage people in conversation about the country. One man I met was visiting friends in Brisbane. I was amazed by how ordinary this trip Down Under

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was to him; it was to him like a visit to London was to me... different people with different lives! ! I spent most of the approach into Singapore staring out of the window. Initially, all I could see was clouds. I was still just about in the Northern Hemisphere, but I was definitely on the other side of the world now... and yet the clouds looked exactly the same. It must have been due to fatigue, but I spent quite a long time musing on the fact the clouds on one side of the planet were identical to clouds on the other. I’d never been this far away from home, and I was looking at something that hadn’t changed at all. Then the plane started to rapidly drop. We descended through the clouds and Asia came into view. We swept over the fields and rivers. The continent looked very different to Europe; it had a sort of murky brownness to it, a muddy, wet sort of look. I imagined eating noodles, sushi and soy sauce. We flew over Changi’s security fences, and - bump - I was in Singapore. The plane came to a stop, and the doors were opened. We filtered out into a sudden blast of warm air (it was approximately 6.00pm local time, and 30°C). I said goodbye to the couple I’d been sitting next to, before losing myself in the airport - they had considerably less time to wait in transit before they flew on to Melbourne... I was very jealous! ! I had toyed with the idea of leaving the airport and heading off to explore the city, but to do so would’ve meant touring in the middle of the night, and I wasn’t sure how the transport system would operate at that time. During the day, the airport ran a free sightseeing bus tour, but I had just missed the last one, and I would be in the air again before the first one left the next day. I wanted to have a completely stress-free time, if possible, and was perfectly happy at the idea of staying at Changi - allegedly one of the world's better airports. ! The difference between Changi and Heathrow was extraordinary. Changi was wonderful. It was clean, air conditioned, and had excellent facilities. There was a snooze lounge, a free cinema, a shower (which didn't cost much at all and one of my first ports of call), a butterfly garden, plenty of food outlets and free Wi-Fi. Perfect.

After swapping the little sterling I had bought with me for Singaporean Dollars at the airport currency exchange, I had a shower. This was a chance to change my underwear (always take spare pants on a long haul, it makes such a difference!) and to also get out of my walking boots. I had been wearing my walking boots because I

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couldn't fit them in my luggage, but now I put them in a plastic carrier bag, and replaced them with sandals. Then I began to think about getting some food. There was a lot of choice including, unfortunately but inevitably, a Burger King. I refused to eat food that was completely universal, and instead found a nice looking Asian outlet. It was delicious, and much welcomed after the plane food.

All over the place, there were great big banners showing off that Changi had won the greatest airport of the year award. I am not accustomed to many airports, but I appreciated that I had indeed landed on my feet here - it was as good as I could've hoped for. ! I passed the time wandering up and down the immeasurably lengthy and straight airport corridor that stretched most of the runway, nipping in to the butterfly garden (which was sweltering), surfing the internet via the Wi-Fi, and snoozing in the lounge (although I didn't permit myself to sleep for fear of missing my next flight!). I didn't have a problem not sleeping, for whilst I was very much sleep deprived, I also had a messed-up body clock. Singapore is 7 hours ahead of BST, so, whilst it was the middle of the night, my body thought it was only the evening.

I'm not going to say the wait in transit went quickly, but in all honesty it wasn't too bad either. The time soon arrived where my gate number was revealed, showing me the way to the plane that was going to take me out of Asia. Australia was getting closer. ! I walked down the long corridor and found a small group of people already milling around. I was still very early, but the fact that I was now amongst the people with whom I was flying seemed to signify the end of the wait.!

When at last the gate opened and I was allowed through into another waiting room, I was presented with an Australian Incoming Passenger Card that I had to fill in and declare when I landed in Melbourne. It asked all of the basics: nationality, passport number, my intended length of stay, my reason for visiting etcetera, as well as asking me to declare any foods or goods I was taking with me. It also asked, for protection of their own wilderness, if I had been in contact with foreign farms/wilderness areas within the last 30 days. I had, and this resulted in the people at customs thoroughly sterilising my boots - I was pleased, they came back absolutely sparkling! And this was done free of charge!

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! Finally, the time came. We boarded the aeroplane and, at 07:45 Singapore time, I was once again racing down a runway before gliding back into the sky to cross the equator and make my way down into the Southern Hemisphere.

Tom Hewson

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Blood!! Tom walked slowly, hesitantly, down the concrete steps. He clenched his fists, his breathing was heavy, his brow sweaty. Had he got everything? Penknife, spoon, string, jar, check. Yes, all in order. His mouth felt as dry as if he'd swallowed sand! Christ, he thought, they might even make him do that! Today was the day of initiation into the gang, but not just any gang. The “Gang Of Steel.” These lads did anything, daredevil antics. These guys had respect now. After this, all the other kids would respect him. No more name calling, no more bullying. He would be one of them. Oh, Christ, he could hear them through the bushes, shouting and laughing. Perhaps they were laughing at him. He had never felt so nervous. Sweat trickled down his brow. He wiped it off and smacked himself on the forehead. Come on, come on, Tomsy. What are yer? Man or mouse? Get a grip man! What would he have to do? Well, it was now or never! He stood for a second outside the thick bushes that led to their den. 'Oh, heck!‘! ‘Hey up, Tommy!’ The bushes parted. ‘Are tha ready?’ said Mick, loudly, the leader. A stocky lad with a brown, long fringe. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Do ya reckon you can do it? Are tha up for it?’ He laughed. ‘Or are tha yellow!' ! ‘He's not. He can do it. He's not scared, are ya!’ said Shorty, the tall one with specs. ! ‘No, I'm not scared, course not,’ said Tommy. He clenched his fists again. ‘Right, what do I have to do?’ He felt so small surrounded by all five boys.! Mick got a block of wood out from the nearby shed. ‘Put tha finger on that.’ He slammed down the fat chunk of wood. ‘Get tha knife out and cut a slit in your finger, a deep cut mind.’ He sniggered. ‘Let the blood run on to your spoon, then put the string in the jar after you've dipped it into yer blood. Then you can swallow your own blood.! 'Christ!’ thought Tommy. Of all the things he hated. Blood, why blood? Jesus Christ, this was bad. ‘Do I have to do that?’! ‘Why,’ said Mick, cockily. ‘Are tha yellow?’! ‘N-no, it's just that…’! ‘Do it then,’ interrupted Mick, 'and make a deep cut.' He laughed. Tommy nervously put his finger out but his hands were shaking badly.

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! ‘Oh, Jesus!' He closed his eyes, clenching his fists again. ! ‘Come on!' the lads started shouting. 'Come on now.’ Chanting. ‘Cut it. Cut it. Cut it!’ getting louder. Tommy felt sick. He felt the acid coming up right from his gut. He looked from his finger to the knife and back again. ! ‘Tha's got ten seconds now!’ shouted Mick. ‘Ten seconds!’! ‘Give him a bit longer,’ said Shorty. ‘Twenty!’ ! 'Fuck off,’ said Mick.! Tommy moved the knife over his finger.! ‘Ah, for God’s sake, man,’ screamed Mick, ‘come here. He grabbed hold of his finger, holding it tight. ‘Hold him down, lads.’! ‘No!’ said Tommy, quietly, 'I'll do it.”! ‘You’re yellow, ain't ya? Yellow!’! Mick squeezed Tommy's finger. 'Shall I cut tha finger off?’ He raised his leg and rammed his foot over Tommy's shaking hand, waving his knife and laughing. All the kids started jeering. ‘Go on, go on.’ Tommy’s face got redder and redder. Shorty was the only one that didn't shout. He was sweating himself. All of a sudden he leaped up and onto Mick's back, winding him.! ‘Jesus!’ screamed Mick. ‘Gerr off me, you bastard, ya bully.’ He pushed and they rolled over and over. Shorty fought for the knife. Mick kicked and laughed. ‘Yer all yellow an' I'm the leader. Ye can't do this to me.’ Finally, Shorty bit Mick's wrist. He yelped in pain 'Ahh ya fucker!’ Shorty had the knife and rammed his foot over his hand. ! ‘How do you like it then? Eh, eh?’ The sweat ran down his face. ! ‘Ah, look at thee, tha sweaty bastard!’ shouted Mick. Shorty wiped his face with his sleeve. He ran the knife over Mick's forefinger very slowly then pressed harder fetching blood. Mick had gone quiet. Everyone had. He held the knife there, fetching more blood. Tommy stared at Mick but not at his face. He stared lower at his groin. It was wet. 'Ahh man,’ he said. ‘Look who's yellow now.’

Suzi Hithersay

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Untitled(work in progress)

! Opening the door, I flicked the light switch. Nothing. Of course, the services would have been cut off. I took the front light off my bike and entered the house. Without any intervention from my brain, my feet took me to the door of the library. The door was ajar and a soft, blue light was coming through the opening. I switched of my makeshift torch and, moving as quietly as possible, peered through the crack between door and frame. The light seemed to be coming from the middle of the room but I couldn't see what was causing it without opening the door. I waited for a few moments, holding my breath and listening intently for any signs of life in the room. All I could hear was my heart beating and I prayed to the God of well-oiled hinges for his blessing. Gearing up to flee, I looked into the room and saw that the light was coming from a ball of blue flame floating in the middle of the room. As I saw it, clearly, all my fear cracked and fell away. My eyes were filled with soft, blue light and my ears with a shimmering, laughing, crystalline song. The flickering orb was mesmeric, drawing me into the room. All I knew was I had to get closer to it. ! Sometimes, it seemed to have a face urging me closer, at others, there seemed to be some flying creatures in the heart of the flame beckoning me on. At last I was within reach and raised a hand to touch the orb when a voice at about knee level said, ‘I wouldn't touch her if I were you; you wouldn't like it.’ The spell was broken. The shimmering tones shattered into discordant shards and the orb flared angrily. With a yelp I dropped my torch and jumped back. Tripping over a chair I missed my footing and fell backwards hitting my head on a bookshelf. I don't remember hitting the floor. I was already unconscious.! The bed was soft and warm but, as I slowly groped my way back to consciousness, I became painfully aware of the large throbbing lump on the back of my head. The room, when it swam into view, was completely unfamiliar. I tried to push myself up but that caused the throbbing to become a savage pain and I slumped back on the bed, screwing my eyes tight shut and swallowing hard to try and control my last meal.! ‘Ah, you're back with us. We were starting to wonder if you were planning on coming round at all.’

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! It was the voice from the library. Gingerly, I turned my head and opened my eyes. Sitting curled up on a chair was a large lizard the colour of old parchment and striped with undulating black markings which swam in front of my eyes. I shut my eyes tightly again as my stomach started to rebel. After a few minutes the pain and nausea had settled and I risked opening my eyes again. The lizard was still curled up watching me inscrutably. ‘Ermmmm,’ I started in a less then certain manner.‘Ermmmm, did you just say something?! I'm sure the lizard rolled its eyes like an exasperated teenager then replied, ‘Of course I did, you don't see anyone else in here do you?’! It seemed that the bang on the head was more serious than I first thought; I was obviously hallucinating. Though that didn't explain how I could have made it from the library floor to here, wherever here was. If I was going to be sharing a room with a figment of my imagination, the least it could do was answer some questions. I turned back to the lizard, who was still coiled comfortably on the chair. ‘Look, I know this is a terrible cliché, but where am I?’! ‘You took a nasty fall so we decided to take you over the border to give you time to rest.’Unfortunately, this just raised more questions than it answered. I didn't like the implication of ‘we’ though. If I thought about it, the lizard's distinct lack of size, not to mention hands, meant it had to have had help to move me. As for the border, the border to what exactly? Even a hallucination should be a bit clearer .! ‘I'm sorry,’ I said, ‘I don't really understand. What are you talking about?’! The lizard looked hard at me, ‘You really don't know? You're the new librarian aren't you?’! Curiouser and curiouser as I'm sure someone famous once said.! ‘I don't have any idea what you're talking about. I just came to check up on my Grandma's, well, my house.’! The lizard sighed. 'You mean she didn't tell you? I suppose I had better fill you in then. This house is a border post between, well, where you come from and where I come from. There's still a few of them around but not as many as there once were.’! Well, that was as clear as mud!! ‘OK,’ I said, 'Assuming I buy whatever you just said, what's it got to do with librarians?’

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! ‘Each border post has to keep a history of all the places you can cross to or the border closes.’! ‘But grandma's library didn't have any history books, it was all stories.’! I had obviously said the wrong thing, as the lizard scowled. ‘They may be stories to you but they are history to us.’! This was getting too weird. I lay back and closed my eyes again. ‘So you're telling me that if I open my eyes I'll see by faeries and unicorns?’! The lizard snorted. ‘Of course not; don't be so ridiculous. You only find them outside. But you might find it easier to see the other inhabitants of the house.’! I swallowed hard. ‘Other inhabitants? You mean there are more like you?’! The lizard looked rather offended by this. ‘More like I me? I should think not! I'm a great rarity I'll have you know. It's not every border post that has a paper dragon in residence.’! I looked hard at the lizard curled up on its chair and raised my eyebrows quizzically. ‘Aren't you a bit on the small side to be a dragon?’! It bristled. ‘Size isn't everything; you'd do well to remember that.’! ‘Sorry, I didn't mean to offend but I always thought of dragons as giant flying beasts. You know like in the books.’! ‘Well, l suppose you weren't to know', it sniffed, 'and I suppose some of them are like that. Bloody great show-offs, lumbering round the country burning down castles and abducting princesses. Always princesses. What do they even want with them?’ It trailed off into a muttered diatribe about larger and, presumably more macho, dragons and their habits.! Then, even though I wasn't at all sure I wanted to know the answer, I asked the question anyway.! ‘What other inhabitants of the house?’! The lizard, I still couldn't think of it as a dragon, looked up from its grumbling. ‘Oh, nothing you wouldn't expect. At last count it was me, the ghoul in the attic and something unspeakable in the cellar.’! A ghoul in the attic was bad enough, but I really didn't like the sound of something unspeakable in the cellar. ‘Ermmmm, what do you mean, something unspeakable in the cellar?’

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! ‘Well, okay,’ the lizard replied. 'Strictly speaking it's something unspeakable in the doorway at the moment.’ ! I jerked my head round then swore loudly at the sudden stabbing pain in the back of my head and saw, well, nothing. I knew it, the lizard was obviously just trying to wind me up. ‘I'm feeling rough enough without you trying to make me feel worse,’ I snapped. ! ‘Who do you think brought the tea?’ it replied. ! There was a fresh cup of tea, along with a plate of biscuits, sitting on the table by the bed. I couldn't be certain but I'm pretty sure they weren't there earlier. I stared at the doorway but it remained defiantly vacant. There was a quiet hiss from behind me. ‘Just relax; the house is just getting adjusted to you.’ I took a deep breath and looked again. Maybe there was something there. The shadows in the doorway shifted and coalesced then suddenly snapped into sharp focus. A baleful, gleaming, red eye stared at me from above a maw filled with jagged, yellow teeth. Its body was still a shadowy mass but I could make out one huge arm, thick with ropey tendons, covered in folds of rubbery skin and ending in something that looked more like a paw than a hand. I recoiled from the monstrosity.

'What the hell is that?’ I yelled. As I shouted it jerked back from the doorway and was gone into the shadows.

'Now you've done it’ the lizard said. ‘He'll be sulking in the cellar for weeks now.’ ! ‘But that was a monster.’ ! ‘Well, of course he's a monster,’ the lizard replied, with a snort. 'He wouldn't be very good at his job if he wasn't would he?’ ! ’What was it?’! 'Not it, he.’! I turned back to look at the lizard and was about to launch into a diatribe about political correctness gone too far but the lizard looked sternly at me and, despite its size, something in its eyes made me rethink what I was about to say. 'I said he's a he not an it.’ ! I took a deep breath. The shock of what I had seen was subsiding and, as my heart rate returned to double figures, I was feeling slightly calmer. ‘OK. Sorry. He. But what is he?’

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! 'To be honest we're not really sure. He never hangs around long enough for anyone to get a good look at him. Oh, we have some theories: bogey man, hobgoblin, the usual type of thing you might find lurking in dark places but really your guess is as good as ours.’ ! ’And the tea and biscuits?’ ! ‘Oh, that's just his way of welcoming you. I would drink it if you don't want to offend him any further.’ ! From what I had seen, he was definitely something I didn't want to offend. I picked up the cup and sniffed its contents. It smelled of spices and honey. I took a sip. It wasn't just the best thing I had ever tasted, it was all the best things I had ever tasted. The warmth from the tea spread through my body and the ache in the back of my head receded into the background. As the ache subsided I realised I was ravenous and quickly crammed down the biscuits. ‘That's better,’ I mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit, inadvertently spraying the lizard with crumbs, ‘but is there anything else to eat?’ ! ‘We could try the kitchen, there's probably something left in there.’ ! I swung my legs over the side of the bed and, gingerly, stood up. I was a Iittle light headed but I could cope with that. I don't know what was in that tea but it really did the trick. ‘Now, which way to the kitchen?’ ! ‘Follow me.’ The lizard shook itself, then spread out a pair of wings and lurched into the air. I stared open mouthed! ‘What? I’m a dragon remember!’! I followed the dragon out of the room, watching in amazement. It wasn't that he flew well, it was the fact that he flew at all. In all honesty, he reminded me of nothing more than one of those huge bees you see in summer, drunk on heat and nectar, lurching round the skies and, generally, sticking two fingers up at the laws of physics and aerodynamics.The room I had been sleeping in opened out onto a corridor, far too long to have been contained in the house that I knew, along which we meandered taking turnings and staircases at seemingly random intervals. After what felt like miles of erratic wandering, the dragon flopped inelegantly onto the floor in front of a closed door and said, ‘This one.’ I opened the door onto a cavernous kitchen which was both familiar and entirely new at the same time. There was a great range along one wall but if I

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didn't look directly at it and caught it out of the corner of my eye it shrank down to a familiar gas cooker with its eye level grill, familiar from a thousand bruises.After a little poking through the cupboards I found a kettle, tea and a huge number of packets of biscuits. It appeared that chocolate hob-nobs were the staple diet of the house's inhabitants. The kettle was starting to sing when there was a knock on the door. Almost without thinking I opened it and took a step back from the figure in the door way. She was hunched but would still have to duck to make it through the door. Her dark blue skin was deeply lined and wrinkled except where her long, bony fingers and toes ended in shiny, metal claws. She wore only a ragged skirt that seemed to be made of tattered strips of leather held in place by a rope belt. My first instinct was to slam the door but I remembered the dragon's admonitions and, swallowing my panic, tried to remember we're all people here no matter what we look like. The thing in the door gave what I assumed was meant to be a smile of greeting, somewhat spoiled by the rows of sharp, grey teeth it revealed. It only occurred to me that I had been standing dumbfounded when she spoke. 'You aren't going to leave an old woman standing on the doorstep are you?’‘Ermmmmm no,' I managed. ‘Won't you come in.’Too late, I saw the dragon in the corner vehemently shaking its head, then wincing as I issued the invitation. There was only one thing to do, the right thing, the English thing.I offered her a cup of tea. Whilst digging through the cupboards for a fresh cup and saucer and a plate for the ever present biscuits I managed a hissed conversation with the dragon.! ‘What's wrong?’! ‘What the hell are you playing at letting her in?’! ‘What happened to “we're all people no matter what we look like”?’! ‘We might all be people, but that doesn't mean we're all nice people. You don't invite Black Annais in for tea and biscuits.’! ‘Why not? Who's Black Annais?’! The dragon stopped and stared at me, obviously unable to believe what it had heard.! ‘How can you not have heard of Black Annais? Devourer of children, despoiler of the land and worrier of sheep.’

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! ‘Worrier of sheep,' I echoed.! ‘She wears the skins of her victims around her waist. Just look.’! I managed to sneak a look at what she was wearing and some of the ragged strips of leather under closer inspection did indeed look like small creatures. Some of them seemed to have scraps of fleece hanging on them. More disturbingly some of them had obviously never had fleece.! ‘So what do I do?’! ‘Don't finish your tea. She's bound by the rules of hospitality and won't be able to leave the table until you're finished, and that will keep her out of the rest of the house.’! ‘But can't you lot do anything about her?’! The dragon snorted. ‘A flammable dragon, an effete ghoul and a terminally shy monster against Black Annais? You're on your own here, I'm afraid.’! This was not exactly encouraging but I took a cup of tea and plate of biscuits over to the table where Black Annais was folded into a chair and attempted to engage her in polite conversation. Even more off putting was the fact that her steel talons had scored grooves in the table and floor while I had been making tea and been brought up to speed on the new house guest. I cast around, desperately, for a topic of conversation.! ‘Ermmmmm. Nice weather we're having for the time of year isn't it?’! Black Annais smiled, once again displaying an array of sharp teeth that would make a shark green with envy. ‘I didn't come here to discuss the weather. The last librarian has passed and I came to offer my condolences and request access to the library.’! ‘How did you know about that?’! ‘Oh please. I have sources everywhere. By the way how is Leicester?’! ‘Leicester? The place?’! ‘Of course not.’ She gave me that 'stupid boy' look I remembered all too well from school. ‘You would call him a ghoul.’! ‘Ermmm, l've not actually met him yet.’! ‘Well, when you do, pass on my greetings and tell him he's always welcome back home when he wants to return.’

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! She downed the steaming cup of tea, seemingly oblivious to the scalding liquid, and returned the cup to its saucer.! ‘Now; will you grant me access to the library?’! Over her shoulder I could see the dragon emphatically shaking his head.! ‘I'm afraid I can't allow that,’ I responded.! Annais started to stand, fury flashing in her eyes and her talons digging into the table. As she rose, the cup in front of me shifted and a little tea splashed out onto the saucer. Seeing this, she relaxed her grip on the table and sat back down. A minute passed, then two, then ten. She sat staring intently at the cup in front of me. When it became apparent that I wasn't going to finish it, she looked across at the dragon who visibly quailed, then back at me. ‘Well, I can't spend all night here, welcoming as it is,' she said. 'I had better be off and leave you to your business. I'll call back later to use the library.’! She stood and nodded to the dragon, ‘Wrm.’! The dragon nodded back, ‘Annais.’! As the door closed behind her, we both let out deep breaths of relief.! ‘Don't relax too much,' said the dragon. 'She'll be back to try and get into the library.’! ‘Why all this concern about the library? She didn't strike me as the bookish type.’! The dragon sighed as if explaining the particularly obvious to the particularly stupid. ‘Just as the books allowed you to pass from your world into this one, they would allow Annais to go from this one into yours and the damage she would wreak is incalculable.’! ‘What do you mean incalculable?’! ‘Well, she's passed across briefly a couple of times, the last one was a day trip to Pompeii.’! ‘That was her?’! ‘That was nothing, a minor spat with Vulcan. Believe me things have been, and could be, much, much worse.‘! ! ! ! !

Neil Davis

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Mischief in Marseilles or The Succubus

He kissed Marion goodbye as he prepared to pick up his luggage for his business trip to Marseilles. The black straight hair of his lover slipped from his face as he pulled back. Her eyes were exactly level with his. ‘See you for the weekend, top girl’, said Andrew, as he stepped into the carriage of the Eurostar to Paris before the change to the South of France. As he lifted his luggage onto the rack in the carriage, he mused on how he had to make trips like the one he was on. If previous British governments had been more proactive in maintaining a scientific and technical base, he wouldn't have to go promoting his skills in designing massively parallel machines to the Centre de Carderache near Marseilles, in the Eurozone, not quite like this... ! He looked in the mirror of his room in the Sofitel Marseille Vieux Port Hotel, on the Boulevard Charles Livon, overlooking the Marseilles shore of the Mediterranean and noted the light, brown hair that parted over the angled brow, contrasted against the straight nose, creating a sharp shadow by the sun angling through the window. He was an easy six foot, right for making a good impression with competing European firms. He was successful in the computer science industry and, had lately, been moved to the more commercial side of selling to other companies and making deals with them. ! The sun was nearing the horizon, giving the quay side and its spiked masts a golden glow, against the brooding bulk of the Fort Saint Nicholas and, across from the harbour The Memorial des Camps de la Mort, was a sombre reminder of the city's past. Britain did not have such imposing harbingers of doom, thought Andrew, as he walked towards the Fort St. Nicholas. The warmth of the Mediterranean evening dispelled such thoughts, and the huge portal of the Fort gaped before him. The dark abyss exerted a strange attraction. Andrew felt himself drawn into the shadows of the thick stone walls ! The arch of the monstrous stone buttresses loomed over Andrew's head, as the light faded behind him. The normally tepid air suddenly felt chilled. A gust of swirling wind skittered a paper past him, causing him to jerk and twist. It fluttered to his feet, and rested against his toecaps. He picked it up, and read it, and as he did so, his face sagged. The crinkled paper carried the words; ‘Changing time.’ He crushed the sheet inside his fist, and chucked it down, angrily. He spun round, saw

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that the open mouth of the fort was only marginally lighter than the interior of the building, and he resolved to get out.! Half walking, half running down the Boulevard Charles Livon, he quickly reached the welcoming annex of the hotel. The plush carpet gave way beneath his feet as he slipped off his shoes and he made a cup of tea from the bedside machine. He showered, dried himself, dressed, slid between the sheets of the king size bed, pulled the light's cord, and the room went black. Gradually, as his eyes adjusted to the low light levels, the furniture began to acquire silhouettes in the half light. ! A slim, female form was suddenly between him and the furniture, but he could not see who it was. His leaden eyelids were sliding into torpor, and in spite of his fear, he could not awaken, but lay as if paralysed. Andrew and the stranger swirled around each other, but he was acting independently of his thoughts, his impulses… none of which had any bearing on what was happening. ‘You know I've always wanted you, Andrew,’ the lissom shape said, repeatedly into the man's ear. Andrew opened his eyes, or thought he did, and two large grey eyes stared into his. ! They spun around each other, their pupils became one black ring and such was the ecstasy that the visitor built up in a crescendo of coruscating colours and ethereal music, Andrew hardly noticed that he could no longer feel the bed and, was in fact, spinning vertically. Bright yellow hair swirled around Andrew and his visitor. He had no thought for Marion, he could not even if he had tried. It was not just his body that was not his own; he had lost all self control for indeed, his sense of self existence had vanished.

* * * * * * * *! ‘Oh, let's see what's got to be done for the day. Mmm, yes, there's a packet of cornflakes that's to be added to the shopping list, and yes, we're out of aubergines. Added to that are some eggs, mustn't forget those. Now, where's my coat?’ Andrew pulled open the door of the North London terrace. There was a light drizzle. A black cat darted past his legs. The dog from next door barked, suddenly. The roofs of the houses shoved steep, stark and black against the lowering sky. A neighbour cheerily called across, ‘The other 'alf gone off, 'asn't she?’ He looked aside.

‘It's what's got to be done to keep the house running.’ * * * * * * * *

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! ‘Bonjour’ The concierge at the Centre de Carderache, waved the visitor through. The small town was totally dominated by the development of civilian nuclear fusion and the institute was overwhelming in its size. The nearest to it that had been seen was Devonport, Plymouth. As the car drew up beside the entrance to the Centre, the director stepped forwards out of the large glass fronted door, and shook hands with the consultant. ‘Welcome, Marion. We were expecting you.’ Her stilettos tapped lightly over the threshold, with black hair sheeting behind her and she slid off her jacket after shaking her long, slim hand with the square one of the Centre's director. The Director found himself looking slightly up at her eyes, an unusual experience, for he was not a short man, as she said, ‘Let's get down to business.’

Ivone M. FitzGerald

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Experience of the Lake District

Vale of Eden / Lake District

! Situated between the Pennines and the Lake District, the Vale of Eden, north of Penrith, is teeming with wildlife. So much so that you can hardly not notice them. And rich they are from soaring buzzards to the scampering rabbits, swifts and swallows, blackbirds and smaller creatures, all avoiding human contact. Our neighbours though, are always friendly, bringing their dogs with them, keeping themselves to themselves, as we do at the Mains Farm Caravan Site. Here, facilities are pretty good, located in barns which, whilst having a shower, you can see swallows flying above you, always chattering and roosting on the wires or in their nests.! But the caravan site is two fields with hedges on a plateau overlooking the River Eden which you can fish in. The road goes by it and, over the other side, is Lodge Wood with a field full of sheep. In the pastures below is a wooden swing and, at one time, a crossing over to Lazonby, and there is a walk to Eden Bridge.! And all of this is about two miles out of Kirk Oswald, where our local pubs are and a convenience store. I feel, therefore, that being local is a great way to be for that is my preference, and meeting locals, as well is also a bonus. The buildings, however, are built in the local red sandstone, always seeming to me as a warm welcome to the area, with a bridge over the river, flowing all the way to Carlisle.! The Featherstone Arms, having won the 2014 pub awards, is the best so far, having great local lagers on tap. And the week wouldn’t be complete without mentioning Long Meg and her daughters or Lacy’s Caves. Long Meg was once, in folklore, a witch who, with her daughters, were thought of as a coven of witches, but a wizard had made a spell or curse upon them and turned them into stone. But the weirdest part is that Long Meg is made of red sandstone, of the same material as most of the buildings, whilst her daughters are of shap granite. So why would this red sandstone be used as building material as well as erecting a stone of it to form a stone circle? But this is not about questions about stone circles, this is about my time in the Lake District. Lacy’s Caves were a sight to behold, a massive bulk of underground entrances, still of red sandstone. Carved into the hillside they excelled themselves as monuments and, as monuments, in this day and age are well worth a visit.

Owen Barber

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Breakfast at Morris's

! Ray looked out of the window at the river. The tide was out. An accumulation of junk lay at the bottom of the promenade wall. Unwanted junk that the river had tossed back and forth for days, perhaps weeks, until it had had enough before dumping the useless items in the mud. An old shopping trolley, a load of unidentifiable scrap, car tyres, contorted bumpers, rust perforated wings, in fact, enough bits and pieces to build a whole wreck of a car. He turned to the car park when he heard Ben's car drive in, watched him walk down the wooden steps and into the back door of Morris's cafe. It was mid-morning and quiet in there. There were three or four other people drinking, eating, and reading; some doing all three. He stood to greet Ben. Ben seemed to have grown since they had last met for a breakfast catch up. That had been some time ago now, so, perhaps, he thought, that it was himself getting smaller. Older and smaller. 'People do that eventually; get smaller,’ he told himself. They greeted with tentative handshakes and awkward smiles. Ray saw that Ben's fingertips were covered with carefully applied sticking plasters. 'What have you done to your fingers?' he asked. ! 'I haven't done anything. Protection,’ Ben wriggled his fingers, 'I'm playing tonight... and the rest of the week, matter of fact.’ ! 'You're still playing piano?' ! 'Never going to make any money out of it, but I seem to keep on doing it.’ They both sat at the table. Ray glanced at the river. A gull was trying to balance on the wire frame of the rocking shopping trolley. It fluttered its wings a few times then gave up, dropping onto the mud instead. It padded about, foraged in a small pool, gulped something down then lifted its head and squawked at the sky. ! 'That's all they do all day long, eat and yell,’ Ray said. Ben looked up from the menu, glanced at the bird in the mud, nodded. The two men chatted for a few minutes. Eventually, a waitress came over, would they like to order? Ray ordered Morris's legendary breakfast; and the scrambled eggs that Ben usually chose. The waitress wrote their order in her pad with a pencil secured to it by a short piece of string. 'Drinks?' she asked, 'What would you like to drink?’! Ray looked at Ben. 'Coffee, yes coffee for me,' he told the girl.'And?' she looked at Ray.

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! ‘Tea,’ he said, 'a large pot.' She read from her pad. 'So, that's one full breakfast, scrambled egg… on toast?' Ben nodded. 'On toast,’ she said, writing it down. 'One coffee… Pot?' ! 'Fine,’ Ben said. She pushed the note pad into the pocket of her April yellow smock and walked to the kitchen.! Ray hitched up the sleeves of his seen better days grey, linen suit, 'You're still playing piano? I can grasp that… but the plasters?' ! 'Yeah, okay… the plasters… So that I don't damage my finger tips,' Ben told him, 'I have some work to do when I get back - on the garage roof - and I don't want to damage them. I can't play with damaged fingers. Simple as that.' ! Ray looked bemused, 'I don't know if you are aware of this, Ben, but there are these things around now that people use… gloves. They wear gloves on their hands. Pretty cheap things, gloves. You can even get disposable ones.' ! 'Yeah… well…' Ben answered.! Ray shook his head and decided not to pursue it. ‘Okay, so tell me about the garage roof,’ he said, instead. There followed a long,detailed description of how the garage roof was leaking and needed new felting. That it needed repairs because the rain came in and was wetting everything. There was nothing in the garage of any value, but it was a nuisance getting wet every time it rained. A common problem with flat roofs, he explained. Ray let the conversation drift over him, wishing, after a minute or two,that he'd not asked. Out on the river, a once blue tug boat passed, groping its way through the gloomy, grey waters. Old, treadless, tyres hung on heavy ropes from the sides. Somewhere, far off, a ship's horn tooted. Gulls yelled. ! The waitress came to the table with a loaded tray. 'Eggs?' she said. Ben raised his plastered finger; she put the plate of scrambled eggs in front of him then moved around the table to Ray. 'You must be the breakfast then.’ She put the plate down, then the coffee and tea pots. 'Sauces?' she wiped the empty tray with a damp cloth. 'Do you want any sauces?’! Ray and Ben shook their heads. 'We're fine, thanks,' Ray told her. She shrugged and moved away. ! Ben studied Ray's plate. Bacon, sausage, tomatoes, hash brown, fried bread, black pudding, mushrooms. Two of everything. 'That can't be any good for you,’ he warned.

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! 'I don't think that I'm doing too badly; I'm more than twice your age and as far as I can see still going strong.’ He shrugged. ' And, I won't eat again today - not 'til tonight anyway.’ He studied the plate guiltily. 'I don't eat this every morning, you know?'! Ben shook his head, 'Well, that's good to hear.' ! Ray continued 'It's the kind of thing that this place, Morris's, is well known for. Local legend. They've been serving huge meals for dockers for fifty years or more. Right until the docks closed. But you won't remember that. It's a tradition in these parts, big breakfasts, people thrived on it. Still do.’ Ben smiled, ' And died young, I suppose.’ Ray didn't answer. He poured tea then took out a large, hip flask from an inside pocket. He looked furtively around the room then emptied some of its contents into his tea cup. Ben stopped eating, 'If I remember, the last time I saw you, you said that you'd given up drinking.'! Ray shrugged 'Just a little…' ! ' A little… and often?' Ben poured coffee. ! 'Just now and again.' ! 'It's half past ten in the morning. Do you realise that? It's half past ten!' And you're drinking.’ ! 'Yes… well…' They ate in silence. Soon Morris's legendary breakfast and a plate of scrambled eggs on toast became things of the past. ! 'So, how's the family?' Ray asked, pouring more tea.! They were fine, Ben told him. 'Just a little older,' he paused, 'like everybody else.’ And he told him how the two boys were doing at school, about a recent family holiday in Scotland, how Betty was working still at the Nissan franchise where she'd been for the last few years from when the kids were old enough to go to school. Lots of details. Ray listened patiently - he wanted to know - topped up his tea from his flask and gave a resigned look to Ben's accusing frown. ! 'And work?' Ray asked. 'Still in the same job?' ! 'Same job, same old routine, but the money's good,' Ben answered. The tide was now moving in, slowly, and buffeting the debris in the mud. A few gulls settled on the grey water to rock gently on the barely moving surface while Ben told Ray his not

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too exciting career progress. Ray emptied the remnants of the tea pot into his cup and signalled the waitress. She took her notepad from her pocket and strolled over. 'Can we have the bill?' Ray asked.

The girl licked her pencil, wrote a few calculations on the pad. 'You pay on the way out, at the desk', she nodded to the cash desk and ripped off the top sheet. She placed it in front of Ray and walked away.! Ben reached over. 'It's my turn,' he said picking up the bill. ! 'Suit yourself.’ Ray finished his tea. 'So, when are we going to meet up again? I hope it's not as long, it's been some time.' ! 'Oh, I don't know… it depends. It depends on when I can. I have to work, you know, I have a family and it's not exactly a short drive over here.' ! 'Yeah, okay,’ Ray said. 'But you know I can't get to you, no car still and anyway…’ he patted the flask in his pocket! Ben nodded and smiled. He went across to the cash desk and paid the bill. Ray stood from the table, brushed down his trousers with his fingers then went to the door. He stood in the car park. Ben joined him, sliding a folded note into his wallet. 'So what will you do the rest of the day?' He took out his keys and unlocked the car door 'Well, the pubs are open, for one thing', Ray chuckled then held out his hand. Ben took a hold of it. ! 'If that's what you like, why not? But it won't get you far, you know.' ! Ray held on to Ben's hand. 'I know that.’ He paused. 'It's been good seeing you again.’! 'Yes.’ Ben let go of his hand. ! 'Can I ask you to do a small thing?' Ray looked intently at Ben. 'If you see her, will you give my regards to your mother?' ! Ben opened the car door, settled in the seat and fastened the safety belt. ! 'Will you, Ben?' ! Ben started the engine, 'I always do, Dad.' he answered. 'I always do.’

David E. Sotheran

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Dear Mr. Fetch,

! Thank you for your previous correspondence. I am so pleased to hear about the latest addition to your family, Floyd the rescued sheep dog. I hope he is settling in nicely and your wife is becoming accustomed to sleeping in the children's Wendy house. It is so important for Floyd to feel loved and for the first few nights to sleep in the matrimonial bed alongside his new owner. I am also delighted that you feel as strongly about canine illiteracy as I do. As you rightly say, it is time for this blight to be stamped out. ! It had been my greatest pleasure reading to Maisie, my black and white whippet, every day of her life, until the day she decided to read 'solo' and took her book to her basket. Truth be told, I was bereft, more upset than when my eldest child left home. Her literary progress has been a wonder and source of great pride. In the early days she often wrote the children's notes for their teachers on my behalf (well, the task bored me half to death). ! Sometimes I ponder, fleetingly, as to whether my attention to Maisie has been of detriment to the development of my three children. However, they have all done relatively well, with the exception of Polly who had to be locked away for her own safety, Frank who thinks he's a vampire and Baldric who disappeared on a woodland path in Tibet. I think he was searching for enlightenment. ! Maisie has made so much progress: her undistracted concentration on literature has been exemplary. Recently, she set up a 'Canine Book Club', inviting the local dogs round to our back garden for readings of various books. She has a magnanimous spirit and desire to share her passion. The enclosed lawn is very comfortable, affording the dogs privacy and the gravel at the end of the garden the necessary facilities. She was modest in her requests for refreshments: a box of Bonios and a large bowl of fresh water was all she asked for; so I threw in a plate of raw, chicken wings. On the whole the Book Club has been a success, but it hasn't all been plain sailing. Finding literature has been a cinch; however, finding canine readers has been somewhat tricky. It is shocking to find out how many dogs never get read to in their entire lives, never mind as little pups! Maisie has had to tolerate unsavoury behaviour at times. An Afghan hound, Fred, arrived. Gleaming, gold-rimmed spectacles, glossy coat, he looked so much the part, so promising. Half way

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through the first chapter he was puffing away on hashish. Maisie had to remind him that he was in an English 'reading' den, and no other kind! Oscar, the working, black Labrador from one of the houses on the back, had, obviously, got a whiff of this as he turned up in a smoking jacket, very smart, but within minutes it was obvious he had never read a book in his life. This was very upsetting for Maisie. Both Oscar and the belligerent Fred were escorted off the premises by Suki, a golden, Japanese-Akita Cross with a beautiful, bushy tail and a keen sense of duty. ! Regarding the choice of books, 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night' was very popular as all the members had empathy with the main character. However, 'The Man Who Mistook his Dog for his Wife' caused much disturbance, especially for Buster the Shiatsu from next-door-but-one. Despite reassurance from Maisie that the theme of this book only happened very, very occasionally, and in cases of human psychosis, he had to be carried home a quivering wreck! 'The Bone People' went down very well. 'Gone with the Wind', I'm sure a favourite for all sight-hounds, is next month’s book if Floyd would like to prepare to participate.

Yours sincerely,Fenulla Wagg

Woof and happy reading,Maisie

Janet Grover

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One Thousand, Two Thousand, Three Thousand, Check!

! One evening in April 1987, Mike and I went to our favourite Chinese restaurant in Reading. We were living in Reading at the time, which is where we had met about a year earlier. We had decided to dine out, as we had something to celebrate. Well, at least I had decided we should eat out, having accomplished something I thought I never would, and which I knew with great certainty I never would again. Mike didn’t think going to the Hong Fong was such a good idea. Partway through the meal, I started to struggle with an increasingly unbearable pain in my left ankle, and in the end I had to admit my defeat. I put my fork down (no, I wasn’t using chopsticks) and asked Mike to take me home. We were regulars at the restaurant, and when we had walked in, albeit I was limping slightly, the waiters had welcomed us congenially. So it was with some consternation that they witnessed Mike carrying me out about 20 minutes after our arrival. Now - the ankle agony had not in fact been caused by the hot and sour soup, sweet and sour chicken and glass of dry white wine. The injury had occurred that afternoon, although the tale starts several months before.

! In September 1986, we had been in the pub with a group of friends. Ever the adventurer and wannabe extreme sportsman, Mike suggested to the group that we should do a parachute jump, for fun. Everyone ‘thought’ it was a good idea, so the next day Mike made enquiries with a parachuting company and booked us in for a training session in a couple of weeks. The idea was that the training would be held at a local school one Sunday with the jump itself taking place at an airfield near Virginia Water the following day.

! By the time the training day came, everyone, bar Mike and I, had dropped out. Our training was delivered by ex-members of the Parachute Regiment who really put us through our paces and laid down the rules. I found it hard to believe I was actually paying to be shouted at and ordered to do hundreds of forward rolls, sideways rolls and, worst of all, backward rolls. The ‘worst’ being because I found them impossible, but we needed to learn in case the wind was blowing in the direction requiring a backward landing. [Remember that]. We tried on parachutes

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and the instructors explained how we would have right and left handles to steer us in the right direction to land on the DZ, the Drop Zone.

! The next morning, Mike and I went to work. Mike was to ring the parachute people at lunchtime to check if we were on for the parachute jump. As we were absolute beginners, the whole thing was dependent on there being no wind. Monday was windy. Mike rang and was advised to phone back in an hour to see if the wind had dropped sufficiently to allow us to jump. We spent the whole afternoon wondering if the wind would drop and we would be good to go. The weather remained blustery. So the jump was pushed back to the following Monday, and then the one after that, with Mike phoning at regular intervals on Monday afternoons to check the situation. Mike spent the next few Mondays on tenterhooks, I spent them feeling relieved that it wasn’t happening. After a few weeks of that, it was decided to defer until the spring.

! So in spring 1987, we arranged to be retrained – a half day one Sunday. We made the mistake of going to a fondue party in London the night before. The mistake wasn’t the fondue, we loved it and became fans. The mistake was experiencing our first fondue the night before conducting, with the ensuing hangover, hundreds of forward/side/backward rolls. Mike managed perfectly. I struggled but it was only when pretending I was throwing myself out of a plane that things went really wrong. The idea was to sit on a table, throw oneself off with arms outspread while shouting ‘one thousand, two thousand, three thousand, check!’ before landing on the ground. All went well until my turn, when I unconsciously hooked my feet round a table leg. This meant that when I threw myself off the table, I was restrained by my feet being wrapped round the table leg and I crashed to the ground on my knees. This hurt a lot and the shock caused me to divest myself of the food and drink indulgence of the night before, something that had been waiting to happen all day long. The next day my knees were sore but not enough (unfortunately) to prevent me from parachute jumping.

! As he had done six or so months before, Mike phoned the parachute jump company at lunchtime to see if the jump was on. The wind was up. But the organisers were probably sick of us and decided the jump should go ahead anyway, yippee. Mike picked me up from work. We arrived at the airfield, where we got

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changed into the flattering jumpsuits and helmets. Mike was full of beans and terribly excited, I was the opposite. It never occurred to me to drop out, although the feeling I was experiencing was the antithesis of enthusiasm.

! It was explained to us that the only plane available had some limitations which were not ideal for first time parachute jumpers but we were assured that we would be fine. The door had to be removed before the plane took off, as it would not be possible to open it once in flight. And the type of engine meant that the plane would not be able to ‘hover’ i.e. remain fairly still while we exited, but we were promised that it would move at a slow speed. Also, we were advised that the DZ, the Drop Zone, was surrounded by three runways, only one of which was not in use. This meant that we would need to ensure that we landed on the DZ, otherwise we might be run over by a plane. All this did nothing to allay my fears, indeed it heightened my terror. Mike was hopping around with excitement, I just ignored him in silence and contemplated my doom. We climbed into the plane and sat on the floor. We were each allocated a number, mine being ‘4’. In turn, we scooted along on our bottoms towards where the door should have been before hurling ourselves, or being pushed, out of the plane. It had been drummed into us during our training that once we had exited the plane, it was essential to spread our arms and legs, to avoid being caught in the lines of the parachute. This was where the ‘One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, check!’ came in. As we departed from the plane, we were to shout: ‘One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, check!’. The ‘check’ referred to looking up, with arms and legs outstretched, to check that the parachute had opened above us. Had this not happened, the reserve parachute strapped to our front should automatically open because of the speed we would be travelling. In the event of the reserve parachute not automatically opening, we were to calmly pull its cord, although I don’t think any of us imagined that it would be something we would ever do calmly.

! My turn came. I muttered ‘goodbye’ to Mike, shuffled along the floor, dangled my legs out of the non-existent door and hurled myself (or was I pushed?) out of the plane. The first few moments were of sheer terror – I don’t recall whether I shouted ‘One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, check!’ but then I did remember to do the check and looked up with relief at the full canopy above me. The initial panic

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receded to be replaced by a feeling of relief, followed by utter calmness and peace. I experienced something that I believe for me is a once-in-a-lifetime feeling. I felt complete serenity and, it has to be said, omnipotence. Time stood still, the silence was absolute, and I felt I was brilliant and could do anything. I looked down blissfully at the beautiful green fields below and was in awe of the world I lived in. I know I was smiling. My tranquillity was then abruptly shattered by the interruption of ‘Number 4, pull on your right!’. I was brought back to reality, well, a little bit anyway. I pulled on the right. Oh, I didn’t – ‘Number 4, that’s your left, you idiot, pull on your right, NOW!’. So I pulled on the right, I looked down and could see the DZ, the Drop Zone, far in the distance. I am short-sighted and wasn’t wearing my glasses, too tricky with the goggles. Anyway, despite the slightly annoying interference of the instructor, I was still feeling serene and invincible. Everything was still, I didn’t feel like I was moving at all. Then I think I started to notice that I was travelling very slowly and the wind direction was such that I would need to land backwards. I had a fleeting thought that I should be preparing for a backward roll which involved, at the very least, the bending of my knees. But I then decided that as I was so brilliant, I would land in the same way as our ex Parachute Regiment instructors – that is, land on my feet and keep running. I glanced behind me, suddenly realised I was travelling much faster than I had thought, my judgement impaired by my myopia and feelings of omnipotence. First an oops and then a crunch. I had landed, without doing the essential backward roll, without bending my knees, and I had hit the ground spectacularly badly. I could hear the groans of my fellow jumpers and instructors. My sounds were more in the manner of whimpers. Mike landed and ran over, asked if I was OK and if I wanted to jump again - we could do a second jump for an additional tenner! I replied no thank you and could he help me up. Our instructors had emphasised the importance of gathering up our parachutes immediately upon landing, before the wind got the chance to fill the canopy with air – if that happened we could be dragged up again. So I was worried about that happening, I could already feel and see that my ankle had borne the brunt of my invincibility.

! I gave Mike £10 and he went up again. Mike does not like following instructions, so he doesn’t, but as he is less accident-prone than I am and sometimes exercises better judgement, he incurred no injury, even though he almost

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landed on a van at the side of the runway. One girl who repeated the experience did not gather her parachute up before the wind inflated it again and she was dragged across the ground for about half a mile. Although I was the one who got the biggest telling-off, for not abiding by any of the rules about landing. I was ecstatic however, at having managed to go through with the jump despite my fears, and at having survived, albeit a little the worse for wear.

! I limped back to the car and we went home. We got changed, and jubilant at our achievement despite the throbbing of my ankle, I persuaded Mike to go to our favourite restaurant. So that brings us back to the beginning of the tale. After a sleepless night during which my ankle became more and more swollen and the pain hard to bear, Mike took me to the local hospital before he went to work. Unfortunately it was too early and the minor injuries unit was not yet open, so he dropped me at work. As I arrived, I met a colleague who was also not feeling great. Sue’s cat had scratched at her eye, possibly attracted by her contact lens and Sue’s eye was very sore. So she decided she would drive us both to hospital. On arrival we separated to make our way to the different departments, Sue to the eye clinic and me to minor injuries and we agreed to meet afterwards. I had an X-ray – I had not in fact broken my ankle but I had suffered a severe sprain, so severe that they very nearly decided to give me a plaster cast, or ‘pot’ as they say in Sheffield. Instead, my ankle was strapped and I was given crutches. We met outside and laughed – both of us looked in a worse state than when we had arrived – Sue had an enormous eye patch, and I was on crutches. Sue drove us back to work, she had to remove the enormous eye patch until we got there as it was interfering with her ability to see well enough to drive. We made quite a dramatic entrance into a departmental meeting – acquiring the inevitable names ‘Patch’ and ‘Hop along’ respectively.

! But all’s well that ends well. I survived my once-in-a-lifetime extreme sports adventure, with a little tale to tell. I had asked work colleagues to sponsor my endeavours for charity. I did milk my injury somewhat – as I moved around the office on my crutches, I found that several colleagues doubled their pledge, so I raised quite a bit more than first envisaged. Later in life, I have undertaken other challenges for charity, although none so life threatening. More of that another time.

Gabrielle Latham

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Mermaid Monologue

! My name is lanthe and I am a mermaid. ! According to legend, I can perform the most amazing acts. I can see into the future, conjure up storms and even sink ships with the mere flick of a wrist. Mesmerising with song, I lure men to their deaths as I sit languorously on the rocks gazing out to sea. Odysseus called us Sirens. I am an Oceanid, a sea nymph, with 2999 sisters. ! Through the ages we have been the subject of mythology - Greek, Roman, Madison in Splash and Ariel in The Little Mermaid - I rather like the last two portrayals! ! Once heard, my voice is never forgotten. I have the long flowing hair and curvaceous figure. I have Helen of Troy's beauty - her face launched a thousand ships while mine can sink them. My melodic enchantments cannot be rivalled. ! One thing blights my idyllic existence, preventing me from fulfilling my potential. To accomplish all that is expected of a mermaid, I need to have mastered a particular skill. Without it, I am destined never to leave my rock other than to dip my tail in the water . ! I, a mermaid, am terrified of water and cannot swim.

Gabrielle Latham

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Momentary Misery on the Costa Calida

inspired by Thomas Mendip

! The bane of my last few days here.

! A bright blue blister of unbelievable Bedlam filled to bursting with the faithless,

with God’s forgotten: hopeless hordes of humanity who crave only base and simple

satisfaction. The great unwashed, wasting themselves in a communal cauldron of

chemically cleansed, bodily fluid-seasoned soup.

! Petrochemical produced plastic bins billowing their inside-out liners, black

flags mourning the absence of any significant thought. Brains bobbing atop bronzed,

burnt and scorched bodies with no other purpose than to pose, splash and laugh

with the mass.

! Red rings for rescuing lives adorn the woven wire fencing should anyone

consider any of those lives worth saving.

! Young, old, fit and infirm pace the perimeter of this prodigious puddle (that is

the possible provider of paedo’s and pervert’s pleasure) shouting such wit and

wisdom as, ‘Mama!’ and, ‘Julio!’

! The mind-numbing noise is secondary only to the sacrilegious blemish on the

beauty of the majestic trees and shrubs doing their best to hide this hideous

monstrosity from the eyes of innocents.

! It is a joy to gaze at a single blade of grass, to allow an eye to meander along

the lazy veins of a leaf, to recall the softer notes of a long-loved sonnet or to

compose a phrase that does justice in a world of injustice to any of life’s simple

pleasures.

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! And, of course, laughter is one of those pleasures. And isn’t it simple laughter

that bursts from the angelic faces of that bright blue bubo lying only a few yards

away?

! Am I being too harsh, criticising those who find that pleasure, that I find in the

most complex of systems, in each other? Should I not be jealous of those hordes?

Am I so quick to criticise that they have only to be together, with other human beings,

to feel their lives invigorated and quickened?

! Is it me?

Bob Lockett

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