She moves like smoke on the breeze, hardly touching or disturbing anything in her wake. Her sandal clad feet producing the softest of whispers as they gently stroke the paving stones in her passage.

Her blonde hair hanging loose with the sun at her back. The light shining through it to cause a halo, an aurora, that adds another dimension to the effect of her lightness as she passes.

The flower print dress of soft cotton amplifies the sway of her hips as she glides past the old man sitting outside the village bakery, clutching his walking stick before him. He remembers a time long ago when things were very different, but now the closest he can hope for is the reflection of her in the tiny teardrop in the corner of his rheumy eye.

I have an important question. You’ve read the title, you know how important this question is. I will probably end up doing the usual, but before I do that, I thought I would ask you guys for your opinion.

Every time we come up against some seemingly unsurmountable problem, nine times out of ten, someone, somewhere comes up with a solution. Some “smart Alec” (an old idiom still in regular usage) seems to have the answer right at their fingertips.
Interesting phrase that. Here is the dictionary explanation for the origin of it…

Origin

mid 19th century: from smart + Alec, diminutive of the given name Alexander.

So, let’s get right to it. Is there such a thing as Anti-Chocolate?

Finding the answer to this matter could, quite literally, be the difference between life and death. Or at the very least the saving a limb or two. We the diabetically challenged, need to know if, somewhere in the upper reaches of the Amazon jungle there is a plant or insect , that if digested, before or after the fact, negates the harmful effects of this loveliest of confections. Is there some Yoga position I don’t know about that could combat the dangerous side effects or bring about a blissful state of mind that renders the body immune?

If at this juncture you dare to suggest that I merely replace it with some “Diabetic Chocolate”  I would be forced to conclude that you have never sampled that dire substance. The relationship between the two is akin to Chalk and Cheese, Day and Night, Fresh Spring Water or the Sweat from a Camel’s Testicles (another three idioms. Or is it idiomi?)

Whatever, I have to find the answer…

…to the google machine!

“You’re mad.” George said it half as a matter of fact, half as a statement of opinion and half jokingly. Which gave Allen cause for concern, coming as it did from a fully fledged professor of mathematics.

He had known George for most of his life. They had grown up together. All the way through school, then sixth form college, university as well as various government training and indoctrination seminars.  They were a team. Forged on the anvil of academia, beaten into shape by the hours, months, years of sweating over dust-ridden books in dank little rooms, lit only by reading lamps because that was all the light that was needed. That was all that ever took place there. Reading and sleeping, lights were not necessary for sleeping.

A relationship tempered by dating girls together, choosing wives, raising children and growing old in each other’s company. Working as one on the problems that beset mankind, an altogether unique partnership of the best minds in the business. The business being answering the questions of life, the universe and the meaning of it all.

That was why Allen had shared his secret, his discovery, with his life long colleague, collaborator and confidante.

The last thing he had expected was to have it dismissed as the rantings of a madman.

But there the man sat, looking at him over the rim of his totally unnecessary spectacles, from under those bushy white eyebrows. The ones that had become such a trademark that they were more of an affectation than a facial feature.

A smile infiltrated Allen’s face. A frequent visitor, although looking somehow out of place and unwelcome. Adding even more lines to a visage already scarred and wrinkled by the passing of time. “That made the old bugger sit up and take notice”, he thought. And it had. George now thought that his old friend had finally and irrevocably “fallen out of his tree”.

“Diva, the whole thing is utterly insane”. His concern showed not only in the tone of his voice, but also in the use of his personal nickname for his friend. Something he very rarely did and only then out of love and sorrow when it seemed his life long companion Dr David Ivor Allen had over stepped the mark.

The misnomer stemmed from their college days and one particular flight of Allen’s diverse and meandering fancy. They were running short of money for books as well as everyday living expenses. Sitting in their room, trying to come up with ideas that would enable them to eat for the rest of the term, but keep them out of prison so as to enable them to attend lectures.

“I know”, said David, with a great explosion of enthusiasm. Something that accompanied all his brainwaves, good or bad.

“Why don’t we sample an operatic aria , a reasonably well known one, and set it to a dance beat?” David went on, ignoring George’s look of distaste.

“It won’t work”, mumbled George, wondering again at their difference of musical preference and their ability to get along in spite of it.

“It will work, David continued, “once it’s sampled we can feed the digital information into the computer alongside our chosen time signature, set a correlation program, press the button and wait.”

It did work. It worked so well that some of you may have heard the results for yourselves. Even though it was only a passing craze in the early nineties. The “press the button and wait,” was a little more involved than that. The “Correlation program,” didn’t exist but this minor obstacle was, as usual, glossed over by David. The sweat and headaches were, as usual, provided by George when it came to the actual writing of it.  As was the artiste’s and later nickname. Coined, by George, using David’s initials and a lot of poetic license. David could not sing, although he refused to believe the fact. George was often heard to say that his friend “could not carry a tune if you put it in a bucket.”

“O.K. David, you’ve convinced me, I believe that what you’re saying could be true.” George Fredrickson looked around at the ream upon ream of computer printout that littered the desk, piled up on the floor and stacked on the chair, sitting like a belligerent child, so sure of itself. So positive that no-one, nothing could disprove its undeniable logic. So sure of its facts. After all, logic can only come from facts. The data is undeniable, therefore the logical conclusion must be also.

“I could show you more figures if you want George,” David said. The same smile making a reappearance as if performing an encore. “We haven’t even touched those yet.” With a slight nod of his head he indicated the thirty pounds or so of spewed out confirmation that crouched on the top of the bookcase as if ready to pounce.

“Save it for the government boys, they’ll want to see every scrap of evidence you can produce.” George wearily rubbed his eyes over the top of his glasses with his index finger which succeeded in pushing them further down his nose than he normally wore them. Then with both hands he massaged the blood running through his temples, forcing it on it’s way to his tired brain and at the same time restoring the equilibrium to the two circles of plain glass held in a wire frame, that he felt in turn restored the balance to his face. He had, several years ago, undergone the, even by then routine surgery that had been necessary to correct his failing vision. Somehow it just hadn’t seemed right, he didn’t recognise himself in the mirror without them, he quite simply did not feel comfortable without this piece of facial furniture.

So, soon after he had left a puzzled but slightly richer optician wondering if he had just served an actor, he may have at one time seen on the screen, with a much needed prop.

George had worn them ever since.

“Alright David, you’ve proved that the universe is slowing down. Or more precisely that the rate of expansion is decreasing.” He quickly put in before his friend had time to correct him. “And, at an ever increasing rate. If that is the right phrase to use?” George said.

The smile took another bow on David’s face. “Semantics was never my strong point George, that’s why I keep you around.” He said. “In any case, the government boys, as you call them, are not going to see them. At least not right away.”

“That is the first sensible thing you have said in the last five hours.” A relieved George muttered.

“Oh, they’ll see them alright, they just won’t be the first.” David added the last remark whilst apparently studying cracks in the ceiling plaster with sublime indifference.

George knew that look, it had worried him before. “And what exactly do you mean by that? Who is going to see them first?”

“The press George, the press.” David was about to drop his bombshell, George could tell.  Although he knew he was falling into the trap, he couldn’t help it, he just had to ask the stupid question.

“And what, pray tell, makes you think that the ladies and gentlemen of the press will be in the slightest bit interested that the stars are moving away from us, at an infinitesimally slower speed than they were a hundred years ago?” He said in a mocking tone, a little like the stage comedian’s ‘I say, I say, I saying.’ But only in an effort to lessen the shock of what he knew must be coming.  And he knew something was coming.

“Because, dear George, in another fifty years or so they will come to a complete standstill.”

George held his breath.

“And then start to fall backwards upon themselves, destroying everything in their path until they reach the site of the original explosion, thereby destroying themselves.”

BANG. David scored a direct hit.

“But that would take with it all the matter in the universe? The whole thing just wiped out?” George was in a state of shock. The last part of his response had come out as a sort of pleading whine. A kind of, tell me it’s not so David. Make the bogey man go away David.

Well the bogey man would go away soon. We all would, thought the doctor to himself.

There was that smile again.

THE END

Cherish every sunset

For each goes by so fast

Treasure every sunrise

As each could be your last

Let each new day’s wonder

Filter through your eyes

And tear your heart asunder

As pink bleeds through the skies

Such a beautiful evening to the west…

I just couldn’t let it go unmarked, and unmentioned.

I know there will be another one tomorrow, but which of us will be here to see it?

This is a work in progress, very slow progress. In fact I just found these old sheets of paper from 1996 when my daughter was born. She was the original inspiration for me to try and write a children’s story. A bit late now I guess as a couple of months ago she turned 21. Anywho, I thought if I put it up on here it might make me finish it.  So, here is the story so far…

Mary the scary fairy, sat on a toadstool, in the middle of a fairly evil forest. The forest wasn’t really, really evil. Just a little bit dark and frightening. Mary lived there, so her full name should have been Mary the Fairly Scary Fairy. But she wanted to be very, very scary because that was more fun. And so she had dropped the ‘fairly’ part of her name some years before. In fact, she had dropped it around here somewhere, so she made a mental note to be careful not to trip over it.

She sat on the toadstool doing nothing. And was very busy.

She was busy trying to think up ways to upset people. It’s what she did best, doing her worst. She was working out ways to worry the Weasels, badger the Badgers, batter the Bats, scare the Bears, harangue the Orang (utan that is), make the Deer fear, the Toad forebode and the other Fairies wary. She didn’t much care for the rabbits either.

*

Meanwhile in another part of the forest, Adorable Dora was also busy, she was investigating a large hole in the side of a hollow tree. Because that’s what explorers did, “Well, it looks like something has been living in there.” She said. Fred the Head mumbled something in a very disgruntled way from deep within his basket.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said,” exclaimed Dora, “I do wish you wouldn’t do that. One day you might just mutter something important and I shall miss it.”

“Huh,” grunted Fred, who didn’t think that was very likely. After all, what possible opinion could a mere head have, that could influence an intrepid explorer like the WORLD RENOWNED ADORABLE DORA McFLORA thought Fred, in bold print, capitals and italicised.

Dora was in fact just a teddy bear with tartan paws. But somehow, she had gotten the idea that she was a world-famous discoverer of things. And you know what it’s like once a teddy bear gets an idea into it’s head. Especially one with tartan paws. You just can’t budge them from it.

Very single minded they are!

“You could of course, go in and have a look,” ventured Fred from the safety of his basket.

It looked cold and dark inside the tree trunk. Dora wasn’t at all sure that was such a good idea. “I could of course tie a piece of string around your ear and roll you in. Then when I pull you back out you could report what you had seen, couldn’t you?”

A look of horror came over Fred’s face. It’s amazing how expressive a doll’s face can be in the absence of a body and Fred did have very little use for ‘The Definitive Book of Body Language’ that Dora had given him for Christmas last year.

Of course, he hadn’t always been this way, bodiless, bodily challenged so to speak. No, it’s all down to one particularly nasty incident in the school playground two years ago with that vicious Richardson boy.

Fred had always wanted to be popular but when people start fighting over you it can get very painful. In fact, Fred was a bit of a coward when it came to fighting, which is strange for an ex-Action Man figure. “You can’t treat me like a bowling ball.” said a very indignant Fred. “Besides, there could be anything in amongst those old dead leaves and twigs and things. You said yourself that something was living in there.” Fred said.

“No, I didn’t. I said it looked like something had been living in there. That’s a totally different thing.” said Dora while she bent down and picked up a stick from the ground. She poked the stick into the hole and rattled it around a bit.

“Ow, Ooh, Ouch! ‘Ere watch wot yer doin’.”

Dora pulled the stick out of the hole again, very quickly. “Well, well, a talking stick.” She said quizzically. Holding it up in the air and studying it.

“It wasn’t the stick, you stupid bear, it was me.” The voice came out of the hole in the tree trunk.

“A talking tree trunk?” wondered a baffled Dora. “That’s even sillier.”

“Doh!” said the face of a mouse that had appeared out of the gloom of the hollow trunk.

“Who are you?” said Dora.

“Who are you?” said Fred.

“What’s that echo?” said the mouse. “And what do you think you are doing with that stick?”

“I was just kind of waving it around to see if there was anybody in there.” confessed Dora.

“Well there was, and it was me.” said the mouse in a very hurt sort of way.

“Yes, but who are you?” asked Fred for the second time.

“My name is Eric.” the mouse explained.

“Eric? Not a very inspiring name, is it? I mean my name is Dora, Adorable Dora McFlora, and I’m an explorer. So that’s quite a clever name for me. Isn’t it?” she said. “But Eric’s not very imaginative.”

“I suppose not,” said Eric. “What’s his name then.” He asked nodding at the basket, still rubbing his ear where the stick had hit him.

Dora was just about to introduce him when Fred interrupted. “Oi, I am here you know and I can speak for myself. Just because a person only has a head, it doesn’t mean to say they’re stupid. In fact, the head is the most important bit you know. Does all the thinking the head does,” Fred sulked. “You have to have a good head to get ahead, you do.”

“Do be quiet Fred.” Said Dora.

“Some of the best thinkers the world has ever seen had heads you know.” He grumbled on.

“Well Fred’s not a very good name is it?” Eric offered. “Not when you consider his circumstances.”

“At least it rhymes. That’s something.” The words rose up from the basket with a very surly edge to them.

“Yes.” Agreed Dora. “If your parents had been musical for instance, they might have named you Johann Strauss Mouse.” She tittered.

“Or even, John, Paul, George or Ringo Mouse,” ventured Fred, trying to disguise the laugh in his voice.

Both Eric and Dora looked at him wondering what the explanation for that reasoning could be.

“The Scouse Mouse.” Fred tutted as if it had been obvious. “If your father had been a golfer he might have plumbed for Nicklaus Mouse.” Fred continued getting into full flow now.

“I BEG YOUR PARDON.” huffed Eric. “I’ll have you know that my father was a mouse, as was his father before him. I’m not a crossbreed you know. I’m pure mouse through and through.” he went on. “There’s no gopher in me.”

“I said GOLFER. G.O.L.F.E.R.” spelt out Fred.

“Oh yes.” said the mouse slightly abashed. “I’ve seen them with their sticks. What I want to know is if their egg’s shells are that tough how on earth do their young ever hatch out.”

This time it was Fred and Dora’s turn to exchange looks. If Fred had been fortunate enough to have shoulders he would have shrugged them. But it didn’t matter because Dora did it for him. After all that’s what friends are for.

“Anyway,” Eric continued whilst trying in vain to hide his embarrassment. My full name is Christopher Eric Mouse. I just happen to prefer my middle name, that’s all.”

“Christopher isn’t a bad name.” said Dora, trying to comfort him a little. “It’s just not very interesting either. You could shorten it to Chris, of course.”

“Tried that,” said Eric, “everybody kept laughing at us.”

“Why?” asked Dora, even though by this time she wasn’t really interested in what the answer might be.

“Us?” interjected Fred.

“Yes, us.” the mouse replied, “my wife and I.”

“You?” continued Fred, “you, have a wife?” his eyebrows nearly leaving his forehead. “What’s her name then?”

“I don’t think I want to tell you that,” Eric/Chris huffed.

“I don’t believe you,” Fred laughed.

“I have, I have so, her name is Marie” Chris, slash Eric hollered before he realised that he had said it after all.

“Ha Ha,” a fit of laughter over took Fred. He just couldn’t contain himself.

Dora looked blankly at them both. She just couldn’t see what was so funny. Why was Fred laughing so much that tears were streaming down his face?

Fred took pity on her and explained, “Marie,” he coughed. “Marie and Chris Mouse.”
“Hee Hee, Marie Chris Mouse. Get it? Marie Chris Mouse, Merry Christmas.” He collapsed again “I’m sorry, it’s just too funny.”

“I’m glad you think it’s such a good laugh. It tormented my poor wife. It hadn’t occurred to her before.” said a very sad looking Chris, slash Eric. “That’s why in the end she left me I think.” he sobbed with a squeak. Which is the way all mice cry you know.

It didn’t help that Dora was trying to stifle her own laughter by stuffing her tartan paws into her mouth. Tartan paws are not known for their laughter stifling properties, probably because they are not too effective.

Eventually the laughing subsided, although it took quite a while before the pair could speak properly again.

The forlorn little mouse stood there with the saddest looking eyes. In fact, if eyes had mouths, they would have been turned down at the ends and that would have completed the look of misery. But, instead a little bubble of saltiness leaked from the corner of each of them.

Dora was starting to feel guilty. “So, why were you hiding in that hollow tree?” she asked kindly.

Fred on the other hand was still sniggering.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Eric, slash Chris said, “I was looking for my Marie.” His tiny chin gave a wobble. “She has to be somewhere in this forest. She’s never known anywhere else.” He whined. “I have to find her.”

*

Mary had thunked as much as she could and still no new horrible thoughts would come to her. She lowered herself stiffly from the toadstool and was just about to stretch her legs, by pacing around the clearing, when she heard the sound of something small scurrying in from the trees on her left hand side. Something very small and easily threatened. “Oh this will be good” she muttered under her breath and she crouched down behind the toadstool.

Marie could see a clearing up ahead through the trees. “Oh, I do hate being out alone in the forest at night, if that blessed Owl hadn’t swooped at be while I was out foraging for Eric’s tea, I wouldn’t be in this pickle.” She thought. “Maybe when I get to that clearing I will be able to see the stars and get some idea of where I am.” It is a little known fact that as well as migratory birds, mice and other small animals also used the stars to navigate. Well what else are you supposed to do if you can’t read a map, or even hold one open because they are so huge and difficult to manage?

Life wasn’t easy if you were a mouse.

Marie peered into the clearing from around the side of an old pine tree. “Well, it looks safe enough,” she thought. “Nothing except that big old toadstool in there.” She scuttled forward to get clear of the canopy of trees and hopefully get a better view of the stars.

Marie raised her little mouse hand above her eyes as she quite literally stared into space. All the while she couldn’t get over the fact that she felt she was being watched. “I hope it’s not that blimin’ Owl again” she said to herself.

She heard a faint flap flap, flapping, of wings and looking at the ground she noticed she was standing in the shadow of some large flying thing. Quickly she spun round on her toes and there hovering above her, brandishing her wand as if it were a mighty sword, was Mary the Fairly Scary Fairy.

“Oh,” she said “it’s only you.”

*

“So, you were looking for her in an old hollowed out tree trunk, were you?” enquired Fred. “Is that the kind of place she’s used to inhabiting?” he continued. “Was that the best you could offer your bride? Do you think that might be the real reason she left you?”

“Marie is a mouse of simple tastes” intoned Eric, slash Chris, very haughtily.

“Ah, that’s why she married you then. Because you’re simple.” Laughed Fred. This is just too easy he thought.

The mouse had had just about enough of Fred. He was fuming. In fact on a colder day you would probably have seen the fumes coming out of his ears.

“Aww, go easy on him Fred” piped Dora “he’s upset about his wife.”
“I know”, said the teddy bear, “why don’t we help him find her.”

“It could be our quest”. She continued.

“Look, I agreed to a quick bit of discovering, but there is no way I’m going on a flippin’ quest.” Intoned Fred from the depths of his basket. “I want to go home, I haven’t had my tea yet.” “Flippin’ quests,” he muttered, “take for-flippin’-ever.”

“Have you quite finished?” asked Dora.

“No, I was made in China,” said the bodily challenged Fred.

“What?” Chris, slash Eric and Dora chorused, in three part harmony. Which takes some doing when there are only two of you. Even if one of you has two names.

Dora tried to reason with her friend the head, “Look,” she said, “it won’t take that long, it’s not a very big wood, is it?” she begged. “It can’t be more than a hundred acres or so.”

“I thought that was copyrighted?” Fred replied.

“It is,” said Dora, “that’s why I didn’t put the word wood after the word acres.”

“Ah,” was all Fred said, but he still wasn’t going on no flippin’ quest.

“All you ever think about is your blimin’ stomach,” she said, rather undiplomatically.

“I haven’t got a stomach” came the totally predictable reply from Fred. “That’s why I have to eat little and often.”

“OK,” the bear continued, “when we’re done and we’ve found Eric, slash Chris’s, Marie, you can have two scones, alright?”

“With Jam and Clotted Cream?” Asked the ever negotiating Fred.

“No, you can have them with Clotted Cream and Jam.” Said Dora, she was a bit of a stickler and a major pedant. (Mum will explain this to you, I don’t have time as this story isn’t writing itself you know)

Fred had to accept this as she was the one that put the scones together.

It smelt of stale tobacco. Fur growing on the old coffee grounds in the bottom of discarded  but not disposed of polystyrene cups. Setting the finishing touches to the scene was the Formica topped table with its ragged edge, picked away by the nervous finger nails of a long procession of sweating, intimidated interviewees.

One interesting piece was shaped like an American Indian, in full feathered headdress. Obviously sculpted by some very bored artistic pervert.

“He was probably being kept waiting while the arresting officers cooked up some evidence against him and got their stories straight, rehearsing each line carefully.” Thought the worried little man, as he sat at the table, trying desperately not to add to the dilapidation that was all around him.

He could hear the two approaching C.l.D Officers quite clearly in the corridor outside, even through the closed door. The thought suddenly struck him that people passing by, during his soon to be interrogation, would be able to hear everything.

All his denials. All his pitiful pleading that he had done nothing wrong. All his alibis for the time the crime was committed, scoffed at by total strangers, that just happened to be walking by interview room number four.

The injustice of it all.

They were discussing him now. He could hear them a full twenty or thirty yards away. “My God, that was the young one. He’s Judged me already and found me guilty.” He thought. “They’ll be passing sentence in a minute, for whatever they think I’ve done.” He could see the headlines now. “John Timkins, helping the police with their enquiries.” “For the next thirty years.”

It had been a bad day already and it was only 0945. Detective Sergeant Harold George of the Walisham C.I.D had known it would be. It had started last night when young Judy George had come home late, and just as he was about to launch into one of his famous, “young thoughtless people of today, your mother’s been worried sick that you might have been in an accident or attacked” speeches, Judy had pre-empted him by grabbing mother’s hand and propelling her bodily through the door to the kitchen. Saying in a worried voice of her own “Mum, I’ve got to talk to you.”

All that happened for the next three quarters of an hour were the muffled strains of his daughter confiding in her mother, a partially stifled cry from his other half and a plaintive wail of “But what are we going to tell Da…….”

That could have come from either of them.

“Time for bed.” Harold had said in a quiet mumble to no one in particular. His son, Alan, two years Judy’s junior, the apple of his eye, the fruit of his loins and the one in whom all his future ambitions and aspirations lie, ignored him. The continuer of the family name in the years to come, didn’t bother to look up from the mind-numbing drivel being performed on the T.V.

He couldn’t hear his father anyway because of the monotonous Chee Thud, Chee Thud being blasted into his ears by the personal stereo. The one that his father could not remember at the time of his son’s birth, but that he supposed must have been there and he must have just missed it. What with all the excitement at the time and so on.

He had been asleep when mother had finally come into the bedroom. He vaguely remembered being woken by the sound of static between the Marks and Sparks Nylon Shift and the Marks and Sparks Guaranteed Run-Proof Thick Nylon Tights. Like a whispered “Goodnight,” between illicit lovers. Two brief thoughts came to him. “I wonder if they put them on the same hanger in the shop and use the sound as a kind of anti-shoplifting device?” “Or maybe it’s a kind of rape alarm, designed to attract the attention of passers-by who have a very acute sense of hearing?” With a last, appropriate name that, Marks and Sparks, I wonder if they do?” He had drifted back to sleep.

In the morning he had awoken very late. On his mad dash to the bathroom the dawn chorus of breakfast well under way greeted him on the landing. A cacophony of early sounds, the clink of plates and bowls, the gentle gurgle of the electric kettle and of course the inevitable Chee Thud, Chee Thud.

Half shaved, half dressed and the signs of sleep only half washed from his eyes he made his way to the table. Now, if only he could focus on the morning paper, with all this noise going on around him. He might be able to catch up with what had been happening in the world while he had slept. “Yes dear, of course I’m listening to you.” He’d said. “I told last night when I came to bed.” Was all she had given him as a clue.

Now he wished he had listened. Something was niggling at the back of his mind, something important. If only he could remember what it was. To top it all, his egg had been over done.

Yes, a bad day already and it was only 0946.

*******************

“A right nasty piece of work this one Sarge!” said young Wilson as they made their way past the doors of rooms one and two.

“A good lad.” Thought George. “A bit on the slow side, an underachiever, unambitious but dresses smartly.” He observed. “Probably do well in the force. Might even end up as my superior.”

“Acting as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,” continued Wilson. “Hasn’t got a clue why we pulled him in,” he added with more than a hint of sarcasm.

He always spoke in clichés, “Too much Z Cars as a kid.” Thought George, “What was I trying to remember. It’ll come to me. It’s not important.” The last thought almost made him jump as it was given voice. His own voice. Luckily Harold was used to this as it happened to him quite a lot. He recovered his surprise quickly.”Er, that he doesn’t know why we’ve ‘pulled’ him in. He’ll know in a few minutes anyway.”

They had arrived at the door to number four. Wilson stopped his bosses hand on the door handle by laying his own clammy hand on it. “Who’s going to be the goodie and who’s going to be the baddie.” The fledgling detective asked.

“What?” It was all George could manage.

“You know,” Wilson went on. “Who’s going to be the goodie and who’s going to be the baddie.” He repeated, not making any more sense the second time than he had the first as far as George was concerned.

“Well it’s obvious isn’t it?” George didn’t know how else to explain it, so he just blundered on in his usual way. “He’s the baddie because he’s in there, and we’re the goodies because we’re in the police.” “Yes , he’ll go far.” George managed to keep to himself for once. “But not far enough.”

“What?” Paul asked, more than a little confused. “What did he mean by “Not far enough?” He thought. He went on slightly perturbed. “I mean, which of us is going to play the good cop and which one is the bad cop.” He said. Pointing first at the sergeant and then prodding his own chest.

“Oh , I see.” said George out loud while thinking, “Yes, definitely not far enough.”

“But you still haven’t answe……” Paul put in as George turned the handle and bulldozed his way into the room.

“Shhhh.” George put his finger to his lips.

John Timkins was facing them as they entered the room. They walked around the table to the side that had two chairs. Sat, and Sergeant George started the cassette player in motion.

“I am Sergeant George and this is,” he wanted to say, “A bloody idiot that watches too much telly.” But he managed to keep it formal. Even if only for the benefit of the tape recorder. “My colleague, Detective Wilson.”

At this point Timkins felt like hurling abuse at the two men. which is something he would never normally have even considered. Then again, these were not normal circumstances. To calm himself he imagined that they were two customers who had come to him for a loan to start up a small business. He was going to take great pleasure in turning them down. A decision he had made earlier in his usual manner, with the aid of a small coin. “What do you want. Why have you brought me here?”It hadn’t worked. He could tell that his voice must have sounded a bit like an injured animal by the expression on the older one’s face.

“Oh come on now John, This isn’t going to get us very far, is it?” This is what George liked. He was in the driving seat now. He was in charge, in control. He could smell the fear on this Timkins like an old wet overcoat in a warm room. At least he thought it was fear he smelt. “You don’t mind if I call you John, do you?”

Paul took his cue from what he thought was his bosses kindly tone of voice. The sarcasm completely lost on him. “O.K Timkins, come clean.” An unfortunate choice of phrase thought George. He had an idea what the smell might be.

Wilson decided to strike again while he was hot. ” Come on man, Spill the beans.”

George raised his eyes heavenward. “Good god.” He muttered under his breath. Bringing his gaze back down to earth, he noticed for the first time, the damp overcoat in the corner next to the radiator.

Timkins looked at the sergeant, as if for help. “Why is this officer talking as if he’s out of a very bad Australian soap opera?”

George just rolled his eyes back up to the ceiling. “They’re safe up there.” He thought. At least I don’t have to watch him make an arsehole of himself and the police force, as well as listen to him.

In spite of himself the mild-mannered bank manager was starting to get into the swing of things. “I’m saying nothing until I’ve seen my lawyer.” He said, catching the mood set by the young detective perfectly.

George, giving up, looked at his Watch. 0949 and the day was not getting any better.

“Alright Mr Timkins, I’ll come straight out with it.” The senior policeman thought it was time for a little enlightenment. If only to put a stop to this 1950’s film script they seemed to be stuck in. He put on his best ‘giving evidence’ voice.”At O835hrs this morning, a woman was seen to enter the police station…….” He stopped himself. “If I didn’t know better,” he thought, “I could have sworn I didn’t pronounce the vowels in the word hours.” “This has gone far enough.” He continued in a normal voice. “A young woman has made a very serious complaint against you.”

“It couldn’t have been me. What woman?” It was Timkins who was confused this time.

“The young woman alleges that you tried to drag her into a car this morning, as she was waiting for a bus in Upper South Street at approximately 0820.” Sergeant George had to blurt the last of this little speech out in rather a hurry, he could see that Wilson was getting ready to say something and he felt he had to silence him quickly with a stern look.

Timkins also noticed the junior C.I.D man’s deep breath and was just as eager to staunch the flow of rhetoric.”But I was just offering her a lift.”

“I see.” Wilson started to say, but was cut short by another look.

“I see.” George carried on for him. “I see, so you’re in the habit of grabbing young ladies in the street and offering them lifts in your car are you?”

George’s sarcasm was starting to make another appearance. He could feel some of his old confidence coming back to him.

“But I know her.” Timkins almost whined. This was all getting very tiring. “In any case, it wasn’t my car.”

“So it was a stolen car was it?” They had nearly succeeded in forgetting that Wilson was there. This time he got that look from both of them.

“I was in a taxi.” The bankman quickly explained. “I couldn’t get my car to start this morning, and it made me late so I went back indoors and rang for a cab.” He looked at two blank faces. They obviously wanted more, so he gave it to them. “What on earth did you think I was going to do with the driver while I was raping her, sell him a ticket or something?”

“I don’t think you should be making a joke of all this sir.” George said with some dignity. “This is after all a police investigation.”

“Well you started it Sergeant.” Thirty love, thought a smug John Timkins looking in the direction of the younger policeman.

“But why did you lean out of the cab and touch her arm. If you know her and she hadn’t realise who was in the taxi, why didn’t you just call her by her name?” Timkins had to admit the sergeant could put a very reasonable question. And that must have been it. “I don’t know her name,” he replied. “I only know her as the daughter of one of the bank’s long standing customers.”

“That must be the same bank that I use. They like to keep you standing around for ages.” Wilson felt that it was time he said something.

“Shut up Wilson.” But George said it without too much venom. His thoughts were elsewhere. The word daughter had struck a chord somewhere in the back of his mind. Now that the cogs were whirring his brain was off in unstoppable motion. Grinding away until it had turned up the right answer, and popped it into his head. “She’s bloody pregnant.” All the pieces dropped into place for George, it all made sense in one blinding flash. However, as George had bellowed the last three words it was making less and less sense to the other two peoplein the room.

“Is she?” Spluttered the surprised Timkins. “I mean, what if she is?” He dug himself in a little deeper. “It’s not against the law, not if she gave her consent. Or I at least had thought she had given it.”

“So it was aggravated rape!” Wilson, obviously upset by his mentor’s outburst, had gotten this case confused with yesterday’s vicious burglary.

“AGGRAVATED RAPE, AGGRAVATED RAPE???” Timkins could hardly believe his ears. “Aggravated rape, is there any other kind?” He decided to rub it in. “How in the world do you set out to rape someone without them getting aggravated?” The sergeant, sitting with his head in his hands, looked like a man ready to admit defeat. Timkins decided to finish him off. “Do you walk up to someone on the street and say excuse me do you mind awfully if I rape you? And she has to look at her watch in a bored fashion and say no I don’t mind at all, as long as you don’t mind if I finish my book while you’re doing it?”

By this time George had recovered himself again. At least enough to murmur, “I’m sorry, I was miles away.”

“So was I.” Added Wilson.

“I wish I damn well was.” Said Timkins, with real feeling. “Anyway, how did you think she knew where to send you to arrest me, as she must have done? I’m afraid that with the best will in the world I can’t imagine that you found me on your own.” Both men looked at Wilson, who was busy studying his shoes. He could see a look of total despair come into the sergeant’s face. A sudden wave of compassion over came him, but it didn’t stop him adding. “For Christ’s sake, I don’t go around dishing out cards you know. John Timkins Esq, Banker and Rapist.”

“I’m sorry.” Said George. “It’s obviously a case of mistaken identity.” He’d had enough. “Or at least, one of mistaken intent.” He’d had enough of this sarcastic little man, enough of this idiot Wilson and enough of work for one day. If he hurried he could still catch Judy before she left for college and maybe, just maybe he can make some sense of the mess back home which had completely slipped him by. “Huh, some detective you turned out to be Harold.” He thought.

“I’m sorry.” Said George again, this time opening the door wide to allow the irate little man his freedom. “You were only trying to do the decent thing.” “I’m very sorry, but it’s been a very bad day, you see.” And it was still only 0958.

The End

The dirty bus coughed and spluttered it’s way up to the top of the hill, and into George’s estate. At the grimy bus stop it disgorged it’s tired passengers as if vomiting the spent workforce. Each to go their own little way, to their own little homes and their own little lives.

George turned the corner, second on the right, into his own street, third house on the left. He came to a sudden halt. Staring in disbelief at the side wall of his home. There, written in huge letters, in an unknown hand stood the words “I REGRET THIS,” and then …nothing else. No resolving conclusion to the statement. No insightful, meaningful ending to the sentence. It was just left, hanging there.

“Perhaps whoever wrote this ran out of paint and went to buy some more?” thought George. “If I wait awhile maybe they will comeback and finish it?” his inner voice told him. “Then again maybe it is finished.” “Could there be some hidden meaning?” he asked himself. He was asking himself more and more these days, just a symptom of living alone he guessed.

Maybe the “THIS,” is the house. “Could the author be questioning his decision to buy a property in such a run-down neighbourhood.” “Could he, or indeed she, have written the first letter and then wondered why they were defacing someone else’s home?”

They could at least have included some washing instructions. “I could just take the can of white paint out of the shed and obliterate the scrawl.” “Or would that just give them a fresh page for more of their social commentary?”

A thought struck George as he analysed the alternatives, reading what was written there and what was not.

“I REGRET THIS,” and then nothing. Perhaps they regret nothing. As far as the writer is concerned the message is complete.

Another picture prompt piece from my English GCSE course. Any observations anybody?

Alice laughed. The sand tickled as it trickled through her toes. She loved the beach in winter, when the holidaymakers had all gone home, she felt the beach was all hers and hers alone. Of course, if it was hers she would let Jo share it. They ran along the strand as the waves lapped the shore. The waves that seemed to be getting braver by the minute, under the grey cheerless sky. Perhaps it was just the wind rather than the tide, the same wind that played with the hair of both girls, leaving them in tattered knots and causing the girls to tug tresses from their mouths and eyes.

“Wait, slow down.” shouted Jo into the noisy roaring, chill wind.

“Come on, keep up slowcoach.” Alice cried back to her as she raced ahead. Jo was one of Alice’s friends, probably her best friend, although Alice had lots of friends. Some real and some not so. Alice was reasonably certain that Jo was one of the real ones. But of course, one could never be absolutely sure.

Jo was in many ways the opposite of Alice. She had dark hair while Alice’s hair was blond, it had to be of course, just like in the book. How had her parents known? Neither of them had blond hair, so why had they thought to name her after the character of a children’s book who is almost as famous for being blonde, as she is for having the kind of adventures that usually require some form of narcotic. It was a mystery to Alice, and one that she often pondered long and hard. As for the look of them the girls could scarcely be more different, Alice a lithe and slender girly girl. Almost willowy in stature and Jo who, not to be unkind had a centre of gravity much closer to the ground, and could best be described as a ball of dough waiting to be kneaded and teased into human shape by some kindly celestial baker. Maybe one day.

The two hurtled along the deserted beach, each in their own fashion. The tall red and white lighthouse loomed slightly ahead of them and off to their right. The cliffs to their left bleached white like the carcass of some gigantic sea creature, washed up long ago and forgotten by the feckless tide.

The girls were fast approaching the end of the beach, where they knew was hidden an isolated bay that only the hardiest of visitors found, even in the busy summer season. Over the sharp jagged rocks with their gift of green fur given by the sea, they clambered gingerly. Bare feet sliding on the mossy surface and just beneath the suface were the sharp edges that deterred so many casual adventurers. And kept the bay for the chosen few who knew what delights were to be found on the other side of the headland.

“Please let me get my breath back, won’t you?” panted Jo, “are you sure it’s safe?” she continued. “It looks to me as if the tide is coming in and you know if we climb round into the bay there is only one way in and one way out again.” A fear and dread had suddenly crept over her. Jo didn’t really do premonitions so Alice thought it was ok to carry on.

They mounted the rocks and rounded the part of the cliff that twice a day was battered by the relentless sea. Stretched before them was a slice of golden sand, almost a perfect scimitar shape. It ran for hundreds of yards until it met it’s end with another even bigger promontory of cliff that stood out so far into the channel, that it’s feet were permanently wet.

On this side of the head the rocks were smaller and nowhere near as sharp and dangerous. Alice and Jo made their way to the beach, at last this was their own part of the coastline, on all the previous occasions they had been here, they had never seen another soul. They wandered up and down collecting shells and poking into interesting looking pools. Searching for other signs of life, so as not to feel so lonely. A tiny crab, dislodged by the invading stick, scuttled off to find a safer hiding place.

Alice heard a gasp from behind her.

“Look!” cried Jo. “The sea, it’s covering the rocks and cutting us off.”

A spume of white dashed against the very cliff they had negotiated not half an hour ago.

“We will have to wait here for the tide to go back out again,” said an ever-practical Alice. “It won’t take too long, and at least it’s not raining.”

Right on cue the heavens opened. The rain fell in sheets. And pillow cases and Eiderdowns. The girls looked around in search of shelter and were soon soaked to the skin. Behind a large piece of fallen chalk they found an opening, surprisingly large and easily big enough for them both to climb into. Inside the cave they peered out at the lashing rain. The sea was coming in quickly. It was fast approaching the mouth of their little sanctuary. Soon it would be soaking their feet. Helping each other in turn they mounted a small shelf that ran along one wall of the cave. Barely a foot across they perched precariously, hoping the sea would not rise too high and sweep them off.

In the cavemouth the sea roared angrily. Echoed from the walls and beat them about the ears as if scolding them like a helpless but gratefully relived parent.

At first faintly, then growing louder, came the sound of a small outboard motor. Putt-putting towards them, tossed by the thrashing waves. A voice carried to them in their hiding place by the same wind they were trying desperately to avoid, “HELLO,” it hollered in an effort to do battle with the elements.

“Hello, this is the coastguard. “It explained. “Where are you?” “Can you hear me?”

Cupping their mouths with their hands to defeat the rain they answered in disbelief “Here in the cave.” The small brave vessel appeared in the opening and the tiny prow had just enough room to push its nose inside the cave.

“Give me your hands,” said the sailor turned saviour. “I got worried when I saw you rounding the Head from the clifftop in my binoculars and when I didn’t see you come back out of the bay before the tide turned, I thought I should come to the rescue.”

A wet but grateful Alice just sat in the boat and shivered. “It’s a very small boat but then there is only one of you.”

In the far off distance the bells ring midnight and reverberate off the cold night air, as if it were a solid thing. I think back to this time last year. Where did the time go? Where did all those past good intentions disappear to? Where is all that resolve, did it just dissolve? Is that iron will gone? Has it rusted to nothing? Washed over and eroded by the rivers of time and the relentless drudgery of day to day existence?

“I’ll start tomorrow”, you tell yourself.

It’s always better to start these things on a weekend, slash new week, slash at the end of the month, slash when I get paid. Slash, slash, slash go the pages of the calendar. Falling away as in some old heavy-handed movie, trying to illustrate the passage of time. An abstract concept at best, a human construct to explain the unexplainable. An attempt to rationalise the total waste suffered by the majority of humans, as they live their lives. Unassuming and unfulfilling. Where did it go? “Well that was your life, done and dusted, who’s next?” You can imagine the dismissal and look of distain on judgement day. God, if she does exist, must be getting pretty pissed off by now. “I gave you a life, and free will, and what have you done with it?” The exasperation echoing down the eons.

When I was younger, I used to imagine all the things I would achieve. All the riches I would earn. The promise was almost palpable. My dreams were the stuff of legend. There was nothing I couldn’t do if I put my mind to it. Oh well, just two letters and an apostrophe out. Some sixty years on and I still haven’t become a fit Adonis with a six pack like a jelly mould. I still can’t speak fluent Spanish. I still cannot for the life of me knock out a tune on the alto sax. Most disappointingly of all I’m also no closer to being financially independent. New year’s resolutions would seem to be the adult version of our childish dreams and ambitions. But don’t let them fool you, we are still no closer to realising the foolishly high expectations we set ourselves each year. It’s just that our targets are, on the surface of it at least, more attainable. We only ever resolve to do things that are, or should be, well within our grasp. So, our failure to meet just one of these targets over the decades worth of new year’s eves’ that have passed, makes me begin to question the need to continue this farce.

Consequentially, I will from this year forth retire myself from the race to achieve the unachievable. Besides, once you leave your sixth decade behind what is the point of planning a whole year ahead? You’re just setting yourself up for the fall. No, when I reach that final gasp of air, at least I will be bowing out with nothing left undone. Nothing left on my to do list but fold my hands upon my chest, to make it easier for the undertaker.

And then we will see for whom the bells toll.