Floored all over again

We've not been sitting around doing nothing while all this work's been going on in the garden. Well, *I* have, but downstairs in the new new lounge our Floormeister has been getting on with laying another tranche of American White Oak flooring, similar to what we had laid before refitting the kitchen last year.

He was quicker this time (smaller area; simpler job) and this is the result:

It still looks a bit like a furniture show room in there, since the newly sold parental dining room suite won't be collected until Sunday, and it echoes like a bastard with all the hard surfaces and no soft furnishings, but it now definitely looks the part.

New TV cabinet arrives on Monday, along with the plumber to fit the replacement radiator that was delivered a couple of days ago (fingers crossed this one won't leak), followed in short order by the new TV (Tuesday). We still haven't decided on what seating we want in there, so for now we're going to have to manhandle our existing sofa from old lounge to new. That'll be fun. It had to be taken apart to get it in (both arms off), so we'll have to have a repeat performance to get it out again.

Changes to the Landscape

It's been a long time coming. Procrastination before approaching a landscaping company, changes to the design, holiday absences for everyone concerned (us, the designer, the landscaper) none of which were coordinated, and enforced delays on account of the bad weather, but finally, today, work started on what will be a radical change to our back garden.

It began like this:

At the beginning of October there were still leaves on the trees and the grass, in anticipation of being ripped up any time soon, hadn't been cut for several weeks. The old ratty hydrangea was still gamely hanging on to some fading blooms, but the camellia bush and most of the crocosmia had already been collected by a grateful neighbour.

The conservatory was long gone, having been demolished by the crew who fitted our bifold doors back in June, leaving behind a rather odd fragment of deck that was soon to meet its maker. Well, our neighbour actually, who requested it so that she can make planters out of it.

The site where the old garage stood has been a dumping ground ever since it was taken down in June 2009. It had also become extremely overgrown with brambles, some as thick as my wrist (I kid you not) which wove in and out of the flowering currant and around the bits of old skirting board and whatnot that littered the area. You can also see the rotting remains of the garden benches created from railway sleepers by the previous owners.

So, 8am last Wednesday morning dawned (just) and within three-and-a-half hours a team of three guys had chain-sawed everything flat, cleared the site, taken down the back wall and were making a start with the side wall:

A couple of dozen lengths of tannelised decking framework rested on a pair of trestles and all in all the site was unrecognisable from what it had been the day before. I was already well impressed with progress, but the following day things reached a whole new level with the arrival of a little yellow digger :0)

With the aid of this and the dumpy little turf cutter (just visible at the bottom of the photograph), the entire bottom half of the garden was stripped down to mud and all remaining tree stumps and large bushes removed. The digger then created trenches for the footings of the replacement walls and path. They also dug out the pond, being careful to save all of the rich loam that covered the whole site to a depth of... oooh... at least half an inch.

On Friday, the team changed slightly and split into sub-teams. Joined by a deck construction expert, two of them set to work creating the foundation framework for our new curved deck, while the third concentrated on building walls. By the end of the week the new deck was already taking shape with the framework in place for the apron and one of the steps emerging from the front.

What happened on November 14?

Apart from our garden project starting, that is, of which more in a later post.

No, I'm talking about the extraordinary explosion in my blog activity. Page views to be precise.

I haven't really paid much attention to this in the past. I know who my main readers are (hi people! Kiss kiss) and I also get a bit of passing traffic, but I'm never going to be in anyone's "top ten" blog list, or make enough to live on from the revenue generated by any click-throughs on my ads, so I only visit the overview and stats pages two or three times a year out of interest.

However, when I started the 100 Theme Writing Challenge, I started to check on the stats more frequently. I was interested in whether having some free story telling would drive my visitor count up. And it did, a bit. It went from a daily average somewhere in the high 20s, to hovering in the high 40s/low 50s most days, with a small domed peak at weekends when occasional readers caught up. This would occasionally reach into the upper 60s. Then yesterday, this happened

I did a bit of a double take to be honest. At first glance it looked like most of my readers had evaporated. Then I noticed the scale and realised Blogger had adjusted the graph to cope with the new peak. 293 page views in a single day.

I have no idea what happened. Is it one new reader (hello!) catching up with several months of posts? A handful of people all catching up with a slightly smaller backlog, but all at once? Or a large number of people attracted by some unknown publicity all paying me a visit and reading a couple of pages each? I just don't know. But whoever you are... don't go! Pull up a chair. Sometimes it gets quite interesting around here :0) Especially if you like decorating.

The only inkling I have about what caused that enormous spike is that I had recently advertised War of Nutrition on a "local interest" Facebook page. But I only posted that Amazon link, so anyone spotting it would have had to click through several pages or do some research to find this blog. I can't believe 293 people all did that! Weird. It's back to normal now though, as you can tell from the graph.

In a pickle

It occurred to me just yesterday, having written recently about the "progress" we've made with the house this year, that if you were to look at it from one perspective we've only really got one room that can be classed as "finished."

The perpective I'm talking about is having a room decorated, furnished, and laid out in a way you'd be happy to live with... well... forever.

So the room that's done is: the kitchen. It was completed as near to the date of that post as makes no difference, is kitted out pretty much with all the gadgets we need, is in daily use as a kitchen, and doesn't contain any extraneous furniture or shite that really belongs somewhere else.

The same cannot be said for ANY other room at the moment:

• Rear reception room. Erstwhile dining room, currently undergoing refurbishment as a living room, but finishing that project has been delayed by a postponed flooring installation, a leak in the new radiator requiring replacement, and we haven't chosen any new furnishings or entertainment equipment for it yet.
• Front reception room. Currently the living room, but when the new living room is complete will be flipped into a dining room, therefore requiring carpet removal and another new oak floor installation
• Hall. Currently a storage space for one of the sideboards. And the radiator cover needs attaching to the wall
• Garden. Reconstruction project starts TODAY!!
• Front small bedroom. Never decorated since two months after we moved in, requires plaster reskim and decoration, plus possible fitted wardrobes and bed replacement.
• Front large bedroom. Currently without any recognisable form of bedroom furniture since the old lot was sold on eBay in August and since then we've had all our clothes in cardboard "removals" wardrobes and the contents of bedside cabinets in plastic crates, pending the new handmade bedroom furniture which won't arrive until next month.
• Rear bedroom/study. Decorated and furnished, but currently home to a huge assortment of packing crates storing things to be sold on eBay, and cardboard boxes in which to parcel them up and send them off when they ARE sold.
• Bathroom. Second room to be refurbished back in 2007, we were never really happy with the result and have recently decided to do it all over again (at least in part) to get it right.
• Attic room. Still only half decorated, now two years since it was completed.

We have often said we're glad we didn't tackle the whole house at once, like our near neighbours who have basically been living in a building site for at least as long as we've lived here. But we're not that much better ourselves when you think about it!

Another family heirloom bites the dust

It's almost eighteen months since I first "got serious" about shifting our old tat through the auspices of eBay. A few months less than that since I blogged about it. In that year and a half I've sold things from as small as an enamel lapel badge to as large as an entire bedroom suite comprising super-king sleigh bed (with mattress), triple wardrobe, five-drawer chest and two three-drawer bedside tables. That went to a hotel owner in Staffordshire who, in the end, was glad I'd persuaded him to come in a Luton van. He admitted he would never have got it all on the trailer he had been intending to come with.

Some of the items I've been glad to see the back of. Some of the really bad DVDs we've bought over the years, and many of the things mentioned on that blog post linked above. Things that have hung around for years not being used and never likely to be.

Some things I've had to let go with a twinge of regret. Mostly stuff that has been part of my life since childhood, but which I had to reluctantly conclude there was absolutely no point hanging on to. The Kodascope Eight Model 30 vintage cine projector that the whole family used to gather around to watch holiday footage, interspersed with reels from my Dad's small collection of B&W Felix the Cat cartoons. When I opened up its old wooden box and that familiar smell hit me, all the memories came flooding back. But hey, I don't need the object to have the memories, and it went to someone who will actually use it.

Similarly with my Mum's old Singer sewing machine. Not something I had any emotional attachment to ;0) but I was delighted that it went to a guy in the Netherlands who refurbishes them and passes them on to retired ladies who are keen on quilting. Once again something that had sat unused under Mum's sideboard for 25 years gets a new lease of life.

And since I've arrived through a roundabout route at the sideboard, it's time to reveal that it is that very sideboard, along with its matching dining table and four chairs, that is the subject of this post. For it too was sold, this weekend just past.

Solid walnut. Yes, solid, not veneer as suggested by the plonker from an auction house who came round to value it and tried to make out it was veneered because he could see a join in the top. Idiot. That's where the wood itself is jointed by the craftsmen whose workshop I visited, aged 13 or 14, to see the dining room suite being made. It was my Dad's gift for attaining his majority - 21 years with the same firm.

Walnut's not "in vogue" at the moment though, and the whole thing was both too small for our needs and too small for the room it would live in, not to mention having suffered from various forms of neglect over the years. It would take an expert, an expensive expert, to return the suite to the soft matte patina with which it originally arrived from the makers. It lived 40 years in clouds of cigarette smoke, was polished with the wrong kind of polish, suffered water damage when someone attempted to wash off the smoke residue (and left a tea-tray sitting on a damp patch), and was constantly exposed to sunlight and curtain movement on one corner, so all in all it was in a pretty sorry state.

And we don't like the style much either. Offspring never do like the style of their parents, do they? I'm no exception. So it joined the ranks of eBay sales. 228 of them since May 2011. Unfortunately we were just half an hour too late returning from our Sunday lunch with friends to arrange a pick up for that day, so we have to hang on to it for another two weeks, which in turn means our flooring guy will have to work around it.

The Acid Test

Hard to believe that it will soon be three years since we first installed our BiUbe aquarium. During those intervening years, we've added to the shoal of cherry barbs to replace some that died, and they've been pretty successful in adding to their shoal themselves, too. In fact since that first spate of fry, we've had two more separate birthing occasions, so it's now entirely possible that we're on our third generation of fish bred solely in our tank.

We branched out into ocellated barbs about 18 months ago too, just for a bit of variety, but as yet there's no sign of them breeding. We're not even sure if there's a gender mix among those five fish to be honest.

Anyway for the whole of those three years I've kept up with my regular water tests - ammonium, nitrite, nitrate and pH - and on those rare occasions when anything has appeared to be going awry in the water quality department, I've been able to address the issue fairly quickly. But among all those tests one - the pH test - has never varied more than 0.5pH from neutral. Until about a month ago when, for the first time ever, the test came out something other than green. It was yellow - the water had become very slightly acidic.

I have no idea why; we haven't changed our routine at all. Not the food, or the water treatment, or the frequency of filter changes. If anything the gravel bed was cleaner than it has sometimes been, and stock levels hadn't changed since those ocellated barbs were introduced, so I was at a loss to explain it. However, since barbs like their water somewhere in the range pH6.0 - 8.0, I wasn't worried. Until, that is, I did another test last Sunday. For one reason or another I hadn't tested the water for four weeks (I used to do the tests every week but when the results don't change from one week to the next for over two years, it's easy to relax the schedule a bit) and on Sunday the pH test came up orange.

That's pH 5.5. Yikes.

Fish didn't seem too bothered. A little more active, if anything, which apparently is normal at lower pH, but not distressed. And another tiny Kevin appeared a week or so back, so it can't be THAT bad. Can it?

Anyway after some rapid Internet research I decided ocean rock was the way forward. Our water is so soft that it doesn't register on a KH test at all, so attempting to correct the pH with chemicals would have been tricky (and I don't like that approach anyway). So off I went in search of a chunk of ocean rock, boiled it and baked it for the prescribed times, let it cool and with some trepidation, dropped it in.

A day later the pH test colour had relaxed from orange to yellow, and 24 hours after that it was lime green, so we're at something like pH 6.5-7.0 now, and it's taken two days to make that change. Which is good, because while fish can adapt well to different pH levels, what they don't like is RAPID changes in pH. I'll be doing another test tomorrow to check the tank hasn't pivoted over to alkalinity, but with luck I'll be able to leave the rock in there permanently. The extra minerals will act as an acidity buffer and help to keep things on an even keel from now on.

Merge In Turn

Coming to the final week or so of the improvements at J3 of the M60, which ordinarily I would use twice a day ferrying my good lady to and from her office. For the duration of the work I've been avoiding it in the evenings in favour of the A34 since the tailback has often filled the anticlockwise slip road right back to the motorway (about a mile), but I couldn't avoid it on Monday.

I noticed the contractors had put up "Please Merge In Turn" signs to encourage gentlemanly practice among drivers approaching from both clockwise and anticlockwise slip roads (which at the moment both feed into a single lane) and on the southerly approach from the A34 (ditto). Once complete, both of these flows of traffic will have three lanes available so you can see how much better it will be. Eventually.

But the appearance of these signs set me thinking (again) about something that has always perplexed (annoyed) me about British drivers. Whenever a road reduces in lanes, from 3 to 2, or 2 to 1, they seem hell bent on dividing into two warring camps. One lot will move into the open lane often several miles back, despite any long queue, and sit there in their righteousness inching forwards every few seconds. The other lot, perceiving that the soon-to-be closed lane has been totally vacated by the first lot, will stay in that lane until the last minute, and then attempt to cut in. At which point the righteousness of the first lot boils over into righteous indignation as they hog the bumper of the car in front to freeze out any car wanting to "push in."

This behaviour is a constant source of amusement to me, on those days where I'm in an expansive, forgiving mood. And annoyance when I'm not feeling so full of the milk of human kindness. My question - one of my questions - to the drivers in the first group is: at what point do you decide that you should abandon the unoccupied road in front of you in favour of a lengthy, barely moving queue? Which distance would you consider socially acceptable? 200 metres? 500? A mile? Two miles? And what good do you think it does to sit queuing in one lane when there's a totally empty lane going to waste immediately to your left, or right?

What is so magical about the appearance of a "Please Merge In Turn" sign that lights up the lightbulb in your head and makes you realise that it makes more sense for everyone to use as many lanes as possible, for as long as possible, and then merge in turn at the point where one lane disappears. Not to mention being a fairer and less stressful alternative.

Is it embarrassment that makes you try to stop drivers merging late from the other lane? A realisation that you too could have "pushed" to the front and not wasted all that time queuing? Or a determination to force the other person, even if only for one more car length, to "waste" a fraction of the time that you've wasted in your queue? Can't you see that merging in turn means no-one gets an unfair advantage, or disadvantage, over anyone else?

As someone aptly commented the other day: you are the result of 4 billion years of evolution. Fucking act like it.

New New Lounge

I threatened to return to decorating tales once the 100 Themes Writing Challenge was done, so this is me making good on that threat.

At the start of the year we decided to try and make 2012 the year the house was "finished." Although we're going to miss that target by a small margin, we have made amazing progress. The current project (which has been going on, unbelievably, longer than the aforementioned Challenge) is now nearing completion, with only a radiator to fit (due this coming Friday), new oak floor to lay (originally planned for the following Monday but now put back a week - to the 19th November - by the fitter) and some furniture to find, but we won't let the lack of new furniture prevent us from occupying what has become known as the "new new lounge" once construction and decor are complete.

"New new lounge"? Yes, well we did use this room as a lounge when we first moved in, but after suffering heat exhaustion during the summer of 2007 we decided to swap the lounge and dining room around, and moved into what was then the "new lounge" in August 2008.

But, you know, nothing ever stands still in the madcap world of the Beresfords. We've enjoydured four winters in that (North-facing) lounge, and now decided that, after all, we'd like it a little bit warmer. Since the main source of the infernal heat in the South Lounge (the polycarbonate-roofed conservatory) has now been demolished:

...and replaced with some nice new, double-glazed, argon-filled bi-fold doors, this room should hopefully be a lot cooler in summer. The scabby looking space where the conservatory once stood, along with the old decking to the left, is all due to be spiffed up once our Totally Fabulous Garden Design begins to be realised (another start date that has had to be put back, this time on account of garden peeps being delayed on other projects by the inclement weather). On the other side of those bifold doors, what was the dining room...

... has been transformed over the past five months (yes, it's been a long project, mainly because we started with the bifold door replacement and then arranged just about every other removal/ installation/ trade piecemeal thereafter) into its current state - new fireplace, old radiator stripped out, additional sockets and aerial points installed, plasterwork reskimmed, every surface painted (walls with Dulux Chic Shadow), so it currently looks like this:

with, as I said, the floor still to be replaced with lovely, smooth, draught-free American White Oak. Nearly there!

100 Themes Writing Challenge - Lessons Learned

So there you have it. 100 days; 100 themes; 100 posts. Some of them linked (quite pleased with the way I managed to do that, and how they've turned out), some of them work better than others (yes, there are a few turkeys) but in a way it's turned out to be a bit like photography. Professional photographers take hundreds of shots to guarantee capturing the one, or two that really pop. Professional writers write hundreds of pieces (and/or go through hundreds of edits) and only really hit the mark a few times (unless they're geniuses).

And remember none of those 100 pieces I've written in the days since July 28 have been edited. They're all first draft, written off the cuff, with only the vaguest notion of what I was going to write about at the beginning and often including ideas that dropped into my head as I was writing.

So there's lesson 1: running out of steam, or full steam ahead?
Without a firm writing plan it's easy to dry up, even in half an hour! You feel as though there's no mileage left in the idea, or maybe you've taken it down a dead end, or it wasn't such a great idea in the first place. But whatever the idea was, it must have felt good enough to write about to start with. So more time spent plotting would (maybe) have uncovered the dead ends and the dross. On the other hand - again maybe - you just have to try writing it out to prove that it doesn't work so well.

And then just occasionally I'd hit on an idea that felt as though I could keep writing MUCH longer than half an hour. It didn't take long for me to get a feel for 30 minutes, which is why some of the early stories stop in mid sentence but later on I was able to bring them to a satisfying (if cliff-hangery) conclusion. On a handful of occasions I reached this point after much less than 30 minutes, and if this happened I didn't force it.

Lesson 2: The more you write, the more you want to write
I had a particular reason for wanting to get ahead of my schedule - I was away for the last week of October/first two days of November, so I needed at least 5 posts in hand and, because this came right at the end of the challenge I wanted the tail-end posts done too, so I didn't have to come home exhausted from a week in London and have to sit right down and do another two posts. So I needed to be ahead of the game by seven days, but what I found as I wrote those extra posts was how easy it was to do two a day rather than one. Some days three in one day. By the time I wrote post #100, I was 21 days ahead. And on (notional) day #101, with no prompt, I quite missed the impetus of "having" to write. Which brings us on to lesson 3...

Lesson 3 (a good one for us procrastinators): JFDI
Having not only a pre-defined theme but also the public declaration, or commitment, to write something every day is a great enabler. Out of the ~80 days I actually spent writing I can remember less than half-a-dozen when I really "didn't feel like it." Ordinarily on days like that I wouldn't have bothered, but I felt the need to keep up - with the momentum and my growing stash of scheduled posts - so I made a start with the next theme and after only a few minutes I would usually find myself getting into it. Making a start is the thing.

Since writing post #100, I've given myself a break. Legitimately I feel -- we all need some time off even from the things we love doing -- but even so this "lessons learned" post has been waiting 10 days to be written. No impetus now, see? So before I fall back into my old habits of spending days on end not writing anything, I will have to come up with another trick to get me started every day. I've proved how easy it is to write a lot (see Lesson #4) with even only a short commitment of time, now all I need is a reason - a good enough reason - to do it. I don't have an editor-imposed deadline, or an agent-imposed publication target. It has to come from me.

Lesson 4: 100 days worth of word count
Quite a revelation this. I wasn't but a week or so into the challenge when it occurred to me (OK, sometimes I can be a bit slow) that it would be a good idea to keep track of how much I was writing. Regular readers will not be surprised to read that I graphed this up:

Allowing time for the average to establish itself, it's clear that as I got into my stride, my average word count increased through the challenge, ending up at 720 words for half an hour's writing. That's overall -- from all 100 posts.

The fact that I became more prolific, word-wise, over the 100 themes is even more clearly demonstrated by a graph of a sliding 10-day average word count:

As you would expect this line bounces around a lot more, but shows an even clearer increase in my output in the last quartile, peaking on the last day at an average of 897 words for the previous ten days.

Obviously, it's not all about the numbers. But leaving everything else aside for the moment, the lesson here is that, with only half an hour's effort per day, in 100 days I could have the equivalent of the first draft of a novel. War of Nutrition is about 80,000 words. That's 800 words a day for 100 days - easily what I was achieving in the latter half of my challenge. Bringing back all that stuff I left aside before, it would still need plotting, character development, editing, and all those good things. I'm not pretending anyone, least of all me, could just sit down and write a novel in half an hour a day for 100 days (although, you know, many tens of thousands of people are attempting to do just that this month, if they're taking part in NaNoWriMo). But it certainly shouldn't take anywhere near seven years ;0)

Lesson 5: You can write something about anything
Finally, although as I mentioned earlier what I wrote for some themes worked better than others, it's obviously possible to write on any given topic. Even those you wouldn't normally consider writing about. Some will be shorter, some not good enough to keep, but there'll be some hidden gems in there too. Among my 100 I had a fair crop of rough diamonds. To be sure they would need polishing and developing if I were to (for instance) include them in a collection of short stories, but when I started this back in July I didn't have anything. Now I have starting points for at least a dozen strong stories.

100TWC - Day 100: Endings

[ this post is a continuation of the story begun in "Introductions" earlier in the writing challenge ]

"Steven? It is Steven, isn't it?"
"Yes."

Steven looked puzzled, in that way people have when trying to put a name to a face. Like their brain is so occupied with the task it forgets to hold any kind of expression in the facial muscles and they adopt a default position which usually looks either vague or cross.

"Gerald, is it?"
"Nigel."
"Ah yes, of course. Nigel. And we met...?"
"At her book launch. Seems impossible to believe it was only nine months ago, give or take. And now--"

He stared at the coffin lying under a scarlet velvet blanket at the other end of the chapel. His eyes widened.

"Scarlet? Hardly appropriate, is it?"
"Appropriate? What could be more appropriate! You did read her book did you? Or are you just another one of those hangers-on?"
"Oh, I see. Scarlet as in Scarlette. Scarlette Mendellsohn. Well, I suppose that clears up any debate about whether her heroine had an autobiographical element."
"Good grief," exclaimed Steven, tossing his head. "It does nothing of the sort. Look here, what are you doing here? Are you related, or something? I find it hard to believe she would have anyone so... obtuse... as a friend."
"No, not related. I did mention it when we last met, but I could hardly expect you to remember. We worked together on a magazine once. Fellow writers. Kept in touch. Occasionally."
"So you just thought you'd come along to see off a rival, did you?"

Nigel took a step back.

"I don't know why you're being so aggressive. This is a funeral, for God's sake. I remember you now. You were the same at the launch. I thought at first it was nerves, or you didn't like crowds, or something like that. But you're just an obnoxious twerp really aren't you?"
"Yes, it is a funeral. So you might take your own advice and relax a bit. I'm sorry if my attempt at humour fell on stony ground. It does get me into trouble more often that not. To my mind a funeral's exactly the right place for black comedy."
"Well, really!"
"Oh don't get all upset. She wouldn't want that. What do you think that scarlet blanket is all about. It's not just an homage to her heroine, who she invested with every strength she aspired to in life. It's a statement. A declaration that today is not about mourning, it's about celebrating."
"Celebrating her life? How predictable."
"Not just her life. Ours. The fact that life goes on."
"In the midst of life we are in death?"
"It's more the other way round. Even though we're surrounded by death, we're all still alive. Yes, we'll all miss her, of course we will. Some more than others," Steven said, looking sharply at Nigel, "but we shouldn't get lost in grief when there's so much to be grateful for."
"Like what?"
"Are you serious? Look around! To take one obvious example: her book. She's left that for us. It's full of life lessons you know, if you could but read between the lines."
"I haven't."
"I didn't think you had."
"No, read the book I meant. You asked me earlier if I'd read it. I haven't."
"Well you should."
"It's a bit late now."
"What for? You wouldn't be reading it to tell her what you thought."
"I probably wouldn't have done that anyway if I'm honest. I never really liked her writing when we worked together. I always found it a bit twee."
"Twee? Twee!?"
"Sorry, maybe it's just me."
"I'm pretty sure it is just you. Everyone we know loved her writing and took every opportunity to tell her so."
"That's nice."
"You don't sound convinced."
"Don't mind me. I have a particular sensitivity to sycophancy."
"Now who's being aggressive?"
"I'm not being aggressive, just stating a fact. I can smell it. Makes my nose itch to tell you the truth. Did you really like her writing?"
"Yes!"
"Really?"
"Well, not all of it maybe. But most of it was good."
"Most?"
"Well, some."
"How much?"
"Oh, all right. I hated it. But she was one of my best friends. I could hardly tell her the truth now, could I?"
"And exactly what gives you the right to call yourself one of her best friends if you couldn't tell her the plain truth?"
"It's only my opinion. Everyone else loves it!"
"Or they're all in the same boat as you. They hate it really, but they think you love it."
"Hardly matters now anyway, does it?"
"That depends very much on what you believe. Because if there's an after-life then she'll be up there right now, seething about the fact that you hated her writing and you never had the guts to tell her."
"I'm an atheist."
"And yet here you are, in church."
"It's expected."
"What is?"
"Coming to the funeral. Singing a few songs."
"Saying a few prayers."
"I mumble through that bit."
"I expect you mime to the songs too, do you?"

Steven blushed.

"Thought so. So you pretended you liked her book, pretend to sing and pray at her funeral. And you reckon you were her best friend. God help her, she's better off dead."

100TWC - Day 99: Friendship

This post has a lot of tags. It started off with more but I blew Blogger's limit. I didn't even know there was a limit! See, friendship touches so many areas of my life that Blogger can't cope. I'm half expecting it to seize up in the middle of this post. Let's see how we get on...

With the last post of my 100-day (aka 100-theme) writing challenge in sight, friendship has been much on my mind. I've had some really nice comments and feedback on here, but what's been even better, and more surprising, is the feedback I've had in real life. Whenever I've met up with friends at least one of them has commented on each occasion how much they've been enjoying the writing. I've been enjoying it too, of course, in fact that's one of the things I'll be including in the "lessons learned" follow-up post I'll be writing over the weekend. But it's one thing to gain enjoyment from something yourself, and totally another thing to find out that you've been giving enjoyment to others. Writing can be a solitary experience (all writers say this, at least those who speak/write/email to me) with -- often -- not much in the way of validation or appreciation, so it's really cool to hear the opinions of readers, which posts they liked best and why, etc.

I'd also be really interested to hear which ones folk thought didn't work out so well. To see how this matches my own feelings, for one thing, but also because it's all part of the learning experience. Just doing this stuff has helped me improve enormously, but really good feedback that mentions the bad as well as the good, is also a huge help.

I appear to have drifted off topic somewhat, so to drag it back to friendship: I've been lucky. When I talk about the times we have with mates -- the trips to the Lakes, weekends away, meals out (and in) -- the single most common response is how unusual it is for a bunch of guys to have kept a communal friendship going for so long. I'm not sure how rare it is in the great scheme of things, but those who comment on it seem to think it's pretty rare. Much more common for women to have a "girly group of friends"; less so for guys to have a "blokey group", apparently.

I've known for many years that social groups depend on key individuals to hold them together. I had an old colleagues network at one time -- around two dozen people who all used to work together in the same part of the organisation until one dark day a reorganisation came along and scattered us all across the company. Some left for other jobs, some took the opportunity for early retirement, most split up into three or four units, separated by geography, department and skill set. For several years after the split, we would get together two or three times a year (Christmas, obviously, and then one or two other meals or social events like bowling, walking, pub crawls). These were all marvellous events, well attended and very popular, but they all had a single individual -- the same guy in every case -- as the instigator. And then one day he stopped doing it. And none of us have ever met up again since that day.

The small group of friends I always refer to as my "Nottingham" mates (even though only two of them live there now) have strength in depth when it comes to organising get-togethers. It's not driven by just one of us. Once a few weeks, or a months, have gone by since our last meet, one or other of us will get in touch to set something else up. Often we don't need to do this, as we arrange it in advance at the previous one. It's a source of infinite variety, pleasure, amusement and fun to Nikki and I to be able to be part of this, as I'm sure anyone who is lucky enough to have their own strong ties of friendship will understand. Friends, they say, are the family you choose, and I would tag that with "lines I wish I'd written" if there was any space left in the tag list :0)

As I've discovered (and blogged about before), friends come at you from all parts of life, and another group that I've been blessed to reconnect with -- a few years back now -- has been the curry crew. We may only meet once a month, but I find myself looking forward to those evenings immensely. The conversation always flows, it's always stimulating and amusing, and the food is only the icing on the cake (if curry can be said to be any kind of icing).

I have a small number of friends that fall into another different category. All of the aforementioned might be classed as "regular" friends, and if such a term fits then this small number I'm talking about now might correspondingly be referred to as "irregular" friends. People who, over the years, have meandered in and out of my life seemingly at random, but who whenever we meet will pick up the threads of friendship (and even conversation!) and knit them back into something recognisable within a few hours. I met one such person outside a hotel once, a few years back. Having not seen him for more than five years, suddenly there he was, leaving a hotel at which I had arrived to meet someone else. We only had chance for twenty minutes frantic catching up and exchanging of current contact details, but it rekindled some long-buried memories and the spark of yet another friendship stretching back to the mid 1970s. We originally met at university and the names of other uni friends crop up regularly in the strangest places. Naturally the Internet is the perfect medium for this and over the years I've had the occasional email from old friends who've read this blog, or seen my profile on LinkedIn, or Friends Reunited, or found my website through Google.

There is a downside to this though. The reality of how easy it is to lose touch with people was brought home to me when I attended a school reunion about 15 years ago. It was such a strange experience I vowed never to attend one again (although I was tempted a couple of years back when they held a 25th -- or was it 30th? -- reunion). Not only the experience -- spending 3 or 4 hours in a function room with 50 people who at one time I saw on a daily basis but who, with one exception, I hadn't seen for 15 years -- but the aftermath. The impact of the realisation that I had completely lost touch with all of them, even those I'd thought of as close friends, really hit me surprisingly hard. I guess it just shows that friends are more than simply people you spend time with. Just as it's easy to be lonely in a crowded room, rubbing shoulders with a bunch of people every day for six years doesn't necessarily make them your friends. It knocked me for six a bit, did that.

100TWC - Day 98: Game

[ this post is a continuation of the story in "Advantage" from earlier in the writing challenge ]

The darkness closed in again as Tani left the clearing, as black as before and yet somehow not. By some trick of nature the canopy was thinner above the path that had presented itself to her. Light from the twin moons, which had risen during her meeting with the old elf, filtered down through the leaves and guided her steps. Behind her, the baying of The Pack was more muted. Either they had taken a wrong turn, or her more certain feet were carrying her away from them faster.

Without any warning she emerged from the forest onto a clifftop. Below her the river Mizar wound its sluggish way through the valley, a gossamer thin thread of life from this height. At first glance she thought the path had turned into a dead end. There was no way to cross the gorge. After a few seconds her eyes adjusted to the moonlight, brighter now without the leafy barrier of the forest. Directly in front of her, a ropeweed strand hung down from the branches of an enormous ancient yalloak tree. It was a perilous leap, but Tani knew she could make it. She had The Advantage.

She retraced her steps into the edge of the forest, turned, and with a deep breath ran as fast as she could to the edge. She judged her pace and the length of her stride perfectly, taking off from very lip of the escarpment and catching the ropeweed with both hands. Securing her feet in the weed's knotted tendrils she swung out across the gorge. Her swing did not have enough momentum to make the crossing at the first attempt, but she rocked the weed strand backwards and forwards until she felt it would go no higher, and leapt free at the opposite perigee.

The landing knocked the breath from her lungs but she rolled through it and continued running. This territory was completely unfamiliar to her, but The Hunt could never cross the gorge at that point. She had gained at least two hours on her pursuers. Even so, Tani didn't rest. On this side of the river the high ground was covered in short grass, cropped by the local population of herbivores. She wanted to make good time while the going was easy. In other few hours the alpha sun would be rising and she needed to make cover before then. Even with The Advantage on her side, there was no time to lose.

An hour later, Tani reached the bank of the river, which looped back around the bluff, picking up speed as it fell towards the sea. The moons had reached their zenith and the sky was a clear black. She filled a flask and sat on a rock to catch her breath, cooling her feet in the rushing water which sparkled silver in the moonlight. As it passed over the rocks the river burbled, almost as if it spoke to her. She cocked her head and listened intently to the sound. "Caradh mich," it said. "Caradh mich." With a sudden thrill Tani recognised the language of the elders. "Follow me," the river was saying.

She had no better notion of the right direction to take, and conscious that The Advantage was almost certainly behind this water-imparted knowledge Tani got to her feet and set off along the riverbank, keeping pace with the flow as it bobbed and gurgled over the rocks. Before long the water deepened and slowed, entering a wide sweeping bend to the left. As she rounded the bend Tani gasped as a small coracle came into view, moored at the water's edge. Looking around she could see no sign of its owner and figured in any case her need was greater. She stepped gingerly into the craft and cast off. Instantly the current caught her and set the boat spinning wildly. She caught hold of the gunwale just in time to stop herself being thrown into the water.

Before seasickness had chance to kick in, the coracle settled into midstream and stopped spinning. Tani had time to look around, watching the bank zip past. Surely The Hunt would never find her now? With no scent trail and so much distance between them?

A sudden roaring noise caught her attention. The small craft rounded another bend and Tani's eyes widened. The river pitched over a waterfall only a few hundred metres ahead and from her position in the boat she had no idea how far the drop was on the other side. She lay down in the boat and wedged herself against the sides, hanging on as tightly as she could as the waves increased in strength and the boat heaved and tossed to and fro. And then it was on her. With a sickening lurch the coracle flew out over the falls into the darkness. Her stomach flipped as the craft fell down, down into an abyss.

Tani sat up into bright white light. For a few seconds she was completely disorientated. She was lying on a couch in a warm, dry room, and someone was standing by her side removing an apparatus from her head.

"How was it Tan?"

Memory flooded back. The game. The most popular game on board IPC Prima Donna. The only way, according to her friends, to while away the long hours between sleeps as they crossed hyperspace to their new home on Cygnus Alpha 4.

100TWC - Day 97: Enthusiasm

[ this post is a continuation of the story "A Place to Belong" from earlier in the writing challenge ]

Vince came lolloping toward Carl across the springy green turf. He was wearing a lop-sided grin, made even more lop-sided by the tennis ball he carried in his mouth. He dropped the ball at Carl's feet.

"Woof!" he barked.

Carl grinned at the dog and ruffled his neck. "Again boy?"

He picked up the ball, slimy with Vince's slobber, and threw it high and hard across the garden. Cyn and Roger's garden was as impressive as their house. Even a Yankees baseball star would never have been able to pitch the ball over the tall copper beech hedge that separated it from the next plot. Vince gave another excited bark and took off after the ball, his ears flopping wildly about his head and his tail wagging as he ran.

Cyn watched the scene from the relative warmth of the morning room. A cup of coffee sat steaming on a table beside her, unnoticed. She turned to Roger.

"Vince has really taken to him," she said.
"I know."
"Can't he stay just a little longer?"
"He's been here six weeks already. I offered to give him a hand up, not a permanent residence."
"Just a little longer?"

Roger set his coffee down beside hers. The steam from the two cups mingled, painting the bulls-eye panes of the morning room with vaporous circles.

"How many more weeks? One? Two? Ten? I'm sorry. Sorry for him, and for us in a funny kind of way. I've felt good having him around. But you know how it is. Before much longer he'll start to feel settled. He must have wondered how long he could stay here. Has he said anything to you?"
"No."
"Well he must have thought about it."
"I don't think he's the kind of person to think about the future. He's just happy to be here. Look at him. Playing with Vince. He's out there every day you know. You don't always see him. Vince loves him."
"I'm sorry, but Vince doesn't get a vote here. Vince loves the postman too. I don't see you offering him a room and board!"
"Hold on just a minute Roger. Don't put this on me. It was you offered him a place."
"Right. And it's me withdrawing the offer."
"It won't be easy. Sending him back onto the streets. Have you thought about where he'll go? Where he'll end up?"
"It won't be any worse than it was before. Spring's only just around the corner."
"It's the middle of February for Christ's sake! It'll be at least another six weeks before it gets any warmer out there."
"Yeah, well, like I said. He's used to it. He'll be no worse off than he was before."
"Of course he will."
"How's that?"
"He's been here, hasn't he? Living in the warm and dry. Sleeping in a soft bed. Three meals a day. Walks with the dog, down by the river. You've dangled that life in front of him, let him have a taste of it. You've done that Roger. Now you're going to whip it all away again and kick him back down the road."
"Well what else can we do? He doesn't belong here. He's nothing to us."
"Isn't he? So why did you bring him here?"
"I felt sorry for him. And he found Vince. We'd have lost--"
"You felt sorry for him then. Why not now?"
"Look, he's had nearly two months to get better. He's healthier, he's put on some weight. All his sores are cleaned up. We'll give him some clothes, shoes. A coat. We can even get him a sleeping roll if you like. I'm not talking about sending him back out there in the rags we found him in."
"And that's it, is it? A few clothes and a pair of shoes. Now run along Carl, there's a good man. Don't want you making the place look untidy."
"What else do you suggest? I don't know why you're making me out to be the bad guy. We've helped him for God's sake. We haven't done anything wrong. We've helped him, and now it's time to move on."

Cyn sighed and reached for her coffee. It was no longer steaming. The fog had cleared from the window panes. "I know you're right," she sighed again. "It's just... well... I've got to like having him around. The house will feel--"
"Don't say it'll feel empty."
"Well it will! Just the two of us."
"That's how it was before."
"I know. It's probably silly. But didn't you ever feel there was something missing? I never really got fired up about anything before. Maybe it was all too easy. Having Carl around, somehow it's given me more energy."
"Anyone would think you were screwing the guy!"
"Roger! How could you even think that!"
"Take it easy. I was just joking."
"Well don't. None of this is a joke, and especially not that."
"Sorry. I'm feeling like the evil twin here."
"I'm sorry too. I guess I'm just not ready to throw Carl out yet."
"Can we at least broach the subject with him?"

Cyn bristled, but Roger waved her objection aside. "I don't mean in a threatening way. I'm not going to give him an ultimatum. But we could ask if he has any plans, or where he sees himself ending up, couldn't we?"
"I guess."
"Like I said, he might already have been thinking about moving on. Or he might have an Aunt Jemima in Oregon he wants to go visit."
"Aunt Jemima!" She slapped his arm playfully. "Where did that come from?"

The tennis ball thumped loudly against the window, rattling a pane. They both jumped.

"Sorry!" called Carl from the garden. "The ball slipped. My bad!"
"Woof!" agreed Vince, running to retrieve the ball from a flower pot on the terrace.

100TWC - Day 96: Lesson

The heavy iron door clanged shut behind him. Felix was on his own for the first time in twenty-six years. He knew he was supposed to be walking away, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to move. Not yet. This close to the prison he could still smell it. Or was the smell merely lodged in his nostrils? How long would it take to clear out? He had no idea, but one look at the sky -- all that fresh air just there for the breathing -- told him that the reek of a life sentence behind bars would soon be gone.

A small shiver of incipient agoraphobia ran through him, finally urging him into a slow amble away from the prison gates. Too much out in the open would probably be bad for him, at least in the early stages. He should find a bolt hole for a spell. Sit, ponder, decide on his next steps.

It was a strange feeling, the concept of next steps. For twenty-six years his every step had been programmed for him by prison routine. Get up, slop out, breakfast, pool, lock-up, exercise yard, lock-up, dinner, lock-up, bed. Same every day. He'd never been any good at mental arithmetic, but that must have added up to thousands of days. All gone. Shut away behind the clang of that door, out of reach. An uncertain future stretched out ahead of him. He needed a jolt of familiarity to bring him some concrete reality.

He'd been walking for about an hour when he spotted the Starbucks sign. Just the kind of 'familiarity' he'd been seeking. With a pang of regret, he remembered that Starbucks had been Margaret's favourite. They'd always stopped off for a latte and a muffin on trips into town. That was before... well... just before. He wondered briefly where Margaret was now. If she was doing OK. Then he pinched his thigh hard, through his pocket, brought himself back to the moment. The barista was asking him what he wanted. He stopped, open-mouthed, on the point of ordering a latte. Surely there'd be something new on the menu after a quarter of a century? He scanned the board quickly.

"I'll have a venti caramel macchiato."
"Drink in or take out?"
"In. Thanks."
"That'll be £2.95 please."

Felix almost choked. Right enough, the price was on the board in front of his eyes. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all. That was almost a quarter of the funds he'd left the slammer with. He handed over a five pound note and collected his change.

Seated in the window, Felix watched the pedestrian traffic while he sucked on his drink. Busy. It was a cold November day with a light breeze and a clear blue sky. The smell of Christmas in the air. Must be a street market somewhere close, he decided. Well, that was one thing he didn't need to worry about. No presents to buy. No cards. No-one to celebrate with. No money either. But at least there should be some seasonal work going. He was still physically strong, could do regular lifting and carrying, and he'd always been a hard worker. Just so long as he could keep his temper. So long as no-one crossed him. Twenty-six years was a long time to spend thinking about that. To learn the lesson that his sentence was designed to teach him. It had been hard, staying out of that kind of trouble inside. Screws winding him up all the time, and the inmates worse. Taking a pop at him almost every day for something or other. It was a fine line, staying away from a spell in solitary but still managing to stick up for himself so's he didn't get a rep as a soft touch. An easy target. He'd seen it so many times. Regular people who just couldn't cut it on the inside. The slightest show of weakness was all it took. Then the vultures would start circling and pretty soon your life wouldn't be worth living.

Took him a few years to learn to tread that path. It wasn't exactly the lesson he'd gone in for. No, that one was to stay out of trouble altogether. Inside he just had to avoid being seen defending himself.

"Hey!"
A man's voice from behind him gave him a jolt. He turned around, bristling, ready for trouble.
"What?"
"You done with that sugar?"
The innocuous question hung in the air for several seconds while Felix processed the fact that this wasn't an unexpected attack. He looked at the sugar dispenser on the table beside him; back at the man.
"Sure. Help yourself," he said, passing the container across.
"Thanks mate."

100TWC - Day 95: Acceptance

Roger had always loved moonlight. Legend had it that the light of a full moon could send a man mad. Howling at the moon, or baying at the moon, would be the result of too much exposure. So they said. That had never been more true than on this night. Yet perhaps because of his life-long love of Earth's only celestial partner, tonight Roger felt saner than he ever had. Looking around him at the dozen or so other occupants of Glastonbury Tor, none of whom he knew but all of whom apparently shared, if not his passion then at least his attitude, he also felt saner than the overwhelming mass of humanity.

When he'd left home to take up his position for what he assumed would be a lonely vigil, the television news bulletins had been full of mayhem. Rioting, looting, drunken naked folk running through the streets, fornication everywhere the cameras pointed. Like some crazy hyped-up carnival, the greatest show on Earth. Anything goes, roll up, roll up. Get your last fix before the final curtain. Fulfil your life's dreams. Act out your darkest fantasies. No police, no courts, no charges. In either sense. No criminal prosecutions and no fees. A free-for-all in the widest possible sense. All pretence at government or crowd control finally removed. Mankind at its most bestial. Faced with the ultimate peril, the end of all things, with no hope of survival, the very instinct for that survival was ripped from every soul on the planet. What else was left then, but to revel in the basest of pleasures? Take it while you could. Everything was on offer, no-one had anything left to lose. A few hours of sexual fulfilment, or culinary delight, or alcohol-fuelled mayhem, was all that remained.

Unless you were like Roger. He, and his handful of compatriots, sat quietly on the Tor, watching the moon. He could have chosen a higher spot. Some of the major roads were blocked by those making a desperate last-minute attempt to connect with distant family or friends. To see loved ones one last time, if only for a few brief moments. But he could have made it to Snowdonia, or Striding Edge or any one of a number of taller mountains he had visited in his 35 years on Earth. But Glastonbury, and the Tor, had always had a special place in his heart. Its quietness and spirituality brought a calmness to his soul like no other place he knew. And he needed that now. Needed to be close to what he always considered the centre of things. Whether it was ley lines or magnetic forces or plain Celtic magic was immaterial now. It felt good, that was what mattered. It felt better than swilling down a couple of pints of single malt and welcoming oblivion before the final impact. Better than fighting past hordes of looters to get his hands on long-cherished stuff that would be vapour scant minutes after the grasping. Better than the most experienced whore or the most beautiful virgin.

He grimaced at the thought that there probably weren't any virgins left, at least above a certain, previously illegal, age. No. None of that appealed to him. He wanted to be fully conscious at the end, with his spirit and his integrity intact.

Roger stared up at the moon. Already bigger than the biggest supermoon in history, its silver glow filled at least twice its normal space in the night sky. It had blotted out all but the brightest stars. A fresh October wind picked up some early autumn leaves from the trees at the base of the Tor and set them spinning up to reach him. Was this the start of the freak weather that had been predicted? He pushed his hair out of his eyes. He thought he could detect the moon growing even larger. Even now, with still several hours to go, its disc expanded noticeably by the minute. Scientists had predicted impact at 1:37am GMT. Somewhere south of Glastonbury, he couldn't remember exactly where. Not that it mattered. When the moon was finally reunited with the Earth after their countless millennia of separation, the exact place -- where a notional umbilicus of fatal gravity connected the two bodies -- would be just as terminal as any other spot on their world.

He had reached a state of calm acceptance of this fact surprisingly quickly, even for him. Where was there to run? Where could provide any protection or hiding place from the gargantuan impact. There was nowhere. All he could do was sit, and watch.

100TWC - Day 94: Reality

The rain bucketed down like an impenetrable curtain, bouncing thigh-high off the saturated pavements. Jez had never seen rain like it. He stood under a railway arch and waited, without much hope that it would let up any time soon.

Any ordinary guy would never venture out in weather like this. A few inches further forward and he would be drenched to the skin in seconds. But Jez was no ordinary guy. He had a need.

He'd known it was coming, of course. He always knew. The first few hints of the gnawing had started in his gut earlier that afternoon. If he'd had more sense he would have come out then, when the last rays of afternoon sun glinted red and gold off the dust-grimed windows of the derelict warehouse district. The only time they ever really looked beautiful. At least, when he had his straight head on. With his smashed head, pretty much everything looked beautiful, even his dingy, rat-infested squat with its mould-stained mattress.

But as usual, he hadn't had more sense. He'd stayed in front of his blurry old portable TV until the red had bled out of the windows and the black had come. And with it, the rain. From inside the squat the rain had been welcome. It freshened the stale air, washed his window, and took away some of the heat. Its familiar sound against the sill was comforting. By the time it started beating a heavier rhythm on the roof, the complaints from his gut had also become louder, driving him out into the night in search of a fix.

Luckily his usual dealer Max was a man of habit. Tuesday was his railway arch day. Jez knew he might have to hang around for an hour or so, but Max would be there. Sooner or later. Jez didn't need to brave the weather. Max would do that part. Max the bringer of light. The seller of dreams. The owner of his soul.

He checked his pockets. His pitiful wad of cash was still there. A handful of greasy notes gleaned from begging, or borrowed from the few friends he had left. Well, the friend, singular. Everyone else had given up on him and left him to spin down the downward spiral they all believed he was on. Like rainwater gurgling down the drain beside him, only not as clean.

From the corner of his eye he caught a movement through the downpour. Collar turned up against the drenching rain and an old oilskin hat pulled down low over his eyes, Max crossed the road in front of him. It had to be Max, even though Jex could not make out the man's face. No-one else would be here in this and besides, no-one ran quite like Max, with that half-loping jog that he had to use on account of an old wound from Iraq.

"Max!" Jez called. "Over here!"
"I see you, you mad bastard," Max replied over the deafening clatter of the rain. "Wasn't sure if you'd be here today. You're lucky I decided you were worth a soaking."
"Yeah, thanks man. I really need it today."
"You really need it every day buddy," Max grinned, pulling off his hat once he attained the shelter of the arch. Raindrops covered his beard, standing out like jewels. They flashed with reflected colours from the few neon shop signs still working.
"Well? What have you got?" Jez asked, holding his arms folded across his aching guts. "Better be something good. I've got the aches real bad."
"Got the usual stuff," Max said flippantly. "But I got my hands on something new too. One or two of my regulars have tried it. Reckon it's the bomb."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
Max took a small brown drug bottle from the pocket of his raincoat and held it up in front of Jez's face. The contents remained anonymous behind the dark ochre plastic.
"They call it Reality," he said. "Wanna try some?"
"How much?"
"Well, you know, it's a bit steeper than your regular stuff. It's new, what can I say? Gotta cover my overheads?"
"How much!?"
"To you, seein' as you're a regular an' all... fifty bucks."
"Fifty? You have to be kidding. It would need to be a fuckin' big hit for fifty. And anyway," Jez went on, fingering the small wad in his pocket, "I ain't got fifty."
"How much you got?"
"Twenty. Twenty five maybe, in change."
"Look, this stuff is real good. I'll stand you the other twenty-five for now. Like I said, you're a regular. I know you're good for it."
He flipped the lid off the bottle and shook a red capsule into the palm of his hand.
"This little red pill will blow your mind," he said, smiling.
"Looks like something out of The Matrix," Jez joked nervously.
"Well buddy, they don't call it Reality for nothing."

100TWC - Day 93: Simplicity

The noise of a hundred different conversations struck me like a physical blow as I entered the ballroom. I had no idea Elaine had invited so many guests. There had been no dress code in the invitation, so most of the ladies had taken the opportunity to go to town on their outfits. I say 'go to town' but in the majority of cases they appeared to have chartered a private jet and flown it to Rio, rather than catching the bus to Oldham.

Lights from the two gargantuan chandeliers bounced and coruscated off half a ton of diamanté, sequins, paste and lamé in gold, silver and copper. Hair had been coiffed within an inch of its life, in such a variety of hues and shades as nature had never dreamt of. Short hair, long hair, tall hair, flat hair. Bobs, buns, curls, bangs, and a dozen other styles that I couldn't even begin to tell you the names of.

And flesh! Oh, God, the flesh on display was... well, it was distracting is what it was. And not always in a good way. I'm a firm believer in displaying a well-turned thigh as long as it's... well... firm. Before you get started I'm not being ageist. There's plenty of... older... meat that can be put on display without causing one to lose one's breakfast, but I think we can all agree that we don't need to see anything white and flabby, and blue veins should be restricted to the Stilton, thank you very much. The problem is you can't always avoid seeing it. Fair enough if it's one of those dresses that doesn't reach the shoulders, or something backless. But when it's a long flowing skirt that just happens to be gashed to the... waist, and you don't notice that until it opens up right in front of you revealing half a yard of cellulite. I don't know what they're thinking, some of them. Keep it covered up, for goodness' sake.

Although, having said that, even covering it up isn't all that. Not when the covering is... how shall I put it? A little scant in the yardage department. Somehow the word 'tight' doesn't quite cover it. And not quite covering it is also, by some strange coincidence, the effect of these wannabe corsets. Looking as if they are going to burst at any minute and spill out that which we have already all agreed should remain covered at all times. It's not surprising that their partners look as if they are on tenterhooks. Probably all poised with their capes, or hats, or napkins ready to cover up any offending split as soon as it happens. If it does.

And so, since we have mentioned them, let us turn our attention to these partners. While their lady-folk have quite clearly spent the majority of the weekend, if not the entirety of the preceding week, in their sartorial preparations for this evening, the men folk fall into one of two categories. Can't be arsed, and arseholes. Those that can't be arsed can be further subdivided into through a hedge backwards, through a hedge forwards, directly resembling of a hedge, and hedging their bets (by which last category I mean, of course, that they look as if they've dressed for every possibly eventuality both socially and meteorologically).

The arseholes, in contrast to those who can't be arsed, have made an effort. They have, visibly, tried to smarten themselves up. Unfortunately, none of them have a clue. Mismatched colours and styles abound. Dickie bows with tweed jackets. Cravats with... well, come to think of it, cravats at all. Either they don't have a mirror to their name, or they've never asked their wives' or partners' opinion, or both. Or perhaps they have asked for an opinion, and they're deaf. Because no-one in their senses would come out dressed like that, especially to an occasion such as this. Elaine's annual dinner-dance, the highlight of the Droitwich social calendar.

An expectant hush fell over the assembled throng, in all their sartorial confusion, as Elaine appeared on the balcony. Whether by accident or design, she appeared to have understood implicitly that her invitation would have led all her guests to compete for ascendancy of apparel. And in a single leap of intuition she had sought to outdo them by travelling the opposite path, and succeeded. Oh, my word, how she had succeeded!

She wore a simple, one-piece, flowing satin dress all in black. It shimmered and sparkled as she paraded down the wide staircase. Her hair was simply but beautifully cut, dyed black for the occasion to match her dress. She wore the barest touch of makeup and the lightest whiff of her perfume came to me across the still air of the room, utterly and compellingly different from any other.

She stepped onto the granite tiles and swept toward me with hardly a sound save the gentle swishing of that incredibly elegant dress. A playful smile lit her face and her eyes glittered, reflecting a dozen flashes from a dozen different cameras dotted around the hallway. She reached out to take my outstretched hand and looked up into my eyes. I could hardly breathe.

"You look stunning," I said.

100TWC - Day 92: Innocence

"There it is again, see?"
"This one? The one after AMG-1?"
"Yep."
"You're sure?"
"I think the evidence is pretty conclusive."

Gene Richards -- a man who regularly caused a great deal of mirth once people discovered what he did for a living -- sat back from the gel electrophoresis readout and smiled. Gene was a gene detective, and he had just hunted down his most important find yet. His colleague, Randy Martenson, scratched his head.

"It's going to need a name," he said.
"Yeah. I know. Ordinarily I'd agree with you, and the name would be obvious. But this is different."
"How so?"
"Think about it. If we publish this, and someone develops a test for it, as they certainly will, it could lead to massive exploitation of just about everyone on the planet."
"Why can't we just call it INN-1?"
"You haven't thought it through Randy. I've had this on my mind since we ran the first tests. What if I was right? What if we could track down this trait to a single gene? How would society at large -- and politicians and crooks in particular -- react? Look how much controversy there was when Daibell said he'd unearthed the gay gene. And that only affects around ten percent of the population. This is much more widespread."
"Any idea how much more?"
"Not at this stage. We'd have to perfect this test and then run a stat-sig trial. But I'd be willing to bet it'll be at least fifty percent. Maybe higher."

Randy whistled. "I had no idea it would be that much."
"Well, you know what they say," Gene took a swig of coffee. "You can fool all of the people some of the time. I'm guessing there's a nugget of truth behind that old saying. A hunk of genetic lore. We'll probably find there are some modifiers affecting INN-1 -- we might as well call it that for now, at least between the two of us -- so that it is expressed at some point in everyone's life. Maybe some of the other factors are environmental or developmental, things that turn INN-1 off, or suppress its worst effects, but every test we've done so far supports the results."
"I wouldn't have believed it if we hadn't demonstrated it in the Rhesus batch."
"I know. Those monkeys acted as if they were having a permanent blonde moment. Incredible. Incidentally we must look after them. They'll be ideal candidates to trial some of those environmental factors we should start looking for. But until we know more about how INN-1 expresses itself I think we should keep a lid on it."
"Shame. It's Nobel material this is, you know."
"I know. Hold that thought. We'll get there in the end. Both of us. But if the press get wind that we've discovered a genetic trigger for innocence, they'll make a mountain out of a molehill, and then we'll have hundreds of crooks looking to steal our research so they can MOVE that mountain for their own ends."
"I'm still not sure I--"
"You only have to think about it for a few minutes Rand! Adding a GM component to something as innocuous as cow's milk, or wheat flour -- one that causes INN-1 to express at its full potential? Well, we'd end up with a world full of sheeple."
"I hate that word."
"Well what else would you call them? You've seen what INN-1 did to the Rhesus monkeys. Imagine that, multiplied by a thousand, and distributed among the population in their daily bread. That would definitely be a case of 'give us our daily bread and we forgive those who trespass against us'. And what trespasses they would be. All the sales and marketing people would be able to sell anything to anyone. If they ever even noticed they were being sold crap they wouldn't be able to summon up the enthusiasm to do anything about it, even if they realised it was within their grasp to do anything at all! Con artists would be out there taking everyone's wallets in exchange for a 'wallet cleaning certificate'! Politicians would, well, they'd be even worse that they are now and they'd get away with it!"
"When you put it like that, it makes me think we should burn these notes altogether."
"On the one hand, I think you might be right. But on the other... If we can attack it the other way, before anyone else gets wind of it, we can find out how to turn INN-1 off for good."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Better than the alternative, I reckon. A world full of people who it's impossible to con. Who won't believe anything at all without rock solid proof, cast-iron guarantees and copper-bottomed promises."
"Won't there be side-effects?"
"That's got to be on our research list too. Baby's and bathwater and all that. What else does INN-1 influence? What were the evolutionary drivers to it coming into existence in the first place? What are the survival benefits of innocence? I must admit that from a standing start I can't think of any, but there must be some or INN-1 wouldn't exist."
"Procreation?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well -- look at ugly guys, to take a simple case. They, or should I say," Randy grinned, "we, have a lot going for us. Good genes in some respects even if they're not in the looks department. If we couldn't persuade a lady into bed, we'd never have a chance to pass those good genes on, would we? Maybe innocence gives us a head start in that respect?"
"You might have a point there Rand. That could be another research avenue. Find a bunch of fuglies and test their wives (and husbands). Find out if they've got unusually high levels of INN-1 activity. Nice one buddy! You just earned your October pay check!"

100TWC - Day 91: Answers

Will took a deep drag on his cigarette, squinting against the wisp of smoke that curled up into his eyes. He blew the lungful out over the city that stretched below him in a million points of glowing sodium and neon. There was no kick left in tobacco he decided, grinding the glowing nub into a misshapen remnant on the rock beside him.

Normally, he liked to come up here to the bluff to think. Years before -- how many? -- he had discovered this spot where the weather had worn the soft rock into a seat that looked out over the urban sprawl several hundred feet below. Protected by an overhang from the path above, the seat was his secret place. At least, in all the years he'd been coming here, he'd never found anyone else sitting in it, or any evidence that it had been occupied since his previous visit.

From this distance the clamour of the city was muted --a little, at least -- adding some clarity to his thinking. Or reducing the distraction of everyday life anyway. He came up here when he needed to search for answers, but tonight all he was finding were more questions. His mind kept reminding him how the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything had led the characters from one of his favourite novels to spend millennia in a further search for the real question. A quest for a question. It sounded mad. And of course, in the novel, that had been exactly the point.

But Will didn't need more questions. He needed answers. Specifically, he needed answers to questions like 'Are you sleeping with someone?' and 'Do you still love me?' At least, part of him did. Another part -- and which part was in the majority varied by the minute -- was scared to hear the answers. Didn't want resolution or clarity. Wasn't prepared for the possible -- probable? -- pain that answers might bring. 

Below him, somewhere in the city hidden from view at this distance, an ambulance siren echoed around the wide streets. Someone, somewhere, would soon be asking the question 'Is he, or she, going to be OK doctor?' or perhaps, if the siren didn't quite perform well enough in the crowded streets and the ambulance was delayed for crucial seconds, they would be hearing the question 'Would you like some time alone?'

Will didn't want to be alone. That was a question he never needed to answer. It was built into him like his height, the colour of his eyes, his smoking habit. He didn't do alone. Never had. The prospect gave him the shivers, right through his gut, like he had a permanent attack of the shits. Up here, in the relative quiet, with every glimmer of starlight blotted out by heavy clouds, surrounded by darkness only relieved by the carpet of city lights under his feet, he could see that more clearly. Could see also that his fear of loneliness had driven him to stay where he was no longer wanted, or needed. Loneliness is a crowded room, said the old song. And with the new clarity that his secret seat granted him, Will could see that it was also a crowded house, or a crowded life. There was nothing lonelier than being surrounded by people you didn't know, didn't like, didn't want to be with. Endless hours and days spent in pointless, circular conversations about nothing important. Everyone trying to hide the fact that they'd rather be somewhere else, with someone else.

The craving for another cigarette surfaced in his chest. He reached unconsciously for the pack and then paused. What was the real answer to the question 'Do you want a light?' Only minutes before he had stubbed out his last smoke. He hadn't enjoyed it. Why didn't he make it, literally, his last smoke? There was another question. A question similar to the one about being alone that, with his new-found clarity, he discovered he already knew the answer to. The light he wanted to let into his life was not the light of a match. Not that of a lighter. He needed sunlight and warmth. He needed moonlight and romance. Not the hollow, cold, empty light that shone in the eyes of people who no longer cared about him. He threw the pack of cigarettes over the edge of the bluff and watched it bounce and spin down the rock face until it disappeared from view.

100TWC - Day 90: Nowhere and Nothing

George had never known it this dark. A blackness so complete he couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or closed. Even the usual hint -- the occasional spark that would scintillate behind his closed eyelids at night before he fell asleep -- didn't work. With eyes open, and he knew they were open because he'd blinked hard and opened them wide, he still saw those phantom flashes.

Silent too. The only sounds he was aware of the rushing of blood in his ears, the pumping of his heart and the inevitable tinnitus. It now seemed even louder than usual, the harsh high-pitched screaming in his ears. But there was nothing else. No distant animal calls, no mechanical grinding, no traffic rumble reaching him from the nearby motorway, no planes overhead. An absence of sound that was almost tangible.

George moved his arms in front of his eyes. There was not even enough light to see them when he held his hands right up close. He couldn't feel their movement. No cool draft of air moving gently over the hairs on his arms as he waved them to and fro. No warmth emanating from any nearby heat source rendered invisible by the blackness. Wherever he was must be exactly the same temperature as his blood.

With no sensory input except what his own body provided, George's mind spun freely. At first his conscious thoughts were taken up entirely with the strangeness of his environment, but after a few minutes (or what felt like a few minutes to him -- there was no way to mark the passage of time externally, and he didn't want to spend all his time counting heartbeats) he slipped into a more philosophical frame of mind. The emptiness around him put him in mind of the vastness of the cosmos and he began to imagine his insignificance when compared to the galactic and universal whole. One man, riding in total darkness, on a speck of dust circling a tiny point of light that was one of billions of similar points in a galaxy of billions of other galaxies. Before today that kind of thinking boggled his mind. Somehow, here, now, he found it comforting. The neutral temperature and absence of stimulation made his infinitesimal smallness bearable in some visceral, inexplicable way.

He imagined himself hovering in space, gazing down at the Milky Way from a vantage point directly above its core. The spiral arms stretching out left and right and the whole turning majestically beneath him. Countless lives of untold creatures being lived out on worlds orbiting those billions of tiny lights, each lonely collection utterly unaware of every other lonely collection and separated from them by vast physical distances and even larger conceptual ones.

George began to imagine what those alien worlds might look like. Or sound like. With nothing to distract his senses, his mind started conjuring inputs to replace the usual frenetic melee of sensory evidence. Now acutely aware of the functioning of his body -- exactly how full his bladder was; whether or not he would be hungry any time soon; how fast his heart was pumping -- George experienced a sudden feeling of panic. If he was bleeding, or heading for an abyss, or about to be crushed under some huge falling weight, how would he know? His previous feelings of safety and calm were supplanted with nervousness and disquiet. All his natural defences, reactions and instincts were blinded along with his sight and hearing. If he couldn't see danger approaching, or hear it, how would he be able to react in time?

His heart rate increased. The blood rushed in his ears. All thoughts of universal serenity or galactic harmony were replaced by his worrying suspicion that he could be in mortal danger and would never know. His life was about to be snuffed out by something dangerous but trivial, and he was powerless to avoid it.

A blinding white knife edge of light scored across the velvety darkness to his right, like a scimitar slicing the heavens in half. This was it! He was doomed! The sky was falling! He was lying on his back directly beneath the cosmic blade that had cleaved his world in two!

With a metallic click the left-hand half of the sky peeled back to reveal a man standing next to what had become a hatchway to another world. A world of light, and warmth, and noise. The man smiled.

"Strange experience isn't it? Revealing. I like to use the Isolation Chamber two or three times a year. It's amazing what insight it can bring."

He fastened back the lid with a clip. "Well, get your bearings George, for a minute or two, and then when you're ready you can step out onto the platform here."

100TWC - Day 89: Twilight

The honks of a late skein of geese overflying his garden echoed through the trees. A haunting sound, at once distant and immediate. Graham stood on the new deck, a fresh glass of whisky in his hand, and surveyed the newly completed garden. A short shower earlier in the evening had freshened the grass and released the deep smells of the dark brown loam and bark chippings which had been laid only the day before. Now, in the deepening evening, the first scents of jasmine and stock filled the still air.

This was his favourite time of day. Neither day nor night. A comfortable resting space between the two when the day's work was done and the night's not yet begun. Animals active in daylight hours were winding down. Those who were nocturnal had yet to get started. Being neither one thing nor the other suited Graham. Unusually among all his friends he was at ease with uncertainty and ambivalence.

He sat down in one of the new recliners, sipped his drink and let the smoky sharpness of the whisky roll around his mouth before slipping down his throat. The warmth of it spread through his belly. He set his glass on the arm of the chair and stared out into the grey gloom. Amusement at the thought of the greyness bubbled up in his chest. He sat there, in the grey, wearing a grey T-shirt and grey sweat pants with grey socks and, he laughed out loud at this point, most of his friends called him Gray. He loved greyness so much that if his parents hadn't called him Graham they would probably have chosen Ash.

A bird whickered in one of the old trees the landscapers had left at the bottom of his plot. Good windbreak, they had said. Protection from being overlooked. Graham had just been glad to keep them there for the dark shadows they cast at this time of day.

The evening was still warm. In that gentle way that late summer, or early autumn evenings had. Like they trusted themselves to be warm without really trying, or worrying about how cold it was going to get later. Even in his thin cotton shirt Graham wasn't cold. The whisky didn't hurt though. He took another mouthful, and thought about changes. Day changed into night, and summer into autumn. And what was Graham changing into? He was definitely in transition, he knew that much. Yet in a strange way, he felt as comfortable with it as he did with the twilight. No longer day but not quite night. He laughed again quietly, because he could just as easily say he was no longer Gray but not quite... what? What was he going to call himself? He shook his head at the thought that he might choose something to rhyme with night. And then his fertile mind went off down that rabbit hole, trying to think of things that did. Rhyme with night that is. The whisky had given his imagination wings but he wasn't sure of the direction of flight. That rhymed with night! And so did fright. Was he frightened? Not right now. Here at the start of everything it felt-- well-- daunting maybe, but not frightening. Exciting? Yes, that.

A toad croaked. It sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet of the evening. So the nature pond idea had worked. Marvellous. The old pond had been ripped out years before but Graham had still, occasionally, unearthed a sleeping frog when moving a large boulder or a length of rotting timber. Now with the new shallow pond and its animal-friendly landing area beside the water, both he and the garden designer had hoped to attract a new generation of assorted amphibians. And Mr Toad was his first new tenant. He reached to pick up the remote control, flicked on the path lights and the spikes, and was just in time to catch a flash of Mr Toad as he jumped for cover. "That's right," he thought, "head for cover. You don't like the bright lights either, do you fella?"

100TWC - Day 88: Possession

"He is dying, my friend. He does not have long. But... in a moment of clarity... he asked me to show you this."

The rag-clothed old man pulled a stained oil cloth from inside his shirt. Unwrapped it. I couldn't believe my eyes. I had found it at last.

"He cannot tell me from whence he acquired it," the old man continued. His breath reeked of methylated spirit. I turned my head away. "He has not had it long, I know that. He showed it to me not a month before the sickness started in him."
"How much does he want for it?" I asked. It occurred to me that the man lying on his death bed would not see a penny of the price, whatever it was, but I didn't care. I had been looking for this prize for fourteen years. I wasn't about to give up on it now. He would be dead anyway inside the day.
The tramp looked furtive. "Five thousand," he said. Before I had chance to object, he went on, "but personally I think that is... shall we say... a little steep."

He gave no clue what he considered a more realistic price, but it was immaterial. I would gladly have paid ten times that amount.

"If it will make him comfortable in his final hours," I lied, "I will agree to five thousand."
"You are a good man my friend. Cash?"
"Of course."

I handed over an envelope. He handed over the amulet. It shone a deep red in the light from the brazier. From the filthy cot by the wall, the dying man coughed weakly. I took hold of the chain, avoiding any touch of the gem itself. Its legend was infamous in certain circles -- the circles I had sought out over the years -- and although naturally I was sceptical, I did not want to tempt fate. For a man less certain of how the world worked, the sight of the amulet's previous owner coughing up his lungs in a beggar's bolt hole might have given cause for concern.

I reached a velvet purse from my coat pocket and slipped the jewel into it. A shock of pleasure coursed through me as I drew the cords tight. It was mine!

"Is there anything I can do for him? Drink? Food?"
"Leave him to me, sir. I will tend to his final moments."
"Very well. Make sure he knows I am grateful to him."

The derelict smiled, exposing his rotted teeth. "That I will sir. That I will."

I left. There was no more to be done for the man, or his friend, and I was expected elsewhere. My excitement at the discovery of the precious stone had tightened my stomach. It almost felt as if I was going to vomit. Or perhaps I'd caught a chill in this fell place. For a moment I lost my bearings among the ruins and empty houses, but then I caught sight of a familiar neon sign and remembered I had parked close by. The familiar leather smell inside my car replaced the unpleasant odours of the last hour and as the door closed with a satisfying clunk, shutting out the memory of that awful place, I began to feel human again.

The freeway lights flashed past faster once I'd cleared the edge of town. It was unusually hot inside the car and I wondered for a second whether the heating had developed a fault. Even at its lowest setting the air was still stiflingly hot. I lowered a window to clear the air and my head. I needed to be on my best form for the meeting ahead. Sir Patrick had been waiting for this day even longer than I. Had worked his way through several finders before me. He had no notion that his life-long dream was about to be fulfilled.

I was wracked with a sudden fit of painful coughing. A trickle of saliva had found its way into my lungs, as occasionally happens to me. I pulled onto the verge until the attack passed. The dashboard clock shone its green nine-oh-five pm at me. Plenty of time. My client was not expecting me until ten. I pulled a bottle of water from the glove box and took a deep drink to ease the tightness in my throat. The pain in my chest subsided a little. I could feel the weight of the ruby amulet in my jacket pocket. It pressed against my ribs, held in place by the seatbelt. I adjusted my position and patted it. Mine. If only briefly. And soon I would be, once more, a very wealthy man.