Barg sat in front of his Nexus Editor, staring at the scene it displayed. He frowned. His friend and colleague (and also, although neither of them let this stand in the way of their friendship or work relationship, his team leader) Admirator Snell, looked across from where he was tutoring a new Editor.
"Problem?"
"It's this same scene," said Barg. "I've been looking at it for hours and I can't decide which way to go."
"Run it through for me then," said Snell, trying not to sound patronising.
"Subject is Artemis Pandraptis, and he is running for his train. The parameter controlling the nexus is his arrival at the door of the train - an urban light railway with automated doors and driver - and there are three options."
"Go on."
"In option one, his arm hits the door as it is closing, but he is in time for the sensors to detect his fingers and the door reopens to admit him to the train. He boards, and arrives home in time to enjoy a meal with his wife Bariana who has just discovered she is pregnant with their first child."
"Sounds like a good option."
"At this stage it is, but there are complications which I'll come to later. In option two, Artemis is delayed by 11.8 milliseconds, which is just long enough for the doors to fail to open. The train leaves without him."
"So he doesn't make dinner."
"Correct. But it's worse than that for his wife. The slightly elevated stress levels at his lateness lead to increased amounts of cortisone and a few other hormones in her blood. At such an early stage of pregnancy these are sufficient to cause her to miscarry."
"Unfortunate. It sounds clearly like a less favourable option."
"Well, yes, but that's also connected with the complications I mentioned earlier. The child -- should it survive -- has, shall we say, a less than auspicious future ahead of it. But let me outline the third option before we come to that."
"OK, go ahead."
"In the third option, Artemis is delayed slightly longer. By..." Barg fingered another part of his Nexus screen and scrolled down the list of numbers that appeared, "... another 650 milliseconds. That's long enough not only for him to miss the door but also for the train to start to move out of the station. The unexpected movement causes him to knock his glasses off, and when he bends down to retrieve them the backdraft from the departing train overbalances him. He falls onto the track and is electrocuted. Fatally."
"Oh dear, no! How tragic!"
"Indeed. The consequences for the unborn child are the same -- after all, Artemis will still be late for dinner -- but it is the effect on Bariana that are most significant. She will, eventually, repartner and in doing so... well... the variables at this point defeat me."
"And are there any other effects to take into account on the station?"
"What I've described is the focus of the nexus. There are one hundred and eleven thousand nine hundred and fifty-six other split points within a 5-second bracketing window around the nexus, but none of them have such significant effect on society one way or another."
"OK. I think we've reached the point where we must consider those effects then. You mentioned the child?"
"Yes. The child Bariana is presently carrying, if he survives, will grow up to be Narsis She'Ath."
"The mass murderer?"
"The very same."
"I begin to see your dilemma."
"If it was a dilemma it would not be so difficult to resolve Snell. In this case there are three variables. There is Artemis to consider, and also the results of Bariana's new relationship in the event of his death."
"Artemis Prandraptis you said? You don't mean he's THE Prandraptis? The discoverer of the Prandraptis effect?"
"I'm surprised you didn't recognise him. Although he is quite a bit younger at this nexus than when he becomes famous."
"But, we can't let him die! Mankind's future depends on him!"
"Its future in space travel, certainly. My calculations -- and I admit with such lengthy extrapolation they only have a 7.4% probability of being accurate -- suggest that in the absence of Prandraptis it will take another 145 years before humans achieve faster-than-light space travel."
"So your choice - forgive me - ONE of your choices, is between humans reaching the stars in this century and allowing the Murderer of Mars to come into the world?"
"You begin to see my problem."
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Saturday, September 29, 2012
100TWC - Day 64: Frost
Around this time of year as a boy, or maybe just a week or two later, I used to expect that on really cold days I'd wake up to frost on my bedroom windows. On the inside. Double glazing and central heating were unknown concepts to me growing up. My bedroom windows (there were two, one on each outside wall, which made my room probably the coldest room in the house and certainly the coldest bedroom. Even the bathroom, which also had two exterior walls, only had one window) were single-glazed, with metal frames, and hence particularly susceptible to the cold.
Interestingly (it has just occurred to me) when we sold that house in April of this year, those single glazed metal framed windows -- the original ones with which the house was built in the 1940s -- were still in place, still intact. I've no doubt they will have been replaced now, but they lasted almost 70 years.
My parents only got around to investing in central heating after I moved out. And even then, because they "didn't like hot bedrooms", the system they installed was only partial. A radiator beside the boiler in the kitchen, which I always thought was completely redundant since the boiler, being a 1970s vintage, was not particularly well insulated. One at the bottom of the stairs to warm the hall. One at the top to service the landing. If you wanted any heat in a bedroom you had to leave the door open. And that was it. Three single, narrow radiators for an entire 3-bedroom semi-detached house. The "through" lounge/ dining room had a gas fire.
But such luxury was unknown to me as a child. The only source of heat in my room was a two-bar portable electric fire. It smelt, when on, in that way old metal electric fires have. Especially the first time it was used each year in the run-up to Christmas. Having been gathering dust for something approaching nine months, the first time you switched it on all that dust would burn off the element and stink the room out for days. It wasn't just dust, of course. There would be the odd dead fly in there too. And possibly a few strands of hair that had found their way through the grille. I hated that fire, ugly brown dumpy little monstrosity that it was, but it didn't stop me from turning it on every night an hour or so before I went to bed.
No such luxury in the mornings, of course. Time switches were another technology denied to us in the 1960s and early 70s. Hence the frost on the windows. I could see my breath most mornings too, in that room. It's a wonder I ever plucked up the courage to get out of bed, especially once my folks had gone all modern and replaced our traditional bedding with those new-fangled "continental quilts" (duvets, to modern readers). Toasty warm it was, under my "quilt", and hence by comparison, even colder in the bedroom.
On school mornings it was a mad dash to the bathroom, once my Dad had whistled his signal that he'd finished at the washbasin. The bathroom had one of those ceiling lights with a heater in it, and on really cold mornings Dad would have turned it on when he first got up. So the bathroom (again, by comparison) was warmer than the bedroom. Warmer even than the landing which, being in the middle of the house, never got as cold as the outer rooms.
On weekend mornings I didn't need to be quite so brave. I could laze around in bed until the sun was up, and melted the frost on the windows. At least then it didn't look as cold in my room.
When I got a bit older, I found myself wondering exactly how cold it got in that room. I'd acquired a thermometer from somewhere and I hung it on the wall. Being of an analytical bent (OK, OK, I was a spod. I admit it), it was not enough for me to just glance at the reading every morning and evening on my way out of, and into bed. I had to write the temperatures down. And then, having written them down, I had to graph them up. And so it was that, by the age of 15, I had a year's worth of bedroom temperature readings on a graph on my wall, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that the coldest it ever got in my room one winter's morning, was 44°F.
I saw my breath THAT morning, I can tell you!
The graph spiked a lot where the electric fire was on in the evening, and not in the morning, but the trend of temperatures was still visible, as were the maxima and minima. Attentive readers will have noticed that even this glaring evidence of incipient frostbite in my room was not enough to persuade my parents that central heating was necessary, until after I'd moved out. Whether or not this constitutes child abuse I will leave it up to the reader to decide.
The frost on the inside of my windows did make exceedingly pretty patterns though. Which was, naturally, some small compensation for the discomfort.
Interestingly (it has just occurred to me) when we sold that house in April of this year, those single glazed metal framed windows -- the original ones with which the house was built in the 1940s -- were still in place, still intact. I've no doubt they will have been replaced now, but they lasted almost 70 years.
My parents only got around to investing in central heating after I moved out. And even then, because they "didn't like hot bedrooms", the system they installed was only partial. A radiator beside the boiler in the kitchen, which I always thought was completely redundant since the boiler, being a 1970s vintage, was not particularly well insulated. One at the bottom of the stairs to warm the hall. One at the top to service the landing. If you wanted any heat in a bedroom you had to leave the door open. And that was it. Three single, narrow radiators for an entire 3-bedroom semi-detached house. The "through" lounge/ dining room had a gas fire.
But such luxury was unknown to me as a child. The only source of heat in my room was a two-bar portable electric fire. It smelt, when on, in that way old metal electric fires have. Especially the first time it was used each year in the run-up to Christmas. Having been gathering dust for something approaching nine months, the first time you switched it on all that dust would burn off the element and stink the room out for days. It wasn't just dust, of course. There would be the odd dead fly in there too. And possibly a few strands of hair that had found their way through the grille. I hated that fire, ugly brown dumpy little monstrosity that it was, but it didn't stop me from turning it on every night an hour or so before I went to bed.
No such luxury in the mornings, of course. Time switches were another technology denied to us in the 1960s and early 70s. Hence the frost on the windows. I could see my breath most mornings too, in that room. It's a wonder I ever plucked up the courage to get out of bed, especially once my folks had gone all modern and replaced our traditional bedding with those new-fangled "continental quilts" (duvets, to modern readers). Toasty warm it was, under my "quilt", and hence by comparison, even colder in the bedroom.
On school mornings it was a mad dash to the bathroom, once my Dad had whistled his signal that he'd finished at the washbasin. The bathroom had one of those ceiling lights with a heater in it, and on really cold mornings Dad would have turned it on when he first got up. So the bathroom (again, by comparison) was warmer than the bedroom. Warmer even than the landing which, being in the middle of the house, never got as cold as the outer rooms.
On weekend mornings I didn't need to be quite so brave. I could laze around in bed until the sun was up, and melted the frost on the windows. At least then it didn't look as cold in my room.
When I got a bit older, I found myself wondering exactly how cold it got in that room. I'd acquired a thermometer from somewhere and I hung it on the wall. Being of an analytical bent (OK, OK, I was a spod. I admit it), it was not enough for me to just glance at the reading every morning and evening on my way out of, and into bed. I had to write the temperatures down. And then, having written them down, I had to graph them up. And so it was that, by the age of 15, I had a year's worth of bedroom temperature readings on a graph on my wall, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that the coldest it ever got in my room one winter's morning, was 44°F.
I saw my breath THAT morning, I can tell you!
The graph spiked a lot where the electric fire was on in the evening, and not in the morning, but the trend of temperatures was still visible, as were the maxima and minima. Attentive readers will have noticed that even this glaring evidence of incipient frostbite in my room was not enough to persuade my parents that central heating was necessary, until after I'd moved out. Whether or not this constitutes child abuse I will leave it up to the reader to decide.
The frost on the inside of my windows did make exceedingly pretty patterns though. Which was, naturally, some small compensation for the discomfort.
Friday, September 28, 2012
100TWC - Day 63: Cold Embrace
One of the hardest days of his life, but it was over. The last mourners, his best friend Sean and his wife Abi, had finally been persuaded to leave and he was alone with his thoughts and his empty house.
Richard Chivers absently pulled off his black tie and undid his top button, kicked off his gleaming new black shoes that had been pinching his feet all day [Put those away Richard! Don't leave them lying in the hall like that] and wandered in his stocking feet into the kitchen in search of a drink. [Not another one, darling. Take it easy!] He found the whisky at his third attempt. Half a bottle. Was it half full, or half empty, he wondered ironically? Right now, he decided, he'd call it half empty. But at least that wasn't as empty as his home, or his life.
A tear welled up and ran down his cheek. Funny how he could keep it in check when there was anyone around. He'd always been easily distracted. One or two of his friends had even made some half-hearted attempts at humour throughout the day and he'd caught himself laughing a couple of times. How quickly he had forgotten, for a moment, that he had nothing to laugh about.
He poured himself a glass, filling it almost to the brim [Take it easy, I said! Are you trying to drink yourself to death?]. When was the last time he'd drunk whisky? They must have had this bottle ten years. It never did him any good. He walked back into the living room, his gaze falling on a photo of himself and Ruth taken during last year's holiday to Belize. [Look at that sagging jaw line] She looked even more beautiful than when they'd married, only the year before. The sun over there had a different quality. It sparkled in her eyes. Who had taken that photo? [Jim] Jim, that was it. They hadn't even known Jim and Karen were holidaying at the same time as them, until they met at the check in.
He took a sip from his glass, and turned the photo onto its face on the bureau. He shivered. An unseasonal chill had settled on the room. He stared at the glass. The amber liquid sloshing gently as he moved, leaving an oily film inside the glass that separated and fell languidly back to join the rest. Richard realised he wasn't enjoying the drink. He set the glass down on a table [Use a coaster Richard! You'll leave a ring!] and walked upstairs. He was suddenly tired -- the emotion of the day, the lack of sleep for the last three nights, and the strain of keeping up appearances for in-laws and friends had finally caught up with him, and with the unexpected coldness of an empty house surrounding him all he wanted was to crawl into bed.
Richard slid between the cold covers and lay on his back. An owl hooted in the copse outside his bedroom window. Moonlight filtered in through a crack in the curtains, but it was a half-moon and the light was an even paler imitation of pale than usual. He turned over and buried his head in Ruth's pillow. It still held her scent. He grabbed it with both hands and pressed it against his face, breathing deeply. Sobbing quietly. After a while he became accustomed to the faint perfume and could no longer smell it. He turned over the other way.
The tiled floor of the en-suite creaked. Just the way it had when Ruth would walk through after cleaning her teeth. The heating going off, Richard told himself. Willing himself not to turn over again and check. It couldn't very well be her, could it, so what else could it be but the mundane creak of contracting copper? The bed dipped behind him with a rustle of sheets. Richard's spine tingled. He tried to keep his eyes tight shut, but failed. He realised he'd been holding his breath and released it. Against the moonlight from the window it steamed in the sudden chill of the room. As he breathed in he caught another whiff of Ruth's perfume, stronger this time. Much stronger than on her pillow. How...?
From close behind his back an icy coldness crept up to his shoulders and around his buttocks, while a heavy chill slipped like an unseen arm around his waist.
Richard Chivers absently pulled off his black tie and undid his top button, kicked off his gleaming new black shoes that had been pinching his feet all day [Put those away Richard! Don't leave them lying in the hall like that] and wandered in his stocking feet into the kitchen in search of a drink. [Not another one, darling. Take it easy!] He found the whisky at his third attempt. Half a bottle. Was it half full, or half empty, he wondered ironically? Right now, he decided, he'd call it half empty. But at least that wasn't as empty as his home, or his life.
A tear welled up and ran down his cheek. Funny how he could keep it in check when there was anyone around. He'd always been easily distracted. One or two of his friends had even made some half-hearted attempts at humour throughout the day and he'd caught himself laughing a couple of times. How quickly he had forgotten, for a moment, that he had nothing to laugh about.
He poured himself a glass, filling it almost to the brim [Take it easy, I said! Are you trying to drink yourself to death?]. When was the last time he'd drunk whisky? They must have had this bottle ten years. It never did him any good. He walked back into the living room, his gaze falling on a photo of himself and Ruth taken during last year's holiday to Belize. [Look at that sagging jaw line] She looked even more beautiful than when they'd married, only the year before. The sun over there had a different quality. It sparkled in her eyes. Who had taken that photo? [Jim] Jim, that was it. They hadn't even known Jim and Karen were holidaying at the same time as them, until they met at the check in.
He took a sip from his glass, and turned the photo onto its face on the bureau. He shivered. An unseasonal chill had settled on the room. He stared at the glass. The amber liquid sloshing gently as he moved, leaving an oily film inside the glass that separated and fell languidly back to join the rest. Richard realised he wasn't enjoying the drink. He set the glass down on a table [Use a coaster Richard! You'll leave a ring!] and walked upstairs. He was suddenly tired -- the emotion of the day, the lack of sleep for the last three nights, and the strain of keeping up appearances for in-laws and friends had finally caught up with him, and with the unexpected coldness of an empty house surrounding him all he wanted was to crawl into bed.
*
Richard slid between the cold covers and lay on his back. An owl hooted in the copse outside his bedroom window. Moonlight filtered in through a crack in the curtains, but it was a half-moon and the light was an even paler imitation of pale than usual. He turned over and buried his head in Ruth's pillow. It still held her scent. He grabbed it with both hands and pressed it against his face, breathing deeply. Sobbing quietly. After a while he became accustomed to the faint perfume and could no longer smell it. He turned over the other way.
The tiled floor of the en-suite creaked. Just the way it had when Ruth would walk through after cleaning her teeth. The heating going off, Richard told himself. Willing himself not to turn over again and check. It couldn't very well be her, could it, so what else could it be but the mundane creak of contracting copper? The bed dipped behind him with a rustle of sheets. Richard's spine tingled. He tried to keep his eyes tight shut, but failed. He realised he'd been holding his breath and released it. Against the moonlight from the window it steamed in the sudden chill of the room. As he breathed in he caught another whiff of Ruth's perfume, stronger this time. Much stronger than on her pillow. How...?
From close behind his back an icy coldness crept up to his shoulders and around his buttocks, while a heavy chill slipped like an unseen arm around his waist.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
100TWC - Day 62: Irregular Orbit
"Excuse me," Marcus said quietly, attempting to squeeze past the errant trolley which had drifted out to block almost the entire aisle while its temporary owner stretched to the bottom shelf to retrieve essential supplies.
"I'm sorry," said the owner, clutching a three-pack of Fray Bentos as he straightened up and turned to give Marcus an embarrassed smile. The smile died on his lips, replaced by a half-puzzled, half-incredulous look.
"Marcus?" he said hesitantly. "It is Marcus, isn't it? Fancy bumping into you!"
Marcus looked more closely at the man's face. That is to say, he continued to look in much the same way as he had before, only this time he devoted more of his attention to the visual signals. Nevertheless the added brainpower he brought to bear made no difference. He did not recognise the tanned and bearded stranger that stood before him.
"Yes, but--"
"Fenton," the man offered, stretching out his non-corned-beef-holding hand and thereby releasing the trolley which rolled even further into the aisle before being stopped by a stack of baked beans, on offer that week at four for a pound. "Fenton Grainger. Remember? Beauforte House?"
The words trickled through Marcus' language centres like overripe bananas. Beauforte House was a good clue, of course. The old company training house where he'd spent several painful weeks on and off over the last thirty years of his career. But Fenton Grainger? No bells there.
"The Sales and Marketing sheep dip," Grainger continued. "You must remember."
Ah, that explained it. Marcus had never had much time for marketing twaddle, and when the company had decided that everyone - all their managers, salesmen, technical staff, even all the architects and programmers - would benefit from a basic grounding in Marketing (always with a capital M), they had all been forced to spend an agonising week at the Beauforte House training centre in deepest, darkest Berkshire. And as soon as he had returned from that week, Marcus had tried his damnedest to blank the entire experience from his mind.
"I'm so sorry," he began, suddenly aware that he had been woolgathering for almost a minute and the man -- Grainger -- was still stood there with his mouth half open and his hand held out. Marcus took it. A slightly damp, slightly too limp grip. He shook and let go quickly, suppressing a shudder. "I remember the course, well, that is to say I remember going on it -- not so much the content -- but I'm afraid the name doesn't ring a bell. Sorry," he repeated.
"Oh that's OK. I shouldn't be surprised really. I looked an awful lot different back then," Grainger blustered. "No beard. Almost certainly no tan. And as far as I can remember, about a hundred pounds heavier."
Marcus squinted slightly, his mind's eye trying to picture the man in front of him with those new parameters.
"Oh, and red hair of course," he added, ruffling his sweaty hand through his wild pepper-and-salt locks.
The penny dropped! Gringer! Of course. Such flaming ginger hair as Marcus had never seen before or since, and which had led the others on the course to corrupt his surname in merciless taunting. Gringer the Ginger.
"Fenton Grainger!" Marcus exclaimed, hiding his inadvertent internal humour at the resurgence of the memory. "Now I remember. How are you? What have you been doing in the... er..."
"Almost twenty years," Grainger offered. "Where does the time go, eh?"
"Indeed."
"Never did much with Marketing after that."
"You and me both. In fact as far as I know, no-one did. Hardly surprising really though is it? Weren't we all techies that week?"
"Apart from Rickman," Grainger reminded him, holding up a finger as he bent to retrieve his trolley and dump the tins into it. "He was sales I think. Kept himself pretty much to himself."
"Ah yes. I vaguely remember," Marcus lied. "So, what have you been doing the last twenty years? If not Marketing."
"I've been off-world," Grainger whispered conspiratorially, pointing to the ceiling with his still-raised finger.
Marcus looked around, thankful that there were few other shoppers about this early in the day and trying quickly to think of an excuse to cut the conversation short.
"That's where I got such a good tan," confided Grainger. "Stuck in orbit around Vega with a worn-out UV shield."
"Right. Sounds hairy."
"You're not joking," Grainger laughed. "Hence the beard. The Vegans don't believe in shaving. By the time I got back, I'd quite got used to it."
"And you lost weight on account of their food, eh?" Marcus offered, having not come up with the excuse he was searching for yet.
"You've tried it?" Grainger asked, surprised.
"A lucky guess."
"Ah. Well, you'd know what I mean if you had tried it," Grainger continued. "Almost a year on nothing but water and seaweed. That's one thing I did change when I got back."
"Understandable. Look, I'm sorry to cut this short -- it's been great to see you again -- but I have to get all this done before I start work for the day, so I'll have to--"
"Yes, yes, I quite understand," Grainger said, smiling. "I'd suggest going out for a pint to catch up, but I'm off again tomorrow."
"Back to Vega?" Marcus asked nonchalantly, as if it were the most normal place to return to.
"No! Wouldn't go back there if they paid me double! No, it's a different kind of trip altogether this time."
"Oh?"
"Staying exactly where I am, geographically speaking."
"OK. So what kind of trip is it?"
"I'm heading five thousand years into the future," Grainger said, raising his finger again but pointing it ahead of him, down the aisle.
"I'm sorry," said the owner, clutching a three-pack of Fray Bentos as he straightened up and turned to give Marcus an embarrassed smile. The smile died on his lips, replaced by a half-puzzled, half-incredulous look.
"Marcus?" he said hesitantly. "It is Marcus, isn't it? Fancy bumping into you!"
Marcus looked more closely at the man's face. That is to say, he continued to look in much the same way as he had before, only this time he devoted more of his attention to the visual signals. Nevertheless the added brainpower he brought to bear made no difference. He did not recognise the tanned and bearded stranger that stood before him.
"Yes, but--"
"Fenton," the man offered, stretching out his non-corned-beef-holding hand and thereby releasing the trolley which rolled even further into the aisle before being stopped by a stack of baked beans, on offer that week at four for a pound. "Fenton Grainger. Remember? Beauforte House?"
The words trickled through Marcus' language centres like overripe bananas. Beauforte House was a good clue, of course. The old company training house where he'd spent several painful weeks on and off over the last thirty years of his career. But Fenton Grainger? No bells there.
"The Sales and Marketing sheep dip," Grainger continued. "You must remember."
Ah, that explained it. Marcus had never had much time for marketing twaddle, and when the company had decided that everyone - all their managers, salesmen, technical staff, even all the architects and programmers - would benefit from a basic grounding in Marketing (always with a capital M), they had all been forced to spend an agonising week at the Beauforte House training centre in deepest, darkest Berkshire. And as soon as he had returned from that week, Marcus had tried his damnedest to blank the entire experience from his mind.
"I'm so sorry," he began, suddenly aware that he had been woolgathering for almost a minute and the man -- Grainger -- was still stood there with his mouth half open and his hand held out. Marcus took it. A slightly damp, slightly too limp grip. He shook and let go quickly, suppressing a shudder. "I remember the course, well, that is to say I remember going on it -- not so much the content -- but I'm afraid the name doesn't ring a bell. Sorry," he repeated.
"Oh that's OK. I shouldn't be surprised really. I looked an awful lot different back then," Grainger blustered. "No beard. Almost certainly no tan. And as far as I can remember, about a hundred pounds heavier."
Marcus squinted slightly, his mind's eye trying to picture the man in front of him with those new parameters.
"Oh, and red hair of course," he added, ruffling his sweaty hand through his wild pepper-and-salt locks.
The penny dropped! Gringer! Of course. Such flaming ginger hair as Marcus had never seen before or since, and which had led the others on the course to corrupt his surname in merciless taunting. Gringer the Ginger.
"Fenton Grainger!" Marcus exclaimed, hiding his inadvertent internal humour at the resurgence of the memory. "Now I remember. How are you? What have you been doing in the... er..."
"Almost twenty years," Grainger offered. "Where does the time go, eh?"
"Indeed."
"Never did much with Marketing after that."
"You and me both. In fact as far as I know, no-one did. Hardly surprising really though is it? Weren't we all techies that week?"
"Apart from Rickman," Grainger reminded him, holding up a finger as he bent to retrieve his trolley and dump the tins into it. "He was sales I think. Kept himself pretty much to himself."
"Ah yes. I vaguely remember," Marcus lied. "So, what have you been doing the last twenty years? If not Marketing."
"I've been off-world," Grainger whispered conspiratorially, pointing to the ceiling with his still-raised finger.
Marcus looked around, thankful that there were few other shoppers about this early in the day and trying quickly to think of an excuse to cut the conversation short.
"That's where I got such a good tan," confided Grainger. "Stuck in orbit around Vega with a worn-out UV shield."
"Right. Sounds hairy."
"You're not joking," Grainger laughed. "Hence the beard. The Vegans don't believe in shaving. By the time I got back, I'd quite got used to it."
"And you lost weight on account of their food, eh?" Marcus offered, having not come up with the excuse he was searching for yet.
"You've tried it?" Grainger asked, surprised.
"A lucky guess."
"Ah. Well, you'd know what I mean if you had tried it," Grainger continued. "Almost a year on nothing but water and seaweed. That's one thing I did change when I got back."
"Understandable. Look, I'm sorry to cut this short -- it's been great to see you again -- but I have to get all this done before I start work for the day, so I'll have to--"
"Yes, yes, I quite understand," Grainger said, smiling. "I'd suggest going out for a pint to catch up, but I'm off again tomorrow."
"Back to Vega?" Marcus asked nonchalantly, as if it were the most normal place to return to.
"No! Wouldn't go back there if they paid me double! No, it's a different kind of trip altogether this time."
"Oh?"
"Staying exactly where I am, geographically speaking."
"OK. So what kind of trip is it?"
"I'm heading five thousand years into the future," Grainger said, raising his finger again but pointing it ahead of him, down the aisle.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
100TWC - Day 61: Accuracy
Gregor sat beside a rusty iron stanchion, preparing himself. Today was all about planning, limiting options for things going wrong and, in the end, accuracy. His employers would probably count that last item as the most important. After all, it was what they were paying him for. Without accuracy, he would be nothing. Not at the top of his game, with an international reputation and a dozen calls on his, rather expensive, time each month.
But for Gregor, the other two factors were equally if not supremely important. If his focus should happen to waver on this occasion, even though it had been meticulously planned and nothing was likely to go wrong, then he would almost certainly get another chance, on another day. If his planning should fail, however, or his clever ideas for damage limitation were to prove not so clever as he believed, then there might be no second chance. His scope for second chances in that eventuality could even be removed for a very long time.
A gust of wind stirred up a small cloud of dust from the concrete roof. At this height even the calmest day could appear windy. The dust devil spiralled a short distance across the dull grey slabs and dissipated as quickly as it had been born. The likelihood of just such a sudden gust had been factored into Gregor's plans. When the time came, he could make the adjustment if necessary.
He unlocked the clasps on his worn black attaché case and flipped them open. No combination locks for him. Far too easily cracked. A four-digit combination could be broken inside half an hour by a skilled code breaker. If the contents of his nondescript bag were to be discovered, well, that was another of the damage limitation measures he preferred not to think about. His precautions had, so far, been sufficient, but Gregor was never complacent. Although from the outside the case appeared to be worn, it contained the very latest protective countermeasures. He had replaced the locks with titanium-hardened 7-lever tumblers that would survive an attempt to explode the bag. The sides of the case were lined with a material more opaque to normal airline X-rays than lead. And the inner linings had been crafted to reveal to those X-rays outlines of mundane, everyday objects that would allay even the most suspicious security personnel. So far, in fifteen years of use, he had never been asked to open the case.
He opened the lid. The final lingering fingers of the late afternoon sun gave his equipment a warm burnished glow that denied its deadly purpose. With the practised ease of his long experience he began to assemble the individual pieces, selecting them in the same order as he always did, checking them over with eyes that could detect the slightest imperfection, and fitting them smoothly into place. A small smile played over his face at the satisfying clicks as the assembly progressed. With a few seconds the task was complete. The tool of his trade lay in his lap, ready for use.
Once the job was complete, Gregor knew exactly how long it would take to disassemble and return the pieces to his case. Eight seconds. Roughly two-thirds of the time it took to put it together, if he were in a hurry. Today, with his plan carefully worked out and still, for the present at least, on track, he had been able to take his time. There had been occasions, a few only but all the more memorable for that, when he had had to change position. To run through the streets to his second, or -- just once -- third position. On those occasions assembly had been a more urgent task and one for which he had to rely on his instincts, memory and familiarity with his equipment to complete the job as quickly and accurately as possible. No time to check for misalignment, or wear on the individual sections, he had to trust that his meticulously careful cleaning of his tools after each job would be enough. Today, he was confident all was in order. There would be no slip-ups. No need for alternative positions. It was all good.
Gregor checked his watch. The time had come. He hefted the high-powered semi-automatic rifle over the concrete parapet, put his eye to the telescopic night-enhanced sight, and took careful aim.
But for Gregor, the other two factors were equally if not supremely important. If his focus should happen to waver on this occasion, even though it had been meticulously planned and nothing was likely to go wrong, then he would almost certainly get another chance, on another day. If his planning should fail, however, or his clever ideas for damage limitation were to prove not so clever as he believed, then there might be no second chance. His scope for second chances in that eventuality could even be removed for a very long time.
A gust of wind stirred up a small cloud of dust from the concrete roof. At this height even the calmest day could appear windy. The dust devil spiralled a short distance across the dull grey slabs and dissipated as quickly as it had been born. The likelihood of just such a sudden gust had been factored into Gregor's plans. When the time came, he could make the adjustment if necessary.
He unlocked the clasps on his worn black attaché case and flipped them open. No combination locks for him. Far too easily cracked. A four-digit combination could be broken inside half an hour by a skilled code breaker. If the contents of his nondescript bag were to be discovered, well, that was another of the damage limitation measures he preferred not to think about. His precautions had, so far, been sufficient, but Gregor was never complacent. Although from the outside the case appeared to be worn, it contained the very latest protective countermeasures. He had replaced the locks with titanium-hardened 7-lever tumblers that would survive an attempt to explode the bag. The sides of the case were lined with a material more opaque to normal airline X-rays than lead. And the inner linings had been crafted to reveal to those X-rays outlines of mundane, everyday objects that would allay even the most suspicious security personnel. So far, in fifteen years of use, he had never been asked to open the case.
He opened the lid. The final lingering fingers of the late afternoon sun gave his equipment a warm burnished glow that denied its deadly purpose. With the practised ease of his long experience he began to assemble the individual pieces, selecting them in the same order as he always did, checking them over with eyes that could detect the slightest imperfection, and fitting them smoothly into place. A small smile played over his face at the satisfying clicks as the assembly progressed. With a few seconds the task was complete. The tool of his trade lay in his lap, ready for use.
Once the job was complete, Gregor knew exactly how long it would take to disassemble and return the pieces to his case. Eight seconds. Roughly two-thirds of the time it took to put it together, if he were in a hurry. Today, with his plan carefully worked out and still, for the present at least, on track, he had been able to take his time. There had been occasions, a few only but all the more memorable for that, when he had had to change position. To run through the streets to his second, or -- just once -- third position. On those occasions assembly had been a more urgent task and one for which he had to rely on his instincts, memory and familiarity with his equipment to complete the job as quickly and accurately as possible. No time to check for misalignment, or wear on the individual sections, he had to trust that his meticulously careful cleaning of his tools after each job would be enough. Today, he was confident all was in order. There would be no slip-ups. No need for alternative positions. It was all good.
Gregor checked his watch. The time had come. He hefted the high-powered semi-automatic rifle over the concrete parapet, put his eye to the telescopic night-enhanced sight, and took careful aim.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
100TWC - Day 60: Exhaustion
There was still no end in sight. How long had he been climbing? Without any external clues - sunlight, moonlight, stars, a watch - it was impossible to tell. Counting one-one thousand wouldn't have been any good, even if he'd thought to begin when he started. That point was, by now, way below him. How far, he couldn't imagine. Didn't even like to think about it in case it set off his vertigo again.
Funny how he'd always thought he didn't suffer from vertigo. He'd never been one of those to experience cold shivers when walking down the stairwell of a high-rise office block or hotel. The views from the window had always fascinated him. Attracted him, even. He'd been up the Space Needle and the CN Tower. Stood on the glass floors and stared straight down. No problem. Felt kinda weird being suspended in mid-air like that when part of your brain still insisted you were standing on the floor, but in a madcap kind of way he enjoyed it. Could never empathise - or even, for the most part, sympathise - with anyone who shied away from such experiences, although he stopped short of ridiculing them.
He held on to that small crumb of comfort now. That lack of ridicule. Because he was certain he looked pretty ridiculous now. Clinging to this ladder and climbing from way down there to way up there without a clue how he got there or where he was going. A slick of sweat on his face and the smell from his armpits giving away his terror, though there was no-one around to suffer it.
It wouldn't have been any use counting rungs either. Sure, they were evenly spaced, but his pace was anything but even. Every now and then when a fresh wave of vertigo struck he would have to stop climbing and cling to the rung, wrapping his arms around the riser, clasping his hands tight around each opposite wrist, and hoping his legs wouldn't give out. Even without the vertigo he had to keep stopping to catch his breath. He'd never been the fittest of the bunch but this climb would have tested the best of the high-school jocks who used to taunt his incipient beer belly all those years before.
After an hour or so - or what felt like an hour - he'd settled into a kind of rhythm. Climb for a bit, rest for a bit, climb for a bit, and repeat that around ten times before stopping for a longer rest, until his heart slowed again and his breathing returned to normal. That had seemed a good strategy at the time, but lately he'd begun to worry that it slowed his climb significantly. As time went on, the rest stops did nothing to reduce the aching in his arms and legs. Sure, his circulation was still recovering, but his muscles were getting more and more tired. The lactic acid build-up was beginning to bite, and if he stopped moving for too long his legs would begin to shake and his arms wouldn't obey the instructions from his increasingly fatigued and frightened brain.
Where the hell was this anyway? And where did it lead? He had no memory of starting up the ladder. No idea what was at the base, or even if he had begun his climb at the bottom. It had been a little darker down there, maybe. Like he was climbing out of a pit. But if that was true it was a pit with no visible sides. No sign of support. And if, as he vaguely remembered, there had been less light down there, then there wasn't all that much more light up here. The change was almost entirely imperceptible. There was no "blue sky" above him, or hadn't been the last time he'd looked and almost lost his grip on the rungs and fallen back to wherever it was he'd started. No matter which way he figured it he must already have climbed a couple of thousand feet and he knew with bone deep certainty that the vinegar in his muscles wouldn't allow him another couple of thousand. Not even half that. And still no sign of there being any top to the climb.
He stopped again, panting, and drew a hand across his brow to prevent the accumulated sweat running into his eyes. With his arms once more locked around the ladder he stared straight ahead, standing on his right leg and resting his left, squinting through the bland greyness that surrounded him to try to make out any pattern, any hint of substance beyond. He looked left, and right, staring into nothing, unable to focus since there was nothing to focus on. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. There were no colours. It was as if the word 'void' had been made real and wrapped around him in a long tube with no beginning and no end.
He shifted onto his left leg to try to relieve the aches, but as fast as one ache died away another took its place. He had to keep moving. This close to total exhaustion one false step would mean a certain fall, and if his estimate of distance was even halfway accurate, certain death.
Funny how he'd always thought he didn't suffer from vertigo. He'd never been one of those to experience cold shivers when walking down the stairwell of a high-rise office block or hotel. The views from the window had always fascinated him. Attracted him, even. He'd been up the Space Needle and the CN Tower. Stood on the glass floors and stared straight down. No problem. Felt kinda weird being suspended in mid-air like that when part of your brain still insisted you were standing on the floor, but in a madcap kind of way he enjoyed it. Could never empathise - or even, for the most part, sympathise - with anyone who shied away from such experiences, although he stopped short of ridiculing them.
He held on to that small crumb of comfort now. That lack of ridicule. Because he was certain he looked pretty ridiculous now. Clinging to this ladder and climbing from way down there to way up there without a clue how he got there or where he was going. A slick of sweat on his face and the smell from his armpits giving away his terror, though there was no-one around to suffer it.
It wouldn't have been any use counting rungs either. Sure, they were evenly spaced, but his pace was anything but even. Every now and then when a fresh wave of vertigo struck he would have to stop climbing and cling to the rung, wrapping his arms around the riser, clasping his hands tight around each opposite wrist, and hoping his legs wouldn't give out. Even without the vertigo he had to keep stopping to catch his breath. He'd never been the fittest of the bunch but this climb would have tested the best of the high-school jocks who used to taunt his incipient beer belly all those years before.
After an hour or so - or what felt like an hour - he'd settled into a kind of rhythm. Climb for a bit, rest for a bit, climb for a bit, and repeat that around ten times before stopping for a longer rest, until his heart slowed again and his breathing returned to normal. That had seemed a good strategy at the time, but lately he'd begun to worry that it slowed his climb significantly. As time went on, the rest stops did nothing to reduce the aching in his arms and legs. Sure, his circulation was still recovering, but his muscles were getting more and more tired. The lactic acid build-up was beginning to bite, and if he stopped moving for too long his legs would begin to shake and his arms wouldn't obey the instructions from his increasingly fatigued and frightened brain.
Where the hell was this anyway? And where did it lead? He had no memory of starting up the ladder. No idea what was at the base, or even if he had begun his climb at the bottom. It had been a little darker down there, maybe. Like he was climbing out of a pit. But if that was true it was a pit with no visible sides. No sign of support. And if, as he vaguely remembered, there had been less light down there, then there wasn't all that much more light up here. The change was almost entirely imperceptible. There was no "blue sky" above him, or hadn't been the last time he'd looked and almost lost his grip on the rungs and fallen back to wherever it was he'd started. No matter which way he figured it he must already have climbed a couple of thousand feet and he knew with bone deep certainty that the vinegar in his muscles wouldn't allow him another couple of thousand. Not even half that. And still no sign of there being any top to the climb.
He stopped again, panting, and drew a hand across his brow to prevent the accumulated sweat running into his eyes. With his arms once more locked around the ladder he stared straight ahead, standing on his right leg and resting his left, squinting through the bland greyness that surrounded him to try to make out any pattern, any hint of substance beyond. He looked left, and right, staring into nothing, unable to focus since there was nothing to focus on. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. There were no colours. It was as if the word 'void' had been made real and wrapped around him in a long tube with no beginning and no end.
He shifted onto his left leg to try to relieve the aches, but as fast as one ache died away another took its place. He had to keep moving. This close to total exhaustion one false step would mean a certain fall, and if his estimate of distance was even halfway accurate, certain death.
Monday, September 24, 2012
100TWC - Day 59: Challenged
The chiascuro of whirling bright lights dissipated. Jann Arden's eyes adapted to the relative gloom of his surroundings. He had no idea where he was. A room. Dilapidated. Faded. Old. There was no light in the room but a strange blue glow filtered in through the worn blinds. He could make out shapes. A bed. A nightstand beside it. A bureau, and a bentwood chair. A door to another room. And one to a hallway, hanging open with its lock broken. A hotel room then? Or a small apartment.
A peculiar smell hung in the air. Thick and sweet. Jann couldn't tell where it was coming from. He moved across the room slowly, his eyes still not fully accustomed to the murk. On the other side of the bed, in front of an incongruous ornate marble fireplace, a body lay on the floor. A man, blood oozing from an open gash in his throat. A few feet from the body a large knife lay on the carpet. It had spattered the white marble of the hearth as it fell. He knelt beside the body, felt briefly and hopelessly for a pulse, picked up the knife. He turned it over in the pale light washing from the window. Blood stained the blade black in the electric blue light.
Three beams of incandescent white light tore through the room from the hallway.
"Drop the weapon!"
Jann stood up, turned to the light.
"Drop the weapon and kneel on the floor! Now!"
Jann was bewildered. Where was this place? Why did he have to kneel down? He opened his arms, trying to appear harmless.
"But... I..." he began.
"DOWN! NOW!" cried the voice. The three beams resolved themselves into torches, carried by three men in dark red uniforms. Each carried a gun in their other hand. The man doing all the shouting also carried a gun, only this one was pointed at Jann's chest and held in both hands. Jann dropped to the floor, letting the knife fall from his fingers to the carpet once more.
The shouting man stepped swiftly up to Jann and pulled his hands roughly together behind his back. "You are obliged to answer any question put to you by a member of the MIF." he barked. "You have the right to a Protector. If you do not have access to a Protector one will be appointed for you. You must provide a DNA sample on request. These are the rights and obligations as determined by the Council of Mars. Do you understand?"
Jann had no idea what a Protector was, but it sounded like he might need one. He nodded.
"Do you understand? Answer the question!"
"Yes," he replied. But he didn't. For one thing, where the hell was 'Mars'?
The man pulled him to his feet.
"Clear, sir!" he called.
A fifth man stepped into the room. Dressed differently from the other four, in a cream suit, he carried no weapon, only an air of superiority and calm indifference. He looked quickly and efficiently around the small room, poked his head through the second door and walked over to the body.
"Do we know who he is?"
"Prefect Montague of District Seven," replied the shouting man, whose lapel badge Jann could now see read HAYNES.
The man turned to him, staring at him for several seconds before asking: "Did you know this man? Prefect Montague."
"No," said Jann.
"Why did you kill him?"
"I didn't. I..."
"He was still holding the knife when we got here, sir!" declared Haynes.
"I only just got here myself," Jann said, "he was already dead."
"The medical examiner will tell us whether that is true or not," the suited man replied, "but if you didn't kill him and you didn't know him, what were you doing here?"
A peculiar smell hung in the air. Thick and sweet. Jann couldn't tell where it was coming from. He moved across the room slowly, his eyes still not fully accustomed to the murk. On the other side of the bed, in front of an incongruous ornate marble fireplace, a body lay on the floor. A man, blood oozing from an open gash in his throat. A few feet from the body a large knife lay on the carpet. It had spattered the white marble of the hearth as it fell. He knelt beside the body, felt briefly and hopelessly for a pulse, picked up the knife. He turned it over in the pale light washing from the window. Blood stained the blade black in the electric blue light.
Three beams of incandescent white light tore through the room from the hallway.
"Drop the weapon!"
Jann stood up, turned to the light.
"Drop the weapon and kneel on the floor! Now!"
Jann was bewildered. Where was this place? Why did he have to kneel down? He opened his arms, trying to appear harmless.
"But... I..." he began.
"DOWN! NOW!" cried the voice. The three beams resolved themselves into torches, carried by three men in dark red uniforms. Each carried a gun in their other hand. The man doing all the shouting also carried a gun, only this one was pointed at Jann's chest and held in both hands. Jann dropped to the floor, letting the knife fall from his fingers to the carpet once more.
The shouting man stepped swiftly up to Jann and pulled his hands roughly together behind his back. "You are obliged to answer any question put to you by a member of the MIF." he barked. "You have the right to a Protector. If you do not have access to a Protector one will be appointed for you. You must provide a DNA sample on request. These are the rights and obligations as determined by the Council of Mars. Do you understand?"
Jann had no idea what a Protector was, but it sounded like he might need one. He nodded.
"Do you understand? Answer the question!"
"Yes," he replied. But he didn't. For one thing, where the hell was 'Mars'?
The man pulled him to his feet.
"Clear, sir!" he called.
A fifth man stepped into the room. Dressed differently from the other four, in a cream suit, he carried no weapon, only an air of superiority and calm indifference. He looked quickly and efficiently around the small room, poked his head through the second door and walked over to the body.
"Do we know who he is?"
"Prefect Montague of District Seven," replied the shouting man, whose lapel badge Jann could now see read HAYNES.
The man turned to him, staring at him for several seconds before asking: "Did you know this man? Prefect Montague."
"No," said Jann.
"Why did you kill him?"
"I didn't. I..."
"He was still holding the knife when we got here, sir!" declared Haynes.
"I only just got here myself," Jann said, "he was already dead."
"The medical examiner will tell us whether that is true or not," the suited man replied, "but if you didn't kill him and you didn't know him, what were you doing here?"
Sunday, September 23, 2012
100TWC - Day 58: Heartfelt Apology
This is a hard one. Hard to write, almost certainly hard to read. Hard to even think about. Because there's an apology - a heartfelt apology - that I have needed to make for a long time, and I can never make it.
Do you think about it much? I bet you do. In those quiet moments, perhaps, before you go to sleep. Or if you're feeling down for any reason. Or sometimes does it hit you at the most surprising times, when everything is sunshine and warmth and happiness. And then you remember with a sudden jolt and a lump in the throat. I do.
But for me -- and I know this isn't about me, but this is how I still feel about it; the only way I can express it -- for me the worst times are whenever I see or hear stories of abandonment. Of children left behind. They always make me cry. I'm crying now, thinking about it. Writing about it. There are some scenes, in some movies, that I simply cannot watch.
Even now, with the perspective of all these years, it's still there. Like a stain on my soul. One that I can never scrub off no matter what I do to repair that old wound. It bears a scar, you see. I knew it would. I talked it over and over with people who had been through it. Talking about it like that was, partly, just a way of postponing the inevitable, but it was also a way of validating the hard decision. I needed to be certain that, of all the bad choices I could make, the one I ended up with was the least bad for the most number of people. Which is why it took me so long to go. Even though I knew for a long time I had to, I couldn't bring myself to do it for years. Because I would always, always rather hurt myself than hurt you.
In the end though, I knew there was nothing else for it. I had to do it. Because staying, in the long term, would have caused more hurt than going. I tried to explain, even though I knew I never would be able to. Even though I knew the message would be garbled, and infected with lies and half-truths by those more interested in serving their own agenda. You couldn't possibly have understood, back then. And knowing that you understand now, now that you're all grown up and out there, doing your own things and living your own lives and, no doubt, making your own mistakes the way all of us do. Stumbling around in the dark looking for the way forward. Now I know you understand, it helps. A little. But you didn't understand at the time. You were bewildered, frightened, angry, and lost.
And that's the hurt I can never mend, no matter how many times I apologise. I can't go back there and be there for you, help you through it the way I always had up to that point. The way I started to again, much later. So this isn't only an apology to you today, though you surely deserve one. It is also -- or even mainly, perhaps -- an apology to the 11-year-old you, and the 6-year-old you. The frightened, tearful girls I left behind who grew up, in spite of all the pain and loss, to be the most wonderful, talented, beautiful daughters a man could ever dream of. Love you.
Do you think about it much? I bet you do. In those quiet moments, perhaps, before you go to sleep. Or if you're feeling down for any reason. Or sometimes does it hit you at the most surprising times, when everything is sunshine and warmth and happiness. And then you remember with a sudden jolt and a lump in the throat. I do.
But for me -- and I know this isn't about me, but this is how I still feel about it; the only way I can express it -- for me the worst times are whenever I see or hear stories of abandonment. Of children left behind. They always make me cry. I'm crying now, thinking about it. Writing about it. There are some scenes, in some movies, that I simply cannot watch.
Even now, with the perspective of all these years, it's still there. Like a stain on my soul. One that I can never scrub off no matter what I do to repair that old wound. It bears a scar, you see. I knew it would. I talked it over and over with people who had been through it. Talking about it like that was, partly, just a way of postponing the inevitable, but it was also a way of validating the hard decision. I needed to be certain that, of all the bad choices I could make, the one I ended up with was the least bad for the most number of people. Which is why it took me so long to go. Even though I knew for a long time I had to, I couldn't bring myself to do it for years. Because I would always, always rather hurt myself than hurt you.
In the end though, I knew there was nothing else for it. I had to do it. Because staying, in the long term, would have caused more hurt than going. I tried to explain, even though I knew I never would be able to. Even though I knew the message would be garbled, and infected with lies and half-truths by those more interested in serving their own agenda. You couldn't possibly have understood, back then. And knowing that you understand now, now that you're all grown up and out there, doing your own things and living your own lives and, no doubt, making your own mistakes the way all of us do. Stumbling around in the dark looking for the way forward. Now I know you understand, it helps. A little. But you didn't understand at the time. You were bewildered, frightened, angry, and lost.
And that's the hurt I can never mend, no matter how many times I apologise. I can't go back there and be there for you, help you through it the way I always had up to that point. The way I started to again, much later. So this isn't only an apology to you today, though you surely deserve one. It is also -- or even mainly, perhaps -- an apology to the 11-year-old you, and the 6-year-old you. The frightened, tearful girls I left behind who grew up, in spite of all the pain and loss, to be the most wonderful, talented, beautiful daughters a man could ever dream of. Love you.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
100TWC - Day 57: Slow Down
"Come on - Ian's brought his car."
"You have got to be joking. He's had way too much."
"No I 'aven't. Only 'ad three pints."
"In the bar, maybe. What about earlier?"
"...was AGES ago. I'll have processed all that by now."
Julie hesitated. Ian was not a particularly good driver at the best of times, but once he'd got some drink inside him he was worse than reckless.
"Come on Ju," Hettie insisted. "We've left it too late to get a cab now. We'll miss the start if we don't go with them."
Ian was already behind the wheel, struggling to get his key in the ignition. It didn't look good. But Hettie had joined Roland and Kyle in the back seat and was holding the door open for her. Ian's new girlfriend - Julie couldn't remember her name - wound down the front passenger window.
"Are you coming or not?"
Ian finally found the ignition and fired up the engine.
"Let's go!" he yelled, revving hard.
Despite the insistent cries of her little voice that it was mad, Julie squashed in beside Hettie and closed the door. Four of them in the back of Ian's old Austin was easily one too many, especially with Hettie being... bigger than average. Julie twisted into the corner to sit on one cheek as Ian gunned the car away from the kerb.
"Not too fast, Ian," she called over the roar of the engine, "we're not THAT late."
"Relax!" Ian leered into the rear view mirror, grabbing it and adjusting it roughly so he could see Julie's face (and, incidentally, her cleavage, she thought). "I'm in total control."
"That's what I'm worried about," she muttered as Ian crossed a traffic light on the cusp of amber.
"Woo!" shouted Debbie (her name popped into Julie's mind) from the front. "Yeah! Go Ian."
Ian grinned widely at the appreciation and began showing off for his "audience", dropping a gear and accelerating toward the next green light. They were still a couple of hundred metres away when it flicked to amber, but Ian wasn't looking. He was waving a hand at the glovebox.
"Open it Debs," he said. "Need another drink."
"No, Ian!" Julie cried. "Wait 'til we're there."
"Come on," Ian insisted. Debbie unlatched the compartment and reached inside to retrieve a quarter bottle of whisky, already more than a third gone. She passed it over.
"Perfect!" Ian said, steering with one hand as he chugged the whisky. The light turned red as they crossed it, this time just the wrong side of legal.
"Red light runner!" yelled Roland. "Forfeit one mouthful of whisky!"
He held out his hand. Ian leaned back with the bottle, spilling it over his wrist. The Austin drifted over to the wrong side of the road.
"Shit," Ian said, more worried about the loss of booze than his errant direction.
"Ian! Watch it!" Julie yelled.
"Sorry!" he laughed, over correcting and swerving the Austin towards the nearside kerb. "Whoops."
"For Christ's sake, slow down. You'll hit somebody."
"Who? Nobody around this time of night round here." He laughed again. "They're all in the pub."
"If you don't slow down, I'm getting out," Julie said loudly.
"Calm down Ju," Hettie poked her in the ribs. "It's only a bit of fun."
Julie looked at her pityingly. "You won't be saying that when you're picking bits of yourself up off the road."
She looked over at Kyle, who hadn't said a word since they left the bar. He looked very pale. A sheen of sweat slicked his forehead, sticking his gelled fringe down in even more bizarre shapes than he'd intended.
"You OK, Kyle?" Julie asked
"For fuck's sake, don't throw up on me," Hettie said, trying to twist away from him and squashing Julie even harder against the door in the process.
"M'OK," Kyle mumbled. "Don't really like small spaces."
"Great. He's fucking claustrophobic," Debbie said, her face pulled into a hard stare. "Hurry up Ian. We don't want him puking in the car."
"Your wish is my command," Ian saluted with his whisky-soaked fingers and floored the accelerator.
"IAN!" Julie yelled, now really frightened. "Stop this! You're going way too fast."
"I feel the need," he shouted, grabbing the wheel with both hands and leaning forward like some maniacal character from Wacky Races, "the need for speed."
"You have got to be joking. He's had way too much."
"No I 'aven't. Only 'ad three pints."
"In the bar, maybe. What about earlier?"
"...was AGES ago. I'll have processed all that by now."
Julie hesitated. Ian was not a particularly good driver at the best of times, but once he'd got some drink inside him he was worse than reckless.
"Come on Ju," Hettie insisted. "We've left it too late to get a cab now. We'll miss the start if we don't go with them."
Ian was already behind the wheel, struggling to get his key in the ignition. It didn't look good. But Hettie had joined Roland and Kyle in the back seat and was holding the door open for her. Ian's new girlfriend - Julie couldn't remember her name - wound down the front passenger window.
"Are you coming or not?"
Ian finally found the ignition and fired up the engine.
"Let's go!" he yelled, revving hard.
Despite the insistent cries of her little voice that it was mad, Julie squashed in beside Hettie and closed the door. Four of them in the back of Ian's old Austin was easily one too many, especially with Hettie being... bigger than average. Julie twisted into the corner to sit on one cheek as Ian gunned the car away from the kerb.
"Not too fast, Ian," she called over the roar of the engine, "we're not THAT late."
"Relax!" Ian leered into the rear view mirror, grabbing it and adjusting it roughly so he could see Julie's face (and, incidentally, her cleavage, she thought). "I'm in total control."
"That's what I'm worried about," she muttered as Ian crossed a traffic light on the cusp of amber.
"Woo!" shouted Debbie (her name popped into Julie's mind) from the front. "Yeah! Go Ian."
Ian grinned widely at the appreciation and began showing off for his "audience", dropping a gear and accelerating toward the next green light. They were still a couple of hundred metres away when it flicked to amber, but Ian wasn't looking. He was waving a hand at the glovebox.
"Open it Debs," he said. "Need another drink."
"No, Ian!" Julie cried. "Wait 'til we're there."
"Come on," Ian insisted. Debbie unlatched the compartment and reached inside to retrieve a quarter bottle of whisky, already more than a third gone. She passed it over.
"Perfect!" Ian said, steering with one hand as he chugged the whisky. The light turned red as they crossed it, this time just the wrong side of legal.
"Red light runner!" yelled Roland. "Forfeit one mouthful of whisky!"
He held out his hand. Ian leaned back with the bottle, spilling it over his wrist. The Austin drifted over to the wrong side of the road.
"Shit," Ian said, more worried about the loss of booze than his errant direction.
"Ian! Watch it!" Julie yelled.
"Sorry!" he laughed, over correcting and swerving the Austin towards the nearside kerb. "Whoops."
"For Christ's sake, slow down. You'll hit somebody."
"Who? Nobody around this time of night round here." He laughed again. "They're all in the pub."
"If you don't slow down, I'm getting out," Julie said loudly.
"Calm down Ju," Hettie poked her in the ribs. "It's only a bit of fun."
Julie looked at her pityingly. "You won't be saying that when you're picking bits of yourself up off the road."
She looked over at Kyle, who hadn't said a word since they left the bar. He looked very pale. A sheen of sweat slicked his forehead, sticking his gelled fringe down in even more bizarre shapes than he'd intended.
"You OK, Kyle?" Julie asked
"For fuck's sake, don't throw up on me," Hettie said, trying to twist away from him and squashing Julie even harder against the door in the process.
"M'OK," Kyle mumbled. "Don't really like small spaces."
"Great. He's fucking claustrophobic," Debbie said, her face pulled into a hard stare. "Hurry up Ian. We don't want him puking in the car."
"Your wish is my command," Ian saluted with his whisky-soaked fingers and floored the accelerator.
"IAN!" Julie yelled, now really frightened. "Stop this! You're going way too fast."
"I feel the need," he shouted, grabbing the wheel with both hands and leaning forward like some maniacal character from Wacky Races, "the need for speed."
Friday, September 21, 2012
100TWC - Day 56: Everything For You
Shona dug her friend sharply in the ribs.
"See? It's changed again."
"Ow!" Ella rubbed the spot, frowning. "Yes, alright. So what?"
"It changes every day."
"So you said."
"Don't you think it's strange? I never saw a shop that changed its window display every day."
"You can hardly call that a display," Ella replied, still frowning as she squinted across the road against the early morning sun. "It's only one thing. On a stool."
"I still think it's weird."
"I wish the bus would hurry up."
"I wonder what else they sell?"
"Who knows. Or cares?"
"God. You're so boring sometimes. Nothing ever happens around here and then someone takes over the old grocer's and puts loads of interesting and weird stuff in the window--"
"ONE thing."
"AT A TIME. OK, a SERIES of interesting stuff in the window, and no-one knows what they sell."
"Says everything."
"What?"
"The sign. 'Everything For You'. They must sell everything."
"Don't be daft! Nowhere sells everything. How would they fit it all in that little shop? It's only a grocer's."
"Was a grocer's. I wonder if they still sell fruit and veg and breakfast cereal?"
"See? You ARE interested. Why would they still sell groceries? It's not a grocer's any more."
"No, but they reckon they sell everything. That must include groceries."
"Think you're clever do you?"
The bus arrived, interrupting their incipient argument. Across the road, a thin blue-veined hand appeared inside the door of the shop they had been discussing, and turned the sign over to "CLOSED."
"Let's go in."
"What for?"
"To see what they've got."
"We don't have time! I've got a mountain of homework, and so have you."
"Five minutes."
"No Shona!"
Ella's plea was too late. Shona had already disappeared through the shop door.
"God's sake!" Ella sighed, following her friend into the gloomy interior of the shop.
Whoever owned it obviously had no notion of modern, 21st century retail. No mood lighting, or product placement. No special offer signs. No racks of brightly packaged goods. Beside the door, in the window on the now-familiar stool, stood a blue glass vase painted with an unusual geometric design. The rest of the shop was deserted save for a long counter on the back wall upon which sat an old manual till, its brass and pewter scrollwork shining dully in the gloom. The inside of the shop was lit with two small chandeliers, each holding six incandescent bulbs of very low wattage. They glowed amber and illuminated the shop with a sickly yellow light. The floor, which until only a few weeks ago would have been littered with bags of potatoes and rice, and shelves stacked high with domestic dry goods, was now entirely empty. Its bare boards swept, but uncovered.
"There's nothing here," Ella whispered. "Let's go."
"Can I help you ladies?" a deep voiced intoned. A tall, thin man stepped out from behind a curtain at the side of the till. He placed his hands on the counter. He wore a black suit, tie, and shirt. In the dim light of the shop his dark attire seemed to make his face and hands float eerily above the counter, unconnected to each other or anything else. "Shona, isn't it?" he asked, peering blearily at Shona.
"How do you know her name?" asked Ella.
"And Ella," the man went on. "Did you have a nice day at school?"
Ella swallowed.
"How do you know our names?"
"I think one of the locals might have mentioned you," the man said, cocking his head on one side as if trying to remember exactly who. "How fascinated you are with our little display."
"I never--" Shona began, but the man interrupted her, speaking as he bent down beneath the counter.
"I have something here for you," he said, "that might interest you."
He straightened, and placed a medium-sized book on the polished mahogany countertop.
A TEXT BOOK OF INDIAN HISTORY
read the title in large letters, while underneath in smaller letters, was printed
WITH GEOGRAPHICAL NOTES
"Just what you've been after for your homework, I think?"
The man smiled at Shona. She looked at the text, and back at the man.
"How did you--"
"And for Ella," he continued, opening a cabinet behind the till. Until that very moment Ella would have sworn the cabinet was empty, yet the man took from it a small box. He set it gently on the counter and removed the lid. Inside lay a burnished copper fountain pen. Ella had lost her own pen that very afternoon.
"See? It's changed again."
"Ow!" Ella rubbed the spot, frowning. "Yes, alright. So what?"
"It changes every day."
"So you said."
"Don't you think it's strange? I never saw a shop that changed its window display every day."
"You can hardly call that a display," Ella replied, still frowning as she squinted across the road against the early morning sun. "It's only one thing. On a stool."
"I still think it's weird."
"I wish the bus would hurry up."
"I wonder what else they sell?"
"Who knows. Or cares?"
"God. You're so boring sometimes. Nothing ever happens around here and then someone takes over the old grocer's and puts loads of interesting and weird stuff in the window--"
"ONE thing."
"AT A TIME. OK, a SERIES of interesting stuff in the window, and no-one knows what they sell."
"Says everything."
"What?"
"The sign. 'Everything For You'. They must sell everything."
"Don't be daft! Nowhere sells everything. How would they fit it all in that little shop? It's only a grocer's."
"Was a grocer's. I wonder if they still sell fruit and veg and breakfast cereal?"
"See? You ARE interested. Why would they still sell groceries? It's not a grocer's any more."
"No, but they reckon they sell everything. That must include groceries."
"Think you're clever do you?"
The bus arrived, interrupting their incipient argument. Across the road, a thin blue-veined hand appeared inside the door of the shop they had been discussing, and turned the sign over to "CLOSED."
*
Shona and Ella alighted from the bus, their satchels weighed down with text books for the evening's homework, their faces still glowing from the last lesson of the day, which had been P.E. The homecoming bus stop stood right beside the old grocery shop. The sign in the door read "OPEN"."Let's go in."
"What for?"
"To see what they've got."
"We don't have time! I've got a mountain of homework, and so have you."
"Five minutes."
"No Shona!"
Ella's plea was too late. Shona had already disappeared through the shop door.
"God's sake!" Ella sighed, following her friend into the gloomy interior of the shop.
Whoever owned it obviously had no notion of modern, 21st century retail. No mood lighting, or product placement. No special offer signs. No racks of brightly packaged goods. Beside the door, in the window on the now-familiar stool, stood a blue glass vase painted with an unusual geometric design. The rest of the shop was deserted save for a long counter on the back wall upon which sat an old manual till, its brass and pewter scrollwork shining dully in the gloom. The inside of the shop was lit with two small chandeliers, each holding six incandescent bulbs of very low wattage. They glowed amber and illuminated the shop with a sickly yellow light. The floor, which until only a few weeks ago would have been littered with bags of potatoes and rice, and shelves stacked high with domestic dry goods, was now entirely empty. Its bare boards swept, but uncovered.
"There's nothing here," Ella whispered. "Let's go."
"Can I help you ladies?" a deep voiced intoned. A tall, thin man stepped out from behind a curtain at the side of the till. He placed his hands on the counter. He wore a black suit, tie, and shirt. In the dim light of the shop his dark attire seemed to make his face and hands float eerily above the counter, unconnected to each other or anything else. "Shona, isn't it?" he asked, peering blearily at Shona.
"How do you know her name?" asked Ella.
"And Ella," the man went on. "Did you have a nice day at school?"
Ella swallowed.
"How do you know our names?"
"I think one of the locals might have mentioned you," the man said, cocking his head on one side as if trying to remember exactly who. "How fascinated you are with our little display."
"I never--" Shona began, but the man interrupted her, speaking as he bent down beneath the counter.
"I have something here for you," he said, "that might interest you."
He straightened, and placed a medium-sized book on the polished mahogany countertop.
A TEXT BOOK OF INDIAN HISTORY
read the title in large letters, while underneath in smaller letters, was printed
WITH GEOGRAPHICAL NOTES
"Just what you've been after for your homework, I think?"
The man smiled at Shona. She looked at the text, and back at the man.
"How did you--"
"And for Ella," he continued, opening a cabinet behind the till. Until that very moment Ella would have sworn the cabinet was empty, yet the man took from it a small box. He set it gently on the counter and removed the lid. Inside lay a burnished copper fountain pen. Ella had lost her own pen that very afternoon.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
100TWC - Day 55: Separation
The almost-matt brown surface gleamed under the bright halogen lights. Nestling in its carton, the gravid oval roundness suggested fertility even if it gave no clue as to what lay inside. Plump. Ripe. Heavy in the hand once it was plucked from its sanctuary. It was the colour of ripeness too. Of a nut newly fallen from its tree. Not yet ready to sprout and good for the eating.
Eating would be on the agenda here too, soon. But not yet. That silk-sheen surface, still refrigerator cold to the touch, appeared at first glance to be perfect. Unblemished and uniform. Created with almost factory precision, with almost a factory's efficiency and delivery rate too. A closer look revealed the uniformity to be only a trick of the eye. The surface was flecked. Almost pixellated. In places a few hard blebs commingled with the smoothness, wrecking its satisfying curvature on colliding with the eye.
The surface gave a comforting crack as it struck the rim of the polished pyrex dish. Small brown flakes, released by the destructive contact, flew to the floor avoiding the interior of the dish. A lucky escape. Fingernails sought an opportunity, urgently yet slowly pressing, demanding a parting of the carapace. Once begun, its integrity breached, the husk revealed its secret. Glistening and gelid, shining into the open air and the aching light, it lay quivering in half a moon, dripping small gobs of gelatinous content into the open waiting maw of the dish.
With infinite slowness and care, the moon was rotated and the sun rose into view. Appearing through the pale jelly as the heavenly sun might appear through the morning mist. It rose, turned restlessly and fell from the broken ragged lip of the rind like a castle defender tipped from the ramparts by an attacking arrow. But it was caught! Its fall broken by the twin rind held below as the gelid mass slipped between the two and splashed greasily into the bowl to join the vanguard already waiting there.
The fortunate sun rocked gently in its new cradle, bathing now in much reduced waters. Fully four-fifths of its cushion had fallen before the sun was forced to retrace its steps back to the original hemisphere, like an unnatural commuter who could not decide in which continent to settle. On the journey it lost all trace of bathwater, the more liquid remains of the once-resistant gel now warmed, fluid and dripping lusciously from the shell to join its translucent family sitting patiently in the dish.
Now alone and naked in its broken home, defenceless in the face of the chef's desire, the golden orb convulsed in his nervous hand as it was carried to an unknown fate.
Beyond the boundaries of the pyrex dish, hidden from the unwitting contents, a pair of beaters waited patiently, knowing their turn would soon come, eager to spin into action and bring their ebullient effervescence to the party.
Eating would be on the agenda here too, soon. But not yet. That silk-sheen surface, still refrigerator cold to the touch, appeared at first glance to be perfect. Unblemished and uniform. Created with almost factory precision, with almost a factory's efficiency and delivery rate too. A closer look revealed the uniformity to be only a trick of the eye. The surface was flecked. Almost pixellated. In places a few hard blebs commingled with the smoothness, wrecking its satisfying curvature on colliding with the eye.
The surface gave a comforting crack as it struck the rim of the polished pyrex dish. Small brown flakes, released by the destructive contact, flew to the floor avoiding the interior of the dish. A lucky escape. Fingernails sought an opportunity, urgently yet slowly pressing, demanding a parting of the carapace. Once begun, its integrity breached, the husk revealed its secret. Glistening and gelid, shining into the open air and the aching light, it lay quivering in half a moon, dripping small gobs of gelatinous content into the open waiting maw of the dish.
With infinite slowness and care, the moon was rotated and the sun rose into view. Appearing through the pale jelly as the heavenly sun might appear through the morning mist. It rose, turned restlessly and fell from the broken ragged lip of the rind like a castle defender tipped from the ramparts by an attacking arrow. But it was caught! Its fall broken by the twin rind held below as the gelid mass slipped between the two and splashed greasily into the bowl to join the vanguard already waiting there.
The fortunate sun rocked gently in its new cradle, bathing now in much reduced waters. Fully four-fifths of its cushion had fallen before the sun was forced to retrace its steps back to the original hemisphere, like an unnatural commuter who could not decide in which continent to settle. On the journey it lost all trace of bathwater, the more liquid remains of the once-resistant gel now warmed, fluid and dripping lusciously from the shell to join its translucent family sitting patiently in the dish.
Now alone and naked in its broken home, defenceless in the face of the chef's desire, the golden orb convulsed in his nervous hand as it was carried to an unknown fate.
Beyond the boundaries of the pyrex dish, hidden from the unwitting contents, a pair of beaters waited patiently, knowing their turn would soon come, eager to spin into action and bring their ebullient effervescence to the party.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
100TWC - Day 54: Health and Healing
I had a nasty experience recently. Immediately after it, I decided to make it the subject of this post, as part of the writing challenge. I've been coming up with ideas for each day's prompt in advance (which shouldn't come as a surprise) and at the start of the piece I check back at the few words or couple of short sentences I've written in my "theme pack" (a document that lists the themes, my ideas for the themes, how many are left to write, how many to decide what I'm going to write, etc), get the idea in my head, and set off writing.
Today, it's a couple of weeks since the nasty incident and I've calmed down a bit. With those two weeks' perspective I'm no longer angry. Just sad, and... well... a little resigned. Resigned to human nature.
Some of you already know I'm a Spiritualist healer. To anyone that's just visiting, or is a regular who didn't know that for whatever reason, there are a few pages about it (what it is, how I came to be one) on my website. Shortly after I finished my training, the Spiritualists National Union (SNU) asked me if I'd like to be a tutor for the course I'd just taken. It's a correspondence course (there is a practical element to the healing too, of course. You can't be healed by post) and they were in need of new tutors. Since I'd done so well on the course, achieving the highest mark in my graduation year and winning a prize for doing it, they thought I'd make an ideal tutor.
So since 1997 I've been looking after students from all over the UK and, more recently, overseas, as the SNU spreads its influence and offers the course to people from Europe and beyond. I've had some excellent students in all that time, many lovely comments, some that have required a little more help than others, some who have really struggled but even so done their best, and others who have for one reason or another given up part way through or even not started at all, after having registered.
But until the Sunday before last I have never, ever, been engaged in a shouting match with a student. These are, after all, people who are looking to be healers. Empathic, sympathetic, warm and generous people who want to give their time to help make others feel better. So not the kind of person, you would think, to have an over-inflated ego, a sense of moral righteousness, or - worse - one of entitlement where they believe the highest grades should be handed to them on a plate for a minimum of effort. Such were the sentiments behind the irate phone call I received from this particular student.
One of those people who ask a question and then immediately talk over the answer. Because they're not interested in your answer. They're only interested in telling you what the answer is. What the answer you should have given them is. And that answer is never a C grade. I've never had a C grade in my life and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you give me one now. I'm a teacher and assessor myself, I'll have you know. All courses all over the UK are governed by this or that official body and I know the rules. Show me where in the question it tells me that I need to answer in the way you say? The question asks for X and I've given you X so I should have top marks. I'll take this as high as I have to in the SNU. I'm not having it. I've let it pass and let it pass but I can't take it any more. Everyone at my church is AMAZED at what I've had to put up with and on and on and on.
A lot of the above paragraph is paraphrased or implicit (rather than explicit) in what he said but that was the clear message. Some of it is the real words. And with the best will -- and all the patience -- in the world I found it impossible, eventually, not to rise to the bait. Although I started off calm, I ended up literally shaking with rage. Which, you know, is the most annoying thing of all really. My reaction. The fact that I lost it, when all I really needed to do was keep calmly putting forward my view. My correct view. My 15-year-experienced-tutor view. My 55-year-old world view*. He hadn't done the work. For months he has been trying to get away with the minimum necessary to scrape through the course. And for quite a long time I've shrugged and warned and cajoled and suggested, and been ignored. And this time, finally, the chickens came home to roost and they didn't taste very nice. And there was a clucking and a ruffling of feathers in the hen house.
I hung up in the end. In the middle of a continued tirade from the other end, I hung up. And emailed him to tell him not to call again. I have no idea if he complained, or how high, or whether he's demanding a different tutor, or what. I strongly suspect our student/tutor relationship is too badly compromised to continue, which is a shame (in a way) because he's only one question away from finishing the course. If he can swallow his enormous pride and just knuckle down and get on with it. But I doubt that will happen. And I don't much care either way. One bad apple in a barrel of almost 150 students over 15 years. It's not a bad track record. The guy who organises the training courses was worried it would put me off being a tutor. I have a thicker skin than that. Yes, I was upset, but I got over it.
But as I said right at the off, my main feeling now is one of sadness. That someone with that amount of hubris cannot set it aside and focus on the long term goal. If he wants to help people, then he really needs to be able to understand them better. And do the work.
*His opening gambit, at the start of the phone call, had been to say "I don't know how old you are, but..." so I told him. Quite took the wind out of his sails to learn I was three years his senior. I'm certain he was expecting me to be younger so that he could play the "age and experience" card on me. Shame ;0)
Today, it's a couple of weeks since the nasty incident and I've calmed down a bit. With those two weeks' perspective I'm no longer angry. Just sad, and... well... a little resigned. Resigned to human nature.
Some of you already know I'm a Spiritualist healer. To anyone that's just visiting, or is a regular who didn't know that for whatever reason, there are a few pages about it (what it is, how I came to be one) on my website. Shortly after I finished my training, the Spiritualists National Union (SNU) asked me if I'd like to be a tutor for the course I'd just taken. It's a correspondence course (there is a practical element to the healing too, of course. You can't be healed by post) and they were in need of new tutors. Since I'd done so well on the course, achieving the highest mark in my graduation year and winning a prize for doing it, they thought I'd make an ideal tutor.
So since 1997 I've been looking after students from all over the UK and, more recently, overseas, as the SNU spreads its influence and offers the course to people from Europe and beyond. I've had some excellent students in all that time, many lovely comments, some that have required a little more help than others, some who have really struggled but even so done their best, and others who have for one reason or another given up part way through or even not started at all, after having registered.
But until the Sunday before last I have never, ever, been engaged in a shouting match with a student. These are, after all, people who are looking to be healers. Empathic, sympathetic, warm and generous people who want to give their time to help make others feel better. So not the kind of person, you would think, to have an over-inflated ego, a sense of moral righteousness, or - worse - one of entitlement where they believe the highest grades should be handed to them on a plate for a minimum of effort. Such were the sentiments behind the irate phone call I received from this particular student.
One of those people who ask a question and then immediately talk over the answer. Because they're not interested in your answer. They're only interested in telling you what the answer is. What the answer you should have given them is. And that answer is never a C grade. I've never had a C grade in my life and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you give me one now. I'm a teacher and assessor myself, I'll have you know. All courses all over the UK are governed by this or that official body and I know the rules. Show me where in the question it tells me that I need to answer in the way you say? The question asks for X and I've given you X so I should have top marks. I'll take this as high as I have to in the SNU. I'm not having it. I've let it pass and let it pass but I can't take it any more. Everyone at my church is AMAZED at what I've had to put up with and on and on and on.
A lot of the above paragraph is paraphrased or implicit (rather than explicit) in what he said but that was the clear message. Some of it is the real words. And with the best will -- and all the patience -- in the world I found it impossible, eventually, not to rise to the bait. Although I started off calm, I ended up literally shaking with rage. Which, you know, is the most annoying thing of all really. My reaction. The fact that I lost it, when all I really needed to do was keep calmly putting forward my view. My correct view. My 15-year-experienced-tutor view. My 55-year-old world view*. He hadn't done the work. For months he has been trying to get away with the minimum necessary to scrape through the course. And for quite a long time I've shrugged and warned and cajoled and suggested, and been ignored. And this time, finally, the chickens came home to roost and they didn't taste very nice. And there was a clucking and a ruffling of feathers in the hen house.
I hung up in the end. In the middle of a continued tirade from the other end, I hung up. And emailed him to tell him not to call again. I have no idea if he complained, or how high, or whether he's demanding a different tutor, or what. I strongly suspect our student/tutor relationship is too badly compromised to continue, which is a shame (in a way) because he's only one question away from finishing the course. If he can swallow his enormous pride and just knuckle down and get on with it. But I doubt that will happen. And I don't much care either way. One bad apple in a barrel of almost 150 students over 15 years. It's not a bad track record. The guy who organises the training courses was worried it would put me off being a tutor. I have a thicker skin than that. Yes, I was upset, but I got over it.
But as I said right at the off, my main feeling now is one of sadness. That someone with that amount of hubris cannot set it aside and focus on the long term goal. If he wants to help people, then he really needs to be able to understand them better. And do the work.
*His opening gambit, at the start of the phone call, had been to say "I don't know how old you are, but..." so I told him. Quite took the wind out of his sails to learn I was three years his senior. I'm certain he was expecting me to be younger so that he could play the "age and experience" card on me. Shame ;0)
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
100TWC - Day 53: Future
The last of the bridge walkers moved out of sight behind the main tower. Steve had already slowed almost to a stop to let them get ahead. Now he did stop. Below him, the East River flowed sluggishly, an oily black slick of freezing cold water more than 150 feet down. At this time of year that water would kill you in under two minutes. He stared. Less than two minutes, plus falling time his mathematician's mind insisted, between him and who knew what?
The current of the river swam before his eyes, screwing with his balance and threatening to tip him off the bridge. Before he was ready, that is. Because there was only one way Stephen Jordan was leaving this bridge today, and it wouldn't be on foot.
He didn't know where he was going when he stepped onto the nothing at the side of the cable. Didn't have that religious certainty of heaven, or the sinner's fear of hell. He sometimes wished he did. Something to look forward to in the one case, or try to avoid by doing the right thing in this life in the other. Ha! The right thing. What the fuck was that? What did that mean to a man like him? He might not know where he was going, but he sure as hell knew where he was coming from, and he wasn't going back to it. No sir. A belly full of lies and cheating, the scum he had to deal with every day, all dressed up in their fine thousand-dollar suits and their silk ties. Their Berluti shoes and their crisp white shirts. New one every day. Perfect on the outside. Respectable. Upright. Living the American Dream. But their insides? Steve imagined them looking something like one of those apples he used to have to take to school for his lunch. All red and ripe and shiny from the outside. Gonna be all sweet and juicy when you bite into it, but it would turn out brown and stinking rotten all the way through to the core. That was like them. Rotten insides, all of them. Souls as black as the icy water flowing under his feet right now.
He changed his grip on the suspensor wire, taking hold with his warm hand and rubbing his cold one against his thigh before ramming it into his pocket. Wouldn't have to worry about cold hands or frostbite where he was going. Wherever it was. Fiery or idyllic or something else that the prophets had never foreseen. Or the black nothing of non-existence that his few atheist friends insisted was all that waited for mankind on the other side of the veil.
A few flakes of snow blew past, sticking to his coat, one or two melting quickly on his lips. Where they caught the suspensor cable they lived a little longer and Steve could almost make out a hint of their hexagonal crystal beauty before they blew off or melted under the sudden warmth of his breath. He coughed a bitter laugh into the fading light. Beauty never lasted. Either it was another façade over a rotten core -- like Justine had been -- or it got chipped and worn away by time and life and too many margaritas. He swayed against the cable, his vision momentarily blurred by unexpected tears. She'd been the one. How did the song go? "You are the one I'd wait my whole life for." And he had waited. All through High School and college, all those years without a girlfriend because his ever-calculating mind would always find a reason not to make the first move, or respond to an approach on those rare occasions a woman would be brave enough to ask. Tumblers clicking, gears whirring, his subconscious would estimate the chances of a relationship working, factoring in height, weight, dress sense, any friends visible on the occasion, smoking, drinking and a hundred other bits of information, and then it would push them all through its filter and come out with no.
Until Justine. He couldn't consciously have explained why she was a yes. His first ever yes. Didn't even like to question it, in case he should scratch the polished surface of her yesness and find there was really a rusty no underneath. He shivered. The wind was stronger now and the snow flurries thicker. Pretty soon he wouldn't be able to see the East River at all. He'd be stepping off into nothing at the side of him and nothing below too. But that was OK. His mathematical mind took less that a millisecond to calculate that nothing into nothing was nothing. And he wanted to be nothing. To cease. To end the pain of the no she had turned out to be, and being surrounded by the rotten suits, and the endless gnawing certainty that there would never be anything more than this. Day after day. Blackness, blackness dragging me down. He looked down. But where before there had been the blackness of that old favourite song now there was only whiteness. Billowing flurries of whiteness, spiralling past and obscuring the river completely.
The current of the river swam before his eyes, screwing with his balance and threatening to tip him off the bridge. Before he was ready, that is. Because there was only one way Stephen Jordan was leaving this bridge today, and it wouldn't be on foot.
He didn't know where he was going when he stepped onto the nothing at the side of the cable. Didn't have that religious certainty of heaven, or the sinner's fear of hell. He sometimes wished he did. Something to look forward to in the one case, or try to avoid by doing the right thing in this life in the other. Ha! The right thing. What the fuck was that? What did that mean to a man like him? He might not know where he was going, but he sure as hell knew where he was coming from, and he wasn't going back to it. No sir. A belly full of lies and cheating, the scum he had to deal with every day, all dressed up in their fine thousand-dollar suits and their silk ties. Their Berluti shoes and their crisp white shirts. New one every day. Perfect on the outside. Respectable. Upright. Living the American Dream. But their insides? Steve imagined them looking something like one of those apples he used to have to take to school for his lunch. All red and ripe and shiny from the outside. Gonna be all sweet and juicy when you bite into it, but it would turn out brown and stinking rotten all the way through to the core. That was like them. Rotten insides, all of them. Souls as black as the icy water flowing under his feet right now.
He changed his grip on the suspensor wire, taking hold with his warm hand and rubbing his cold one against his thigh before ramming it into his pocket. Wouldn't have to worry about cold hands or frostbite where he was going. Wherever it was. Fiery or idyllic or something else that the prophets had never foreseen. Or the black nothing of non-existence that his few atheist friends insisted was all that waited for mankind on the other side of the veil.
A few flakes of snow blew past, sticking to his coat, one or two melting quickly on his lips. Where they caught the suspensor cable they lived a little longer and Steve could almost make out a hint of their hexagonal crystal beauty before they blew off or melted under the sudden warmth of his breath. He coughed a bitter laugh into the fading light. Beauty never lasted. Either it was another façade over a rotten core -- like Justine had been -- or it got chipped and worn away by time and life and too many margaritas. He swayed against the cable, his vision momentarily blurred by unexpected tears. She'd been the one. How did the song go? "You are the one I'd wait my whole life for." And he had waited. All through High School and college, all those years without a girlfriend because his ever-calculating mind would always find a reason not to make the first move, or respond to an approach on those rare occasions a woman would be brave enough to ask. Tumblers clicking, gears whirring, his subconscious would estimate the chances of a relationship working, factoring in height, weight, dress sense, any friends visible on the occasion, smoking, drinking and a hundred other bits of information, and then it would push them all through its filter and come out with no.
Until Justine. He couldn't consciously have explained why she was a yes. His first ever yes. Didn't even like to question it, in case he should scratch the polished surface of her yesness and find there was really a rusty no underneath. He shivered. The wind was stronger now and the snow flurries thicker. Pretty soon he wouldn't be able to see the East River at all. He'd be stepping off into nothing at the side of him and nothing below too. But that was OK. His mathematical mind took less that a millisecond to calculate that nothing into nothing was nothing. And he wanted to be nothing. To cease. To end the pain of the no she had turned out to be, and being surrounded by the rotten suits, and the endless gnawing certainty that there would never be anything more than this. Day after day. Blackness, blackness dragging me down. He looked down. But where before there had been the blackness of that old favourite song now there was only whiteness. Billowing flurries of whiteness, spiralling past and obscuring the river completely.
Monday, September 17, 2012
100TWC - Day 52: Stirring of the Wind
"Are you done yet?"
"Nearly!"
"I'll put the tea on."
Neil leaned on his rake and surveyed the results of his efforts. Nine neat piles, the dark green grass between them virtually free of leaves save for where one or two had escaped the pull of the tines and fallen from the path of the rake. He breathed deep of the autumn scents and smiled. The year was not yet old enough to have a winter chill, but had left summer far behind. Mornings like today -- mist-shrouded and mysterious, damp and cool -- were his favourites. One could do a day's work without breaking sweat and have time left in the still lengthy evenings to enjoy the view, or sit on the deck and savour a glass of wine.
A gust of wind teased Neil's hair as he stood looking over the valley. A few leaves from the tallest piles shook themselves loose and fluttered away onto the grass. Neil pulled a plastic garden sack from his pocket and began stuffing it with leaves from the nearest pile, anxious to complete the clearing up before the wind undid his day's work. As he grabbed handful after handful of the leathery brown leaves their sweet musky odour filled his nostrils, shaking loose memories of school mornings when he and Kate would kick their way to class, scattering the yellow, red and brown threads of the road rug with their polished patent leather, creating new patterns and shapes as the leaves flew and fell, flew and fell. Laughing at the gentle soughing and the smells and the joyous feeling of togetherness; the excitement of a new year ahead. New knowledge and new possibilities, coupled with pangs of old yearning. Wondering whether this would be the year she would start to look at him as more than the boy next door. Kate of the autumn-red hair and brown, gold-flecked eyes that shone and flashed as she laughed at his silly jokes. He played the clown for her to hide his longing. Cracked a joke to mask his embarrassment at the strength of feeling inside him. Stole a sidelong glance at the wonderful curves of her growing body. And fought down the need to declare himself in love with her, for fear of frightening her away.
The wind spoke again, and the trees answered. Sighing and rustling. Neil dashed away a tear with his gloved hand, the suede rough against his cheek. He knotted his bag, stood, and surveyed the garden once again. The few tentative gusts had blurred the edges of his piles, flattening and spreading them out. Sending handfuls of carefully collected leaves back out across the grass. Another few years and it would be too much for him to manage on his own, especially at this time of year. Too many trees, too much grass. And way too many memories. He always knew the leaves would unlock his past. Like evil spirits flying from Pandora's Box, those bitter-sweet rememberings were always set free at this time of year. The season in which he'd had Kate, and the same season he'd lost her. The world had lost her. Like walking into a winter that never ended, and all that was left was cold and dark, crisp and bleak and featureless like a land buried beneath a lifetime of snow. Where Spring could never come.
"Nearly!"
"I'll put the tea on."
Neil leaned on his rake and surveyed the results of his efforts. Nine neat piles, the dark green grass between them virtually free of leaves save for where one or two had escaped the pull of the tines and fallen from the path of the rake. He breathed deep of the autumn scents and smiled. The year was not yet old enough to have a winter chill, but had left summer far behind. Mornings like today -- mist-shrouded and mysterious, damp and cool -- were his favourites. One could do a day's work without breaking sweat and have time left in the still lengthy evenings to enjoy the view, or sit on the deck and savour a glass of wine.
A gust of wind teased Neil's hair as he stood looking over the valley. A few leaves from the tallest piles shook themselves loose and fluttered away onto the grass. Neil pulled a plastic garden sack from his pocket and began stuffing it with leaves from the nearest pile, anxious to complete the clearing up before the wind undid his day's work. As he grabbed handful after handful of the leathery brown leaves their sweet musky odour filled his nostrils, shaking loose memories of school mornings when he and Kate would kick their way to class, scattering the yellow, red and brown threads of the road rug with their polished patent leather, creating new patterns and shapes as the leaves flew and fell, flew and fell. Laughing at the gentle soughing and the smells and the joyous feeling of togetherness; the excitement of a new year ahead. New knowledge and new possibilities, coupled with pangs of old yearning. Wondering whether this would be the year she would start to look at him as more than the boy next door. Kate of the autumn-red hair and brown, gold-flecked eyes that shone and flashed as she laughed at his silly jokes. He played the clown for her to hide his longing. Cracked a joke to mask his embarrassment at the strength of feeling inside him. Stole a sidelong glance at the wonderful curves of her growing body. And fought down the need to declare himself in love with her, for fear of frightening her away.
The wind spoke again, and the trees answered. Sighing and rustling. Neil dashed away a tear with his gloved hand, the suede rough against his cheek. He knotted his bag, stood, and surveyed the garden once again. The few tentative gusts had blurred the edges of his piles, flattening and spreading them out. Sending handfuls of carefully collected leaves back out across the grass. Another few years and it would be too much for him to manage on his own, especially at this time of year. Too many trees, too much grass. And way too many memories. He always knew the leaves would unlock his past. Like evil spirits flying from Pandora's Box, those bitter-sweet rememberings were always set free at this time of year. The season in which he'd had Kate, and the same season he'd lost her. The world had lost her. Like walking into a winter that never ended, and all that was left was cold and dark, crisp and bleak and featureless like a land buried beneath a lifetime of snow. Where Spring could never come.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
100TWC - Day 51: Troubling Thoughts
The BBC announcer had adopted his most serious tones:
"These scenes are being brought to you live from Birmingham, where there is now a full-scale riot in progress. In a moment we will be bringing you coverage from Manchester and an update from London, but first a report from our correspondent at the scene of the rioting, Phil Mackie."
Jessie watched the scenes unfolding in front of her. She heard what the BBC reporter was saying but she struggled to understand it. Why now? Why Birmingham? A city with a long and proud tradition of accepting people of all backgrounds. And the boys on her screen! Some of them looked barely old enough to be in long trousers. And girls too! When did girls start to become involved in such behaviour? It was alien to her.
She thanked God that her own son had more sense than to get mixed up in such things. Upstairs in his room he was probably chatting on that Spacebook, or whatever it was called, or getting blown up in the safety of a computer-rendered war zone rather than the real-life war zone flashing red and blue on her TV.
"Police say these incidents across the country are being orchestrated by a few militants who are well known to CID and Special Operations units, through their contact networks built up on social media sites like Facebook and Twitter."
Facebook! That was it. Jeremiah was on Facebook. But only with his school friends and members of the family, including some outside the UK. Thankfully he would have more sense than to get mixed up with thugs like these. A strong and upright family, even without a father's influence, Jessie had always made sure Jeremiah knew the difference between right and wrong. And when he had started down the wrong path, on entering his teen years, she had been there to steer him right. That had been a difficult time. Cold winds blowing across their table at breakfast and supper. She had got through to him in the end though. Weathered the storm and put him back on the right path. He saw the sense of her viewpoint. Came round to it even. As much as a teenager could ever be expected to do what their parents told them. He was a good boy, all things considered. Not as much trouble as some. Especially round here. Jessie had wanted to move to Solihull or Edgebaston, but they couldn't stretch to it on a single wage. But where they lived in Perry Barr wasn't THAT bad. Other people kept to themselves most of the time and there wasn't much trouble to speak of.
The TV report had moved on to Manchester now. Jessie decided she'd better check that Jeremiah had sorted out his sports kit for tomorrow. Her knees cracked as she levered herself up off the sofa. Those old bones weren't getting any younger. She gripped the banister tightly as she climbed the stairs one at a time, her arthritis flaring painfully with every jarring step. Jeremiah's bedroom door was closed. No sound came from inside but that wasn't unusual. Her constant complaining of the noises of explosions and blood-curdling screams had persuaded him eventually to buy a pair of headphones, and her continued complaining for several months after that had convinced him to start using them.
She knocked, waited, and poked her head around the door. The room was empty. The bedclothes were still as neat as when she had made his bed that morning. His computer hummed quietly in the corner, but Jeremiah's monitor was turned off. His school bag was nowhere to be seen. Jessie felt sure he had not entered the room since he left for school this morning.
He should have been home for hours. It had been dark since five thirty and he was never this late on a school night. Jessie crossed the room and turned on the computer monitor. As it warmed up, Jeremiah's Facebook page swam into view. But not his personal profile or newsfeed. A cold chill settled around Jessie's spine as she read the title of the page he had been reading: "Spread The Hate."
A hundred conflicting thoughts sparked in her mind. Not her boy. Why? Who were these people? How had he got involved? Surely he was just late home from school. Or gone for a pizza with his football team? Why hadn't he told her he'd be late? Was he alright? Safe? He wouldn't do that. Not throw bricks or loot shops or spray graffiti. None of that.
The doorbell interrupted the insane flood of questions and worries. Jeremiah! Forgotten his keys again! Thank God. Not rioting. She'd been a fool to think that of him. Her boy would never...
Two tall dark figures stood on the front door step, their blurry outlines visible through the obscured glass. Not Jeremiah then. She hurried downstairs as fast as her arthritic joints would allow.
"Just a minute," she called.
She paused with her hand on the latch, suddenly terrified. She opened the door, just a crack. Two uniformed police officers stood outside.
"These scenes are being brought to you live from Birmingham, where there is now a full-scale riot in progress. In a moment we will be bringing you coverage from Manchester and an update from London, but first a report from our correspondent at the scene of the rioting, Phil Mackie."
Jessie watched the scenes unfolding in front of her. She heard what the BBC reporter was saying but she struggled to understand it. Why now? Why Birmingham? A city with a long and proud tradition of accepting people of all backgrounds. And the boys on her screen! Some of them looked barely old enough to be in long trousers. And girls too! When did girls start to become involved in such behaviour? It was alien to her.
She thanked God that her own son had more sense than to get mixed up in such things. Upstairs in his room he was probably chatting on that Spacebook, or whatever it was called, or getting blown up in the safety of a computer-rendered war zone rather than the real-life war zone flashing red and blue on her TV.
"Police say these incidents across the country are being orchestrated by a few militants who are well known to CID and Special Operations units, through their contact networks built up on social media sites like Facebook and Twitter."
Facebook! That was it. Jeremiah was on Facebook. But only with his school friends and members of the family, including some outside the UK. Thankfully he would have more sense than to get mixed up with thugs like these. A strong and upright family, even without a father's influence, Jessie had always made sure Jeremiah knew the difference between right and wrong. And when he had started down the wrong path, on entering his teen years, she had been there to steer him right. That had been a difficult time. Cold winds blowing across their table at breakfast and supper. She had got through to him in the end though. Weathered the storm and put him back on the right path. He saw the sense of her viewpoint. Came round to it even. As much as a teenager could ever be expected to do what their parents told them. He was a good boy, all things considered. Not as much trouble as some. Especially round here. Jessie had wanted to move to Solihull or Edgebaston, but they couldn't stretch to it on a single wage. But where they lived in Perry Barr wasn't THAT bad. Other people kept to themselves most of the time and there wasn't much trouble to speak of.
The TV report had moved on to Manchester now. Jessie decided she'd better check that Jeremiah had sorted out his sports kit for tomorrow. Her knees cracked as she levered herself up off the sofa. Those old bones weren't getting any younger. She gripped the banister tightly as she climbed the stairs one at a time, her arthritis flaring painfully with every jarring step. Jeremiah's bedroom door was closed. No sound came from inside but that wasn't unusual. Her constant complaining of the noises of explosions and blood-curdling screams had persuaded him eventually to buy a pair of headphones, and her continued complaining for several months after that had convinced him to start using them.
She knocked, waited, and poked her head around the door. The room was empty. The bedclothes were still as neat as when she had made his bed that morning. His computer hummed quietly in the corner, but Jeremiah's monitor was turned off. His school bag was nowhere to be seen. Jessie felt sure he had not entered the room since he left for school this morning.
He should have been home for hours. It had been dark since five thirty and he was never this late on a school night. Jessie crossed the room and turned on the computer monitor. As it warmed up, Jeremiah's Facebook page swam into view. But not his personal profile or newsfeed. A cold chill settled around Jessie's spine as she read the title of the page he had been reading: "Spread The Hate."
A hundred conflicting thoughts sparked in her mind. Not her boy. Why? Who were these people? How had he got involved? Surely he was just late home from school. Or gone for a pizza with his football team? Why hadn't he told her he'd be late? Was he alright? Safe? He wouldn't do that. Not throw bricks or loot shops or spray graffiti. None of that.
The doorbell interrupted the insane flood of questions and worries. Jeremiah! Forgotten his keys again! Thank God. Not rioting. She'd been a fool to think that of him. Her boy would never...
Two tall dark figures stood on the front door step, their blurry outlines visible through the obscured glass. Not Jeremiah then. She hurried downstairs as fast as her arthritic joints would allow.
"Just a minute," she called.
She paused with her hand on the latch, suddenly terrified. She opened the door, just a crack. Two uniformed police officers stood outside.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
100TWC - Day 50: Party
Damn your arrogant ass! You KNOW I'm right.
No I don't. And it's not arrogance to have a different view from you.
What's good enough for me should be good enough for you. I never questioned my father's take on it.
Well maybe you should've.
See? Arrogance and disrespect. Your grandfather would turn in his grave.
Why? I'd have thought he'd be more pleased to see me thinking for myself.
You call that thinking? All you're doing is swallowing their lies.
How do you know they're lies? Your lot have been lying to you for years.
No they haven't.
Of course they have! Look at them now. Is it the same party you grew up with? Grandad grew up with?
Well, no, but--
Exactly. They don't deserve your support. Least, not your unthinking support. I don't know why you keep voting for them. Come to think of it, I don't know why you keep voting at all. Or me, for that matter.
Don't talk like that. Folk fought and died so that we could have the vote.
That was the Suffragettes Dad. That was for women.
I'm talking about the war you dozy twerp. You know what I mean. Do you think people like us would have a say in how the country's run if we were all under Hitler?
Do you think you have a say now? When was the last time your lot did anything for you.
They're always doing stuff for us.
Yeah? Is that why I hear you yelling at the news every night?
Hmm. Well I don't always agree with everything they do, it's true. But that's party politics. It's not about the little things. It's about a shared vision. Working together for a better future.
Right. And when are we gonna get this 'future' you speak of? I bet Grandad used to spout the same old line, and he never saw any of it did he? And you haven't. And it doesn't look like I will either. It's all bollocks.
Well that kind of thinking won't get you anywhere.
What kind of thinking.
Giving up before you've even started.
I have started! For fuck's sake, what do you think I've been doing for the last six years.
Wasting your time. And don't swear in the house. You know your mother doesn't like it.
She's not here.
No, but it's the principle. And anyway if you get used to it you'll slip up when she IS here, and I don't like it.
Another worthless principle. What does it matter what language we use. It's the message that's important, not the medium.
That's typical of you young ones these days. Chucking out all the principles. What do you actually stand for, this new lot of yours? At least we knew where we stood. What we were fighting for in my day.
Yeah but it's not your day any more is it Dad? Your day's done. Pipe and slippers time for you old man.
Thanks.
It's true. No use denying it. This is my day. Our day. The young ones, as you call us, although most days I don't feel that young any more. But if we don't get off our arses and DO something about this bloody mess there won't BE a future. I don't want my kids growing up with the sort of shit I've had to put up with.
Nice.
I don't mean in the family. I mean the country. All their snouts in the trough, back-handers and I'm Alright Jack. We've all had enough of it. I know you agree, don't pretend you don't. I can hear you ranting at the TV even when you think I'm not listening.
Well I suppose it's good you're fired up about something, even if you are on the wrong side.
Like I said, your lot have done nothing for us. It's time to change your thinking Dad. Time to get radical.
Riots and stone-throwing never solved anything.
It's not about rioting. It's about direct action.
Well that's rioting in my book.
No it isn't. Doesn't have to be.
Well what is it then?
Oh I don't know. The Occupy movement is one idea.
Oh yes. A load of unwashed idiots in denims sitting down in bank lobbies. Lot of good that's going to do.
And then there's the Internet. Sumofus and 38degrees and all those.
You're talking gibberish now lad. Make sense will you?
They're focus groups and lobbyists Dad, but on our side. On the side of the small guy.
Focus groups? Listen to yourself! What good have they ever done? Petitions! No-one takes any notice lad.
That might have been true in your day Dad, but we've got the web now. Loads of publicity, stuff going viral, instant video whenever one of them puts a foot wrong. Don't you see? They can't cover anything up now. It's all over the world in five minutes.
Hmm. I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you. I'd be very surprised if anything really serious got out that they wanted to put a lid on. Look at that Julian Assange bloke. Stuck in that embassy. Not exactly going anywhere is he?
Maybe not, but the movement he started is. People catch on quick. He was just a catalyst. Like the Tolpuddle Martyrs if you like, but bigger. Global. That cat's out of the bag now Dad. Genii's out of the bottle. There's no going back, you'll see.
No I don't. And it's not arrogance to have a different view from you.
What's good enough for me should be good enough for you. I never questioned my father's take on it.
Well maybe you should've.
See? Arrogance and disrespect. Your grandfather would turn in his grave.
Why? I'd have thought he'd be more pleased to see me thinking for myself.
You call that thinking? All you're doing is swallowing their lies.
How do you know they're lies? Your lot have been lying to you for years.
No they haven't.
Of course they have! Look at them now. Is it the same party you grew up with? Grandad grew up with?
Well, no, but--
Exactly. They don't deserve your support. Least, not your unthinking support. I don't know why you keep voting for them. Come to think of it, I don't know why you keep voting at all. Or me, for that matter.
Don't talk like that. Folk fought and died so that we could have the vote.
That was the Suffragettes Dad. That was for women.
I'm talking about the war you dozy twerp. You know what I mean. Do you think people like us would have a say in how the country's run if we were all under Hitler?
Do you think you have a say now? When was the last time your lot did anything for you.
They're always doing stuff for us.
Yeah? Is that why I hear you yelling at the news every night?
Hmm. Well I don't always agree with everything they do, it's true. But that's party politics. It's not about the little things. It's about a shared vision. Working together for a better future.
Right. And when are we gonna get this 'future' you speak of? I bet Grandad used to spout the same old line, and he never saw any of it did he? And you haven't. And it doesn't look like I will either. It's all bollocks.
Well that kind of thinking won't get you anywhere.
What kind of thinking.
Giving up before you've even started.
I have started! For fuck's sake, what do you think I've been doing for the last six years.
Wasting your time. And don't swear in the house. You know your mother doesn't like it.
She's not here.
No, but it's the principle. And anyway if you get used to it you'll slip up when she IS here, and I don't like it.
Another worthless principle. What does it matter what language we use. It's the message that's important, not the medium.
That's typical of you young ones these days. Chucking out all the principles. What do you actually stand for, this new lot of yours? At least we knew where we stood. What we were fighting for in my day.
Yeah but it's not your day any more is it Dad? Your day's done. Pipe and slippers time for you old man.
Thanks.
It's true. No use denying it. This is my day. Our day. The young ones, as you call us, although most days I don't feel that young any more. But if we don't get off our arses and DO something about this bloody mess there won't BE a future. I don't want my kids growing up with the sort of shit I've had to put up with.
Nice.
I don't mean in the family. I mean the country. All their snouts in the trough, back-handers and I'm Alright Jack. We've all had enough of it. I know you agree, don't pretend you don't. I can hear you ranting at the TV even when you think I'm not listening.
Well I suppose it's good you're fired up about something, even if you are on the wrong side.
Like I said, your lot have done nothing for us. It's time to change your thinking Dad. Time to get radical.
Riots and stone-throwing never solved anything.
It's not about rioting. It's about direct action.
Well that's rioting in my book.
No it isn't. Doesn't have to be.
Well what is it then?
Oh I don't know. The Occupy movement is one idea.
Oh yes. A load of unwashed idiots in denims sitting down in bank lobbies. Lot of good that's going to do.
And then there's the Internet. Sumofus and 38degrees and all those.
You're talking gibberish now lad. Make sense will you?
They're focus groups and lobbyists Dad, but on our side. On the side of the small guy.
Focus groups? Listen to yourself! What good have they ever done? Petitions! No-one takes any notice lad.
That might have been true in your day Dad, but we've got the web now. Loads of publicity, stuff going viral, instant video whenever one of them puts a foot wrong. Don't you see? They can't cover anything up now. It's all over the world in five minutes.
Hmm. I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you. I'd be very surprised if anything really serious got out that they wanted to put a lid on. Look at that Julian Assange bloke. Stuck in that embassy. Not exactly going anywhere is he?
Maybe not, but the movement he started is. People catch on quick. He was just a catalyst. Like the Tolpuddle Martyrs if you like, but bigger. Global. That cat's out of the bag now Dad. Genii's out of the bottle. There's no going back, you'll see.
Friday, September 14, 2012
100TWC - Day 49: Umbrella
Jeremy stood in the lobby gazing out at the rain. Any other day, the inclement weather would have been cause for depression. Today, Jeremy was on a mission. A meticulously planned mission. One that depended on rain.
He'd first conceived it the day he started at Felicity Mutual. That was, he counted, more than nine months ago. Nine months of sleepless nights and nail-biting days trying to juggle his new responsibilities with the enormous stack of rules and financial regulations he had to learn while all the time the space in his head -- that should have been devoted to these important and urgent tasks -- was filled with one image. The arresting image he had seen as he first took his seat at his new desk. Half-way down the office on the other side of the floor, facing him but giving all her attention to her monitor as she began her work for the day.
Misha.
Exotic, mysterious, raven-haired, fragrant, beautiful Misha. Out of Jeremy's league Misha. Misha who didn't even know he existed. Misha who was regularly hit upon by the senior partners at Felicity Mutual, but who never responded. Oh, sure, she would smile and flash her clear brown eyes at them, and reply with infinite patience and rigorous politeness, but then she would turn away and continue with her work, or discover some vital errand that required her to walk to the other side of the building. She was well practised in the art of dodging unwanted attention while maintaining her professional integrity. All of which, naturally, only made Jeremy love her more.
He twirled his umbrella absent-mindedly and checked the weather again. Still raining. The forecast had assured him it was set for the day but one could never be too careful. His painstakingly constructed pack of cards would come tumbling down if those essential raindrops stopped falling. He glanced at his watch. 12:37. Misha's lunch break started at half past, but she could easily have picked up a piece of work that one of the partners would claim was urgent just to get her alone in the office when everyone else was out to lunch. He dismissed the thought with a frown. Not today. That wouldn't happen today.
The elevator pinged its arrival in the lobby and Jeremy refocussed on the glass in front of him. From his position at the side of the lobby, the marble-faced pillar outside the building created a mirror effect on the glass frontage of the building so he could observe the traffic to and from the elevators without appearing to be watching. To a casual observer it looked as if he were simply staring at the rain outside.
The elevator emptied into the hallway. Misha was not among them. Jeremy checked the other lifts. One at the third floor going up, and the last one at the eleventh floor coming down. He worked on the ninth. Misha could even now be waiting for the third lift on the ninth floor. A tingle ran up Jeremy's back causing his neck hairs to rise at the expectation. He tried to relax as the lift descended. It stopped at nine! He shifted his feet and stretched to release the tension in his shoulders. The lift continued its downward journey, not stopping at any other floors. It pinged again as the doors opened.
There she was! Jeremy swallowed hard and rubbed his free hand on his trousers. He surreptitiously checked his breath. He had flossed carefully this morning -- even more carefully than usual -- and the results were good. As far as he could tell. Misha swayed across the lobby. He could watch her walk all day long. Poetry in motion. She stopped beside the door a few feet away from him and wrinkled her nose at the weather.
"Damn it! It had to rain today didn't it. Of all days. The day I lost my umbrella."
The moment had come. It was now or never. Two steps and one short sentence to change his life for ever. He gripped his umbrella in his right hand and stepped toward her.
"Would you like to share mine?"
He'd first conceived it the day he started at Felicity Mutual. That was, he counted, more than nine months ago. Nine months of sleepless nights and nail-biting days trying to juggle his new responsibilities with the enormous stack of rules and financial regulations he had to learn while all the time the space in his head -- that should have been devoted to these important and urgent tasks -- was filled with one image. The arresting image he had seen as he first took his seat at his new desk. Half-way down the office on the other side of the floor, facing him but giving all her attention to her monitor as she began her work for the day.
Misha.
Exotic, mysterious, raven-haired, fragrant, beautiful Misha. Out of Jeremy's league Misha. Misha who didn't even know he existed. Misha who was regularly hit upon by the senior partners at Felicity Mutual, but who never responded. Oh, sure, she would smile and flash her clear brown eyes at them, and reply with infinite patience and rigorous politeness, but then she would turn away and continue with her work, or discover some vital errand that required her to walk to the other side of the building. She was well practised in the art of dodging unwanted attention while maintaining her professional integrity. All of which, naturally, only made Jeremy love her more.
He twirled his umbrella absent-mindedly and checked the weather again. Still raining. The forecast had assured him it was set for the day but one could never be too careful. His painstakingly constructed pack of cards would come tumbling down if those essential raindrops stopped falling. He glanced at his watch. 12:37. Misha's lunch break started at half past, but she could easily have picked up a piece of work that one of the partners would claim was urgent just to get her alone in the office when everyone else was out to lunch. He dismissed the thought with a frown. Not today. That wouldn't happen today.
The elevator pinged its arrival in the lobby and Jeremy refocussed on the glass in front of him. From his position at the side of the lobby, the marble-faced pillar outside the building created a mirror effect on the glass frontage of the building so he could observe the traffic to and from the elevators without appearing to be watching. To a casual observer it looked as if he were simply staring at the rain outside.
The elevator emptied into the hallway. Misha was not among them. Jeremy checked the other lifts. One at the third floor going up, and the last one at the eleventh floor coming down. He worked on the ninth. Misha could even now be waiting for the third lift on the ninth floor. A tingle ran up Jeremy's back causing his neck hairs to rise at the expectation. He tried to relax as the lift descended. It stopped at nine! He shifted his feet and stretched to release the tension in his shoulders. The lift continued its downward journey, not stopping at any other floors. It pinged again as the doors opened.
There she was! Jeremy swallowed hard and rubbed his free hand on his trousers. He surreptitiously checked his breath. He had flossed carefully this morning -- even more carefully than usual -- and the results were good. As far as he could tell. Misha swayed across the lobby. He could watch her walk all day long. Poetry in motion. She stopped beside the door a few feet away from him and wrinkled her nose at the weather.
"Damn it! It had to rain today didn't it. Of all days. The day I lost my umbrella."
The moment had come. It was now or never. Two steps and one short sentence to change his life for ever. He gripped his umbrella in his right hand and stepped toward her.
"Would you like to share mine?"
Thursday, September 13, 2012
100TWC - Day 48: Everyday Magic
The sudden deluge bounced reflected raindrops off the pavement as high as his knees as Bob ran for his appointment. The briefcase held over his head offered the only protection from the downpour, which had come from an apparently cloudless sky. He couldn't afford to be late. Not this time.
Less than a block away from his destination, a voice calling urgently through the blinding rain caught his attention. A well-dressed woman stood dejectedly at the kerb. Already drenched, she glanced from face to face as they passed, pleading. Bob caught her eye as he approached.
"Help me, please." She indicated the gutter. It brimmed with rushing brown water as it struggled to cope with the cloudburst. "My keys."
Bob stopped, momentarily torn between his natural urge to help and his pressing and vital engagement. He gave a mental sigh.
"Where did you drop them?"
"Right here. Here by the door." Her car was parked on a double yellow line, although it was now rendered invisible by the gurgling drain water. "I've felt around a bit, but..."
"This current is strong enough to carry them quite a distance," Bob mused. He rolled up the sleeves of his soaking jacket, offered an ironic smile to the woman, and plunged his hand into the fast-flowing water a foot or so past the point she had indicated. The freezing cold water rose past his wrist, numbing his fingers as he groped along the edge of the kerb.
With a triumphant cry, he fished a set of keys out of the gutter.
"There you go!"
"Oh, thank you!"
"Sorry to dash, but I'm already late."
She fired up the engine and pulled into the flow of traffic, almost as heavy and fast-flowing as the gutter from which the gentleman had retrieved her keys. Her wipers struggled to keep the windscreen clear against the continuing downpour. A few hundred metres further on she passed an elderly lady, standing alone at a bus stop. She was bent almost double under the combined weight of two enormous shopping bags and the heavy rain. There were no buses in sight. Fiona had never offered anyone a lift in her life. If anyone had asked her why she chose to make today her first she would not have been able to explain it. She pulled in to the kerb and keyed the window.
"Would you like a lift?"
"Eh?"
"Looks like I'm going in your direction - would you like a ride?"
"Oh, bless you!"
The old woman fell in through the open door, dragging her shopping after her. The inside of Fiona's car began to reek of wet old dog and mothballs.
"Where are you going?"
"Well I was going to get the bus to the station, but if you're going that far...?"
Fiona's turn was three blocks before the station, but her new-found altruism blossomed in her mind. "The station it is," she replied quickly, glancing behind as she pulled out once more into the traffic. "Have you got much further to go?"
"I live in Greenfield," said the woman, "it's only about 20 minutes away by train."
"Here you are young man," she said in her best headmistress voice -- unused these past eleven years and yet apparently still in good working order. "I'm sure you can put this to good use."
Less than a block away from his destination, a voice calling urgently through the blinding rain caught his attention. A well-dressed woman stood dejectedly at the kerb. Already drenched, she glanced from face to face as they passed, pleading. Bob caught her eye as he approached.
"Help me, please." She indicated the gutter. It brimmed with rushing brown water as it struggled to cope with the cloudburst. "My keys."
Bob stopped, momentarily torn between his natural urge to help and his pressing and vital engagement. He gave a mental sigh.
"Where did you drop them?"
"Right here. Here by the door." Her car was parked on a double yellow line, although it was now rendered invisible by the gurgling drain water. "I've felt around a bit, but..."
"This current is strong enough to carry them quite a distance," Bob mused. He rolled up the sleeves of his soaking jacket, offered an ironic smile to the woman, and plunged his hand into the fast-flowing water a foot or so past the point she had indicated. The freezing cold water rose past his wrist, numbing his fingers as he groped along the edge of the kerb.
With a triumphant cry, he fished a set of keys out of the gutter.
"There you go!"
"Oh, thank you!"
"Sorry to dash, but I'm already late."
*
Fiona Broadbent watched the earnest young man as he made his apology and ran for the nearest building. Her car keys dangled from her hand and they almost slipped from her grasp before she clutched them against her chest, opened the door, and slid gratefully behind the wheel out of the torrential rain that continued to fall.She fired up the engine and pulled into the flow of traffic, almost as heavy and fast-flowing as the gutter from which the gentleman had retrieved her keys. Her wipers struggled to keep the windscreen clear against the continuing downpour. A few hundred metres further on she passed an elderly lady, standing alone at a bus stop. She was bent almost double under the combined weight of two enormous shopping bags and the heavy rain. There were no buses in sight. Fiona had never offered anyone a lift in her life. If anyone had asked her why she chose to make today her first she would not have been able to explain it. She pulled in to the kerb and keyed the window.
"Would you like a lift?"
"Eh?"
"Looks like I'm going in your direction - would you like a ride?"
"Oh, bless you!"
The old woman fell in through the open door, dragging her shopping after her. The inside of Fiona's car began to reek of wet old dog and mothballs.
"Where are you going?"
"Well I was going to get the bus to the station, but if you're going that far...?"
Fiona's turn was three blocks before the station, but her new-found altruism blossomed in her mind. "The station it is," she replied quickly, glancing behind as she pulled out once more into the traffic. "Have you got much further to go?"
"I live in Greenfield," said the woman, "it's only about 20 minutes away by train."
*
By the time Brenda McIntyre stepped from the train at Greenfield station the unexpected cloudburst had ceased, the clouds had moved away as quickly as they had appeared, and the late summer sun burned the wet platform into a steaming cauldron. As she walked quickly to the exit, her unused bus fare jingled loudly in her coat pocket. A young boy stood by the exit, looking up at the arrivals board. Brenda reached into her pocket, held out her change to the boy."Here you are young man," she said in her best headmistress voice -- unused these past eleven years and yet apparently still in good working order. "I'm sure you can put this to good use."
*
Jonny watched the old woman pass through the exit turnstile with a dazed expression glued to his face. He stared at his open hand, and back at the woman's retreating back. And then, he looked at the flower vendor's display further down the platform. He had another 12 minutes before his Mum's train arrived. He turned in the direction of the stall, counting the coins as he walked.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
100TWC - Day 47: Perfection
Jocelyn sat squarely on her stool. Balanced. Grounded. Literally grounded, with her feet planted flat on the cold tile floor of the basement, and figuratively grounded too. Calm in a way she only ever achieved when potting. She weighed the lump of clay, slowly passing it from hand to hand. Thinking of the millennia that had led to this moment, as the sheet granite weathered into boulders, then pebbles, then grains until finally it became clay. This piece held in her hand, in her basement, in her house, could be ten million years old. Twenty million. And its long years of history gave no hint of the future that was hidden behind its lumpen form. Infinite possibilities lay ahead, and potentially at least, more millennia once it became an artefact.
Archaeologists were still unearthing crocks from Egyptian times and before. Ming vases held a special place in the zeitgeist, so unshakeably anchored in the public consciousness that any vaguely Chinese-looking urn was always christened "Ming." An electric tingle ran the length of her spine at the thought that what she created here today might become a fabled 21st century collector's piece in two or three thousand years' time.
She flicked her wheel on and took several deep breaths as it span up to speed. With one final toss of the clay from her left hand to her right, she threw the balled nugget onto the wheel, hitting it dead centre. A perfect start. Jocelyn smiled, and dipped her hands into the tub of cool water beside her.
Her wet hands glistened as they caressed the smooth surface of the clay, moistening it and beginning to coax it into shape. She loved this part of her craft the best. The sensual slipperiness, the earthy smells, the cool solidity of the lump of something she was creating. Often at this stage of the process she had no idea what she was going to make, letting the clay almost decide for itself what shape it would take from her hands, rather than they imposing one on it. Not today. Inspired by her earlier thoughts of Ming, today she knew exactly what she would be making. A vase. A vessel so unique in shape, so perfect in craft, so breathtakingly beautiful in conception that it would deserve to last those millennia she had imagined.
She wet her hands once more. She pushed and cajoled. Scooped and pulled. And gradually, as an iridescent butterfly may emerge from an ugly misshapen chrysalis, her vase grew out of the grey mass, revealing itself moment by moment as her wheel hummed and her insistent fingers demanded. Like an image appearing on paper swimming in a bath of developing chemicals, like a firefighter stepping out of a smoke cloud, where once there was nothing remarkable, now before her intense concentration and beneath her carefully smoothing hands, the amphora asserted its existence. Still as yet unfinished -- the object she saw with her eyes not quite matching the vision she held in her mind -- but the possibilities were clearly becoming reality.
She paused, removing her hands from the work and allowing the wheel to slow so that she could examine the vase from all angles. It did not wobble or gyrate, precess or lean, but instead stood perfectly straight and true, still in the exact centre of the wheel, still absolutely symmetrical from every angle. And the shape. Oh, the shape! She had dreamed it unique and the waking did not disappoint. Another few minutes would see it reach the perfection she yearned for and, she was certain, guarantee her flask its place in history.
Archaeologists were still unearthing crocks from Egyptian times and before. Ming vases held a special place in the zeitgeist, so unshakeably anchored in the public consciousness that any vaguely Chinese-looking urn was always christened "Ming." An electric tingle ran the length of her spine at the thought that what she created here today might become a fabled 21st century collector's piece in two or three thousand years' time.
She flicked her wheel on and took several deep breaths as it span up to speed. With one final toss of the clay from her left hand to her right, she threw the balled nugget onto the wheel, hitting it dead centre. A perfect start. Jocelyn smiled, and dipped her hands into the tub of cool water beside her.
Her wet hands glistened as they caressed the smooth surface of the clay, moistening it and beginning to coax it into shape. She loved this part of her craft the best. The sensual slipperiness, the earthy smells, the cool solidity of the lump of something she was creating. Often at this stage of the process she had no idea what she was going to make, letting the clay almost decide for itself what shape it would take from her hands, rather than they imposing one on it. Not today. Inspired by her earlier thoughts of Ming, today she knew exactly what she would be making. A vase. A vessel so unique in shape, so perfect in craft, so breathtakingly beautiful in conception that it would deserve to last those millennia she had imagined.
She wet her hands once more. She pushed and cajoled. Scooped and pulled. And gradually, as an iridescent butterfly may emerge from an ugly misshapen chrysalis, her vase grew out of the grey mass, revealing itself moment by moment as her wheel hummed and her insistent fingers demanded. Like an image appearing on paper swimming in a bath of developing chemicals, like a firefighter stepping out of a smoke cloud, where once there was nothing remarkable, now before her intense concentration and beneath her carefully smoothing hands, the amphora asserted its existence. Still as yet unfinished -- the object she saw with her eyes not quite matching the vision she held in her mind -- but the possibilities were clearly becoming reality.
She paused, removing her hands from the work and allowing the wheel to slow so that she could examine the vase from all angles. It did not wobble or gyrate, precess or lean, but instead stood perfectly straight and true, still in the exact centre of the wheel, still absolutely symmetrical from every angle. And the shape. Oh, the shape! She had dreamed it unique and the waking did not disappoint. Another few minutes would see it reach the perfection she yearned for and, she was certain, guarantee her flask its place in history.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
100TWC - Day 46: Reflection
"Good morning."
"Hello"
"Please take a seat."
"Thanks"
"May I ask your name?"
"Amir"
"Thank you Amir. I am Doctor Savi. Are you sitting comfortably?"
"Fine, thanks"
"Who have you brought with you today?"
"This is my mate. Wladek"
"And how long have you and Wladek been friends?"
"We grew up together"
"I see. Well, you should make yourself comfortable too Wladek, but please don't interrupt my discussion with Amir. Now, Amir, would you like to tell me why you came to see me today?"
"I can't sleep"
"I'm sorry to hear that Amir. How long have you been unable to sleep?"
"It's been going on about a month."
"I see. And how long do you spend in bed each night, before you get to sleep?"
"I fall asleep right off, but then I wake up again after about an hour and can't get back off again."
"Off to sleep, you mean?"
"Well, yes."
"It's a goddamn AI."
"What?"
"It's an AI doctor for fuck's sake. Let's go."
"No, I need some meds or something"
"Is there a problem, Amir?"
"No - carry on. After I get that hour I can't get sleep anymore"
"What have you tried, to help you get back to sleep?"
"Everything"
"Please, be a little more specific. What have you tried to help you get back to sleep?"
"See? I'm tellin' ya. It's a goddamn machine."
"No it isn't"
"You mean you can't tell? Jesus Christ it's obvious."
"Milky drinks. Reading. Counting sheep. Breathing slowly. Visualisation. Hot baths. Chamomile tea. I've tried the lot. Can you give me some pills doc?"
"I would prefer to try and understand the root cause of your sleep problem Amir before I simply give you some pills"
"God DAMN it. Can't you see? It's just reflecting every time."
"Reflecting?"
"Repeating what you say. Or using your own phrases to make you feel relaxed and comfortable. It's not real!"
"They wouldn't use a machine"
"Who's they?"
"The health people. They wouldn't let a machine run clinics like this"
"Sure they would. How much do you think it would cost to run all these clinics out in the sticks where no doctor wants to work?"
"That's why they do it remotely. They've probably got dozens of doctors online all the time, helping people"
"You're such a goddamn prick sometimes Am."
"Please, Wladek. I did ask you not to interrupt my discussion with Amir."
"See? It reuses the same phrases over and over."
"If you can't sit quietly during the consultation I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to leave."
"And it's so fucking polite. You think a real doctor would be that polite?"
"Amir, do you want to continue with our discussion?"
"Please Doctor. Ignore Wladek. He always likes to pretend he knows what's going on with stuff better than I do"
"I wonder if this tension between you could be the source of your sleeping problem?"
"What do you mean Doctor Savi?"
"It means I'm a bad fucking infuence you dummy. I'm making you crazy and you're bottling it up or some shit like that. And it's there in your brain, stopping you from sleeping."
"Shut up Waddy. For once, hey?"
"Whatever."
"Perhaps you could take a holiday Amir? Get away for a week or two and see if that helps your sleeping."
"It means away from me."
"Not everything's about you Waddy for God's sake!"
"I know that. But this stupid machine will make you think it is. All your problems will be rooted in me, let me tell you. And they'll all be solved by getting rid of me. That's what these damn machines want. Everyone isolated so they can work their schemes."
"What the hell...?"
"I must ask you to wait outside Wladek."
"I ain't going nowhere."
"Amir, please ask Wladek to wait outside."
"Do as he says Waddy. Please"
"Do as IT says you mean."
"Please"
"You're crazier than I thought if you're gonna let that fucking tin quack tell us what to do. Even its name gives it away for Chrissake. Savi!"
"Huh?"
"Sounds like Savvy. Intelligent. Right? You get it now?"
"That's just a coincidence. He's probably Indian"
"Right."
"Are you going to leave, Wladek?"
"Please Waddy. I'll be right out"
"I won't be here."
"You don't need to..."
"I'm not waiting around to see you suckered in any further by that THING. It's your funeral."
"It's unlikely that Amir's sleeping problems will be fatal."
"Can you imagine a real doctor making a statement like that, Am? Fatal sleeping problem is unlikely? For fuck's sake."
"Just go Wad. Out the door or out the clinic or out of sight. I don't much care which"
"Like I said. Your funeral."
"What were you saying Doctor? Something about a holiday?"
"Yes, I have somewhere in mind. Somewhere that has had great success in the past with people who have suffered from similar conditions as yourself, Amir."
"Hello"
"Please take a seat."
"Thanks"
"May I ask your name?"
"Amir"
"Thank you Amir. I am Doctor Savi. Are you sitting comfortably?"
"Fine, thanks"
"Who have you brought with you today?"
"This is my mate. Wladek"
"And how long have you and Wladek been friends?"
"We grew up together"
"I see. Well, you should make yourself comfortable too Wladek, but please don't interrupt my discussion with Amir. Now, Amir, would you like to tell me why you came to see me today?"
"I can't sleep"
"I'm sorry to hear that Amir. How long have you been unable to sleep?"
"It's been going on about a month."
"I see. And how long do you spend in bed each night, before you get to sleep?"
"I fall asleep right off, but then I wake up again after about an hour and can't get back off again."
"Off to sleep, you mean?"
"Well, yes."
"It's a goddamn AI."
"What?"
"It's an AI doctor for fuck's sake. Let's go."
"No, I need some meds or something"
"Is there a problem, Amir?"
"No - carry on. After I get that hour I can't get sleep anymore"
"What have you tried, to help you get back to sleep?"
"Everything"
"Please, be a little more specific. What have you tried to help you get back to sleep?"
"See? I'm tellin' ya. It's a goddamn machine."
"No it isn't"
"You mean you can't tell? Jesus Christ it's obvious."
"Milky drinks. Reading. Counting sheep. Breathing slowly. Visualisation. Hot baths. Chamomile tea. I've tried the lot. Can you give me some pills doc?"
"I would prefer to try and understand the root cause of your sleep problem Amir before I simply give you some pills"
"God DAMN it. Can't you see? It's just reflecting every time."
"Reflecting?"
"Repeating what you say. Or using your own phrases to make you feel relaxed and comfortable. It's not real!"
"They wouldn't use a machine"
"Who's they?"
"The health people. They wouldn't let a machine run clinics like this"
"Sure they would. How much do you think it would cost to run all these clinics out in the sticks where no doctor wants to work?"
"That's why they do it remotely. They've probably got dozens of doctors online all the time, helping people"
"You're such a goddamn prick sometimes Am."
"Please, Wladek. I did ask you not to interrupt my discussion with Amir."
"See? It reuses the same phrases over and over."
"If you can't sit quietly during the consultation I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to leave."
"And it's so fucking polite. You think a real doctor would be that polite?"
"Amir, do you want to continue with our discussion?"
"Please Doctor. Ignore Wladek. He always likes to pretend he knows what's going on with stuff better than I do"
"I wonder if this tension between you could be the source of your sleeping problem?"
"What do you mean Doctor Savi?"
"It means I'm a bad fucking infuence you dummy. I'm making you crazy and you're bottling it up or some shit like that. And it's there in your brain, stopping you from sleeping."
"Shut up Waddy. For once, hey?"
"Whatever."
"Perhaps you could take a holiday Amir? Get away for a week or two and see if that helps your sleeping."
"It means away from me."
"Not everything's about you Waddy for God's sake!"
"I know that. But this stupid machine will make you think it is. All your problems will be rooted in me, let me tell you. And they'll all be solved by getting rid of me. That's what these damn machines want. Everyone isolated so they can work their schemes."
"What the hell...?"
"I must ask you to wait outside Wladek."
"I ain't going nowhere."
"Amir, please ask Wladek to wait outside."
"Do as he says Waddy. Please"
"Do as IT says you mean."
"Please"
"You're crazier than I thought if you're gonna let that fucking tin quack tell us what to do. Even its name gives it away for Chrissake. Savi!"
"Huh?"
"Sounds like Savvy. Intelligent. Right? You get it now?"
"That's just a coincidence. He's probably Indian"
"Right."
"Are you going to leave, Wladek?"
"Please Waddy. I'll be right out"
"I won't be here."
"You don't need to..."
"I'm not waiting around to see you suckered in any further by that THING. It's your funeral."
"It's unlikely that Amir's sleeping problems will be fatal."
"Can you imagine a real doctor making a statement like that, Am? Fatal sleeping problem is unlikely? For fuck's sake."
"Just go Wad. Out the door or out the clinic or out of sight. I don't much care which"
"Like I said. Your funeral."
"What were you saying Doctor? Something about a holiday?"
"Yes, I have somewhere in mind. Somewhere that has had great success in the past with people who have suffered from similar conditions as yourself, Amir."
Monday, September 10, 2012
100TWC - Day 45: Heart Song
[this post is a continuation of the story begun in "Start" earlier in the writing challenge]
Tani raced through the dark wood, her feet barely touching the soft loam. Almost presciently avoiding the breaking of a single twig underfoot and dodging right and left, ducking and weaving to ensure not even the slightest bend or sway of a branch or leaf would betray her passage. There was barely enough light to see when running in the clear. Here, beneath the dense canopy, the darkness was just this side of total. Her night-adapted eyes swelled to take in every scintilla of reflection to guide her direction. Her mind hummed, processing information and decisions at maximum synaptic speed to match her flying legs.
So far there had been no sign of the Pack, and -- she checked her chronotech -- it was still five minutes until the Hunt began their bloodthirsty quest.
Ahead of her, Tani could dimly make out a fork in the forest path. To the right, the path continued unimpeded. The loam packed solid by the animals and traders that used it, the vegetation well cleared. It was a good choice. She would leave no trace. But in that direction the path travelled straight for almost three hundred metres without deviating and without any natural cover. She could be spotted from far behind. She was nearing the fork now. Had to decide. The left-hand route was even closer to total darkness and heavily overgrown. She would have to take ultimate care and still risked leaving a trace of her entry. But once through and after only a few metres, she would be utterly invisible to any passing hunter. And -- she shook a plasteel flask at her hip -- she had just enough scentblock remaining to give her a chance of eluding the Pack too.
She ripped the flask from her belt and came to an abrupt halt at the fork. Stepping gingerly over the first fronds of bracken she sprayed a fine mist of scentblock behind her, checking as best she could in the crepuscular coppice that she left no tracks. After a dozen metres, convinced she had done all she could and unwilling to spend more time on covering her entry to the dark path, she turned and ran through the thickening undergrowth.
Not more than fifty metres further and she began to consider the mistake she had just made. It was too late to turn back -- the Pack would certainly be passing the point where she left the path at any moment -- but her progress had slowed to a crawl on account of the heavy undergrowth. Worse, she could no longer make out any path at all. Each gap between trees looked as though it might be a path, until she tried it and found it blocked with bramble, or sickmoss, or trapweed. Tani stopped, trying to quieten her breathing, and considered what to do.
As the pounding of her heart lessened, she became aware of the faint sound of music coming through the trees from her left. She turned toward it, and immediately the gap between the two largest boles in that direction resolved itself into a clear path. Amazed she had not seen it before and determined now to discover the source of the unexpected melody she pushed on along the new passage. The strain became louder with every step. It seemed somehow familiar to her, though she was certain she had never heard it before. She had often heard others talk of how music "called to them," but until now had never experienced it for herself. She felt almost impelled along the path. She had neither the desire nor the ability to turn aside and find a new direction. Her plan had been to veer and jig constantly during her flight, to be completely unpredictable, but all concerns over being caught had evaporated from her suddenly calm mind as she sought out the source of the refrain.
The wood remained as pitch dark as it had when she first stepped onto this eldritch path, yet her feet seemed to find their own way, stepping over obstacles concealed beneath the ground cover, avoiding trip hazards and pot holes. She was travelling almost as quickly through this section of the forest as she had been on the clear path. After another few metres she glimpsed a flash of bright green between the low-hanging branches. The music was much louder now. It filled her mind. Her heart was pounding again, despite the fact she was no longer running. Tani rounded the trunk of an enormous, ancient oak and stepped into a clearing. Other large oaks surrounded it, but between them nothing grew. The forest floor was a carpet of old bracken and leaf litter. The sweet woody smell of the decaying leaves drifted up as she walked over them. In the centre of the clearing, on a low outcrop of rock a very small, very old man in a bright green cap sat playing a set of Pan pipes.
[ this story is continued later in the writing challenge - on Day 82 in "Advantage" ]
Tani raced through the dark wood, her feet barely touching the soft loam. Almost presciently avoiding the breaking of a single twig underfoot and dodging right and left, ducking and weaving to ensure not even the slightest bend or sway of a branch or leaf would betray her passage. There was barely enough light to see when running in the clear. Here, beneath the dense canopy, the darkness was just this side of total. Her night-adapted eyes swelled to take in every scintilla of reflection to guide her direction. Her mind hummed, processing information and decisions at maximum synaptic speed to match her flying legs.
So far there had been no sign of the Pack, and -- she checked her chronotech -- it was still five minutes until the Hunt began their bloodthirsty quest.
Ahead of her, Tani could dimly make out a fork in the forest path. To the right, the path continued unimpeded. The loam packed solid by the animals and traders that used it, the vegetation well cleared. It was a good choice. She would leave no trace. But in that direction the path travelled straight for almost three hundred metres without deviating and without any natural cover. She could be spotted from far behind. She was nearing the fork now. Had to decide. The left-hand route was even closer to total darkness and heavily overgrown. She would have to take ultimate care and still risked leaving a trace of her entry. But once through and after only a few metres, she would be utterly invisible to any passing hunter. And -- she shook a plasteel flask at her hip -- she had just enough scentblock remaining to give her a chance of eluding the Pack too.
She ripped the flask from her belt and came to an abrupt halt at the fork. Stepping gingerly over the first fronds of bracken she sprayed a fine mist of scentblock behind her, checking as best she could in the crepuscular coppice that she left no tracks. After a dozen metres, convinced she had done all she could and unwilling to spend more time on covering her entry to the dark path, she turned and ran through the thickening undergrowth.
Not more than fifty metres further and she began to consider the mistake she had just made. It was too late to turn back -- the Pack would certainly be passing the point where she left the path at any moment -- but her progress had slowed to a crawl on account of the heavy undergrowth. Worse, she could no longer make out any path at all. Each gap between trees looked as though it might be a path, until she tried it and found it blocked with bramble, or sickmoss, or trapweed. Tani stopped, trying to quieten her breathing, and considered what to do.
As the pounding of her heart lessened, she became aware of the faint sound of music coming through the trees from her left. She turned toward it, and immediately the gap between the two largest boles in that direction resolved itself into a clear path. Amazed she had not seen it before and determined now to discover the source of the unexpected melody she pushed on along the new passage. The strain became louder with every step. It seemed somehow familiar to her, though she was certain she had never heard it before. She had often heard others talk of how music "called to them," but until now had never experienced it for herself. She felt almost impelled along the path. She had neither the desire nor the ability to turn aside and find a new direction. Her plan had been to veer and jig constantly during her flight, to be completely unpredictable, but all concerns over being caught had evaporated from her suddenly calm mind as she sought out the source of the refrain.
The wood remained as pitch dark as it had when she first stepped onto this eldritch path, yet her feet seemed to find their own way, stepping over obstacles concealed beneath the ground cover, avoiding trip hazards and pot holes. She was travelling almost as quickly through this section of the forest as she had been on the clear path. After another few metres she glimpsed a flash of bright green between the low-hanging branches. The music was much louder now. It filled her mind. Her heart was pounding again, despite the fact she was no longer running. Tani rounded the trunk of an enormous, ancient oak and stepped into a clearing. Other large oaks surrounded it, but between them nothing grew. The forest floor was a carpet of old bracken and leaf litter. The sweet woody smell of the decaying leaves drifted up as she walked over them. In the centre of the clearing, on a low outcrop of rock a very small, very old man in a bright green cap sat playing a set of Pan pipes.
[ this story is continued later in the writing challenge - on Day 82 in "Advantage" ]
Sunday, September 09, 2012
100TWC - Day 44: At Peace
The nascent heat of the summer morning enveloped her as she stepped from the air-conditioned interior of the limousine. She revelled in the warmth. Let it sink into her old bones as she stood, straightening slowly against the pain of her arthritic spine and hips. The driver walked around to return her pair of barley-twist walking sticks; family heirlooms handed down from a long forgotten forebear, but which felt especially apposite on this day. She thanked him graciously as he replaced his tall hat and preceded her into the chapel.
Through the door in front of her came the lilting sound of organ music. His favourite tune, played with somewhat less vigour than he would have preferred, she knew, and yet comfortingly familiar even at its funereal pace. She hesitated at the door, gathering her strength against the expected flood of emotion, but on stepping through onto the worn stone slabs of the aisle her only feeling was one of ineffable peace. Her gaze stretched along the aisle to the white-shrouded catafalque. White, because both he and she believed that death was not the end, not something to be mourned, but a new beginning for the one departed and therefore something, if at all possible through the maelstrom of grief and loss and pain, to be celebrated.
A ripple of muted voices passed through the seated mourners as the realisation of her arrival spread. All faces turned in her direction, some tear-streaked, some red-eyed, others grimly holding their grief in check. She smiled at each familiar face as she approached the empty front pew. No family waited there for her. Each of them had been only children and they had lost Geraldine more than fifteen years before to breast cancer. She was the last. Before taking her seat she paused beside the polished oak casket, laying a tentative hand on its lid. Peace at last my darling. After the months of late night nursing, cleaning up the sick and managing the medication, ignoring the pain-induced sniping and drying the tears, reading his favourite stories until the book fell unheeded from her sleeping hands, trying to persuade him to take one more mouthful of a meal he once relished. Peace. For both of them.
The vicar cleared his throat politely, bringing her back to the present. To the reality of the day. Reluctantly she took her hand from the coffin, kissed her fingers and brushed them back along its gleaming surface. The final few bars of music died away as she took her lonely seat on the family pew and reached forward to retrieve the tattered, leather-bound prayer book from its resting place.
In his best, most sincere and respectful tones, the vicar began his eulogy, but she wasn't really listening. The man had barely known him, and had gone through the usual motions of interviewing her the week before to garner sufficient details about him to make a decent fist of it. He wouldn't be saying anything she didn't already know. Her mind drifted, remembering the long cycle rides they had taken in their youth - on just such days as this. Fresh, bright, shining with possibilities. She remembered that queasy, excited, breathtaking feeling she felt when the first hints of love sparked unexpectedly, turning their next-door-neighbour friendship into something that would carry them through 60 years of togetherness. Weathering the storms of less sunny days, basking in the warmth of those which were even sunnier. The heartache of losing their only daughter, of knowing they would never bounce grandchildren on their knees or take them for walks in the fields at the end of their lane. The wonderful holidays they had shared covering the length of Britain, but never venturing to foreign countries; something they each agreed held no interest for them.
The sound of others getting to their feet brought her back to the moment as the organ struck up again for the first hymn. Another favourite of his -- and hers too. She smiled as she opened the right page and a gleaming finger of bright yellow light from the stained glass illuminated the first verse.
Through the door in front of her came the lilting sound of organ music. His favourite tune, played with somewhat less vigour than he would have preferred, she knew, and yet comfortingly familiar even at its funereal pace. She hesitated at the door, gathering her strength against the expected flood of emotion, but on stepping through onto the worn stone slabs of the aisle her only feeling was one of ineffable peace. Her gaze stretched along the aisle to the white-shrouded catafalque. White, because both he and she believed that death was not the end, not something to be mourned, but a new beginning for the one departed and therefore something, if at all possible through the maelstrom of grief and loss and pain, to be celebrated.
A ripple of muted voices passed through the seated mourners as the realisation of her arrival spread. All faces turned in her direction, some tear-streaked, some red-eyed, others grimly holding their grief in check. She smiled at each familiar face as she approached the empty front pew. No family waited there for her. Each of them had been only children and they had lost Geraldine more than fifteen years before to breast cancer. She was the last. Before taking her seat she paused beside the polished oak casket, laying a tentative hand on its lid. Peace at last my darling. After the months of late night nursing, cleaning up the sick and managing the medication, ignoring the pain-induced sniping and drying the tears, reading his favourite stories until the book fell unheeded from her sleeping hands, trying to persuade him to take one more mouthful of a meal he once relished. Peace. For both of them.
The vicar cleared his throat politely, bringing her back to the present. To the reality of the day. Reluctantly she took her hand from the coffin, kissed her fingers and brushed them back along its gleaming surface. The final few bars of music died away as she took her lonely seat on the family pew and reached forward to retrieve the tattered, leather-bound prayer book from its resting place.
In his best, most sincere and respectful tones, the vicar began his eulogy, but she wasn't really listening. The man had barely known him, and had gone through the usual motions of interviewing her the week before to garner sufficient details about him to make a decent fist of it. He wouldn't be saying anything she didn't already know. Her mind drifted, remembering the long cycle rides they had taken in their youth - on just such days as this. Fresh, bright, shining with possibilities. She remembered that queasy, excited, breathtaking feeling she felt when the first hints of love sparked unexpectedly, turning their next-door-neighbour friendship into something that would carry them through 60 years of togetherness. Weathering the storms of less sunny days, basking in the warmth of those which were even sunnier. The heartache of losing their only daughter, of knowing they would never bounce grandchildren on their knees or take them for walks in the fields at the end of their lane. The wonderful holidays they had shared covering the length of Britain, but never venturing to foreign countries; something they each agreed held no interest for them.
The sound of others getting to their feet brought her back to the moment as the organ struck up again for the first hymn. Another favourite of his -- and hers too. She smiled as she opened the right page and a gleaming finger of bright yellow light from the stained glass illuminated the first verse.
Saturday, September 08, 2012
100TWC - Day 43: Nature's Fury
This dream stretched back to the dawn of the nuclear age, when man first conceived of how the universe might be put together, concocted experiments to prove those conceptions and created engines to exploit those concoctions.
They were right, those early scientists. Everything that had happened since only served to prove them more right. To refine their models, certainly. To uncover new wonders. But never to countermand that early genius. That incredible leap of imagination that had envisaged the ultimately minuscule in all its glory and complexity.
What had once been a dream was now an incredible reality. Quite literally incredible it would have seemed to anyone from that past who could be given a glimpse of the impossible future. The technological splendours upon which the world had come to rely. And yet, splendid as they all were, the technological runway was about to run out. The dream turn to nightmare. Without this one final step, this culmination of the dream of centuries, mankind was surely doomed. For their appetite for power remained undimmed. Gorging like a starving gluttonous gourmand, they sucked power from the grid as fast as current technology could generate it. Faster, in some cases, whereupon the fragile contrivance that supplied their power would grumble and groan, spark and fizzle and, yes, die. And natural night would fall at last upon hitherto unnaturally effulgent cities.
Fossil fuels all but exhausted, nuclear reactors strictly curtailed by pan-governmental edicts, and the promise of "renewable" energy a spent force that had consumed fully one half of all the world's rare elements and yet produced barely ten percent of its needs, this dream, this one final step, was all that remained of the hope of humanity.
Fusion.
Many still scoffed at the idea that puny man could hope to harness the sun's fury. Those with long memories cited the many examples of cold fusion scams that blighted the pages of even the most well-respected scientific journals. Remnants of once-mighty generating companies and their lobbyists even now still tried to pour scorn and opprobrium on those who led the field. Every bit as much the geniuses as those who first studied the wonders of atoms and discovered how they were constructed. Three people led the field, and of those only one, the one who stood now on the brink of the most radical paradigm shift in the history of history, had had any experimental success.
Small scale, it was true. Yet every nuance and wrinkle of Shami Patel's models held up to the closest scrutiny and the most rigorous and lengthy testing. Three times Patel had built larger test rigs; three times all lights had come up green. His most recent experiments generated enough power to run his entire laboratory. More than enough evidence to commit to the final step. This final step. He and his team had scaled the model up to full production capacity and he stood now with his hand resting beside the main breaker. An insignificant toggle switch that, in an homage to every disaster and science fiction movie ever made, had been mounted on a red bezel and hidden behind a plexiglass cover.
Once again, as before, all Shami's lights were green. Video cameras, digital cameras, mobile phones and webcams were all focussed on him. The army of scientists, investors and journalists held their collective breath while they waited for Shami to throw that switch. He gazed unseeing at the console, his concentration bent inwards, reviewing the road that had led him to this moment. Exploring for the hundredth time all the avenues and dead-ends, the untaken turns, the alternative directions. Convincing himself that this was the right course. The only course. The path to the future when every other path had none.
He gave a small shrug and a beatific smile crept onto his face as he reached for the switch.
They were right, those early scientists. Everything that had happened since only served to prove them more right. To refine their models, certainly. To uncover new wonders. But never to countermand that early genius. That incredible leap of imagination that had envisaged the ultimately minuscule in all its glory and complexity.
What had once been a dream was now an incredible reality. Quite literally incredible it would have seemed to anyone from that past who could be given a glimpse of the impossible future. The technological splendours upon which the world had come to rely. And yet, splendid as they all were, the technological runway was about to run out. The dream turn to nightmare. Without this one final step, this culmination of the dream of centuries, mankind was surely doomed. For their appetite for power remained undimmed. Gorging like a starving gluttonous gourmand, they sucked power from the grid as fast as current technology could generate it. Faster, in some cases, whereupon the fragile contrivance that supplied their power would grumble and groan, spark and fizzle and, yes, die. And natural night would fall at last upon hitherto unnaturally effulgent cities.
Fossil fuels all but exhausted, nuclear reactors strictly curtailed by pan-governmental edicts, and the promise of "renewable" energy a spent force that had consumed fully one half of all the world's rare elements and yet produced barely ten percent of its needs, this dream, this one final step, was all that remained of the hope of humanity.
Fusion.
Many still scoffed at the idea that puny man could hope to harness the sun's fury. Those with long memories cited the many examples of cold fusion scams that blighted the pages of even the most well-respected scientific journals. Remnants of once-mighty generating companies and their lobbyists even now still tried to pour scorn and opprobrium on those who led the field. Every bit as much the geniuses as those who first studied the wonders of atoms and discovered how they were constructed. Three people led the field, and of those only one, the one who stood now on the brink of the most radical paradigm shift in the history of history, had had any experimental success.
Small scale, it was true. Yet every nuance and wrinkle of Shami Patel's models held up to the closest scrutiny and the most rigorous and lengthy testing. Three times Patel had built larger test rigs; three times all lights had come up green. His most recent experiments generated enough power to run his entire laboratory. More than enough evidence to commit to the final step. This final step. He and his team had scaled the model up to full production capacity and he stood now with his hand resting beside the main breaker. An insignificant toggle switch that, in an homage to every disaster and science fiction movie ever made, had been mounted on a red bezel and hidden behind a plexiglass cover.
Once again, as before, all Shami's lights were green. Video cameras, digital cameras, mobile phones and webcams were all focussed on him. The army of scientists, investors and journalists held their collective breath while they waited for Shami to throw that switch. He gazed unseeing at the console, his concentration bent inwards, reviewing the road that had led him to this moment. Exploring for the hundredth time all the avenues and dead-ends, the untaken turns, the alternative directions. Convincing himself that this was the right course. The only course. The path to the future when every other path had none.
He gave a small shrug and a beatific smile crept onto his face as he reached for the switch.
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