Day 212 - Font-tastic

 FONT-TASTIC

Prompt - Font-tastic : Choose a unique font and type out a poem, story or journal entry using that font

Can the choice of font change the meaning of the words it's being used to present to the reader?  It can certainly provoke reactions.  The longevity of the disdain, even hatred, for Comic Sans is the clearest example.  Using CS is a sure way to ensure you won't be taken seriously.  You might even lose friends.

Your choice of font does give an indication of mood.  It's the first thing people see when they look at your writing, and they can be led towards the tone of your piece, and the gravity or otherwise of what you are trying to convey, simply from the font it appears in.  Business like?  Intimate?  Angry?  Humourous?  Ironic?  (See, there is a role for Comic Sans...)  All can be initially implied simply from the appearance of the characters in the words, even before someone gets to reading the words themselves.

So here's a short poem, repeated several times, in a variety of very different fonts.  Does the meaning remain the same throughout, perhaps influenced by the first font it appears in, or do further connotations emerge when the script changes?  You decide.  (And no, none of them are Comic Sans!)

The race without a line to cross

Is a race you'll never win

Where there's no win you find no loss

No need to chase after rainbows

Let the rain embrace your skin

Sure the path's the one that you chose

The race without a line to cross

Is a race you'll never win

Where there's no win you find no loss

No need to chase after rainbows

Let the rain embrace your skin

Sure the path's the one that you chose

The race without a line to cross

Is a race you'll never win

Where there's no win you find no loss

No need to chase after rainbows

Let the rain embrace your skin

Sure the path's the one that you chose

The race without a line to cross

Is a race you'll never win

Where there's no win you find no loss

No need to chase after rainbows

Let the rain embrace your skin

Sure the path's the one that you chose

The race without a line to cross

Is a race you'll never win

Where there's no win you find no loss

No need to chase after rainbows

Let the rain embrace your skin

Sure the path's the one that you chose

The race without a line to cross

Is a race you'll never win

Where there's no win you find no loss

No need to chase after rainbows

Let the rain embrace your skin

Sure the path's the one that you chose

Day 211 - Star Crossed

 STAR CROSSED

Prompt - Star Crossed : Write a short modern version of Romeo and Juliet, or think of real-life examples of lovers who are not allowed to be together as inspiration.

Rab and Julie fell in love

They didn't know the danger

Attraction overrules real life

When stranger meets with stranger

And yet they somehow realised

To not be too overt

Kept their passions to themselves

Their meetings were covert  

But joy must have it's outlet

Makes secrets hard to keep

Julie's mum knew something's up

When her girl can hardly sleep

She quizzes her young daughter

Plays the cunning sleuth

Doesn't take much digging

To get down to the truth

"Who's this Rab, and where's he from?"

A mother needs to know

Every detail of the boy

Her daughter has in tow

"From Leith" says Julie, proud that she

Has found herself a boyfriend

Who's not one of the usual crowd

And doesn't condescend

She speaks with pride of her own Rab

And how he's kind and gentle

Isn't that what really counts

His home is incidental

Now dad's asking more about

Rab's parents and the background

Of this lad he's never met

That his daughter has found

A plumber and a cleaner?

He shook his head and sighed

"You don't mix with folk from Leith

When you come from Morningside"

He drove her down to Leith to see

Where Rab's family bided

One look up at the tenement flat

And he saw they were misguided

A poster in the window

Three letters spelling out

Support for independence

Dad now had no doubt

"There's no more Rab for you my girl

Those Nats are not for us

They want to split our country up

Now don't you make a fuss"

Rab's parents didn't help much

His dad got all irate

"No good comes from unionists

You need to get that straight"

But Rab and Julie were in love

They couldn't keep apart

Advice from parents doesn't hold

In matters of the heart

They arranged to get together

But mixed up where they'd meet

Ended up on different sides

Of a very busy street

The traffic seemed to race by

But across the road they ran

He was hit by a Bentley

And she by an old white van

These lovers should still be alive

But parents intercede

A line that no one's allowed to cross

Is a line that we don't need

Day 210 - Footsteps on the Moon

 FOOTSTEPS ON THE MOO N

Prompt - Footsteps on the Moon : Write bout the possibility of life in outer space.

Chan spotted them first.  "Look".  He pointed at the small figures moving from bush to bush further down the hill.  The others let their vis systems focus in on the spot he was indicating and, one by one, let out their own words of amazement.  Silently smiling, each processed their own thoughts on the moment.

"What?  What is it?"  Simone had to know immediately what the various gasps had meant.

"We've actually seen something moving.  From this distance they look a bit like hares, but less upright and with what might be horns instead of ears sticking up.  I'm uploading footage now."  Bimbe wanted the two left on board ship to be a part of this.  The six of them had spent half a lifetime readying themselves for that first glimpse of alien life that had evolved well beyond single cell level.  

"We've got it.  Amazing.  Just amazing" responded Garrett, partnering Simone in an orbit four hundred kilometres above the surface where Bimbe, Chan, Greta and Husam were witnessing a sight that no other human had ever seen.  The sight that said mission accomplished.

Thirty two years and seven months.  Nineteen light years.  Five solar systems.  Twelve planet surveys.  That was the short version of the journey from Earth to here.  A here that didn't even have a proper name yet and was simply referred to as Omicron C.

Of course for most of those years, the interstellar periods where the ship reached NLS - Near Light Speed - the group had spent in stasis.  Not the deep frozen state that the other hundred and fifty eight bodies on board remained in for now, but a lighter regime that allowed them to be wakened more quickly by the ship's emergency systems if necessary (it hadn't been) and making it easier of them to reanimate for the approaches to the systems and the survey work which followed.  Physically they'd all aged around five years.

Ten of the first eleven planets which they'd investigated were easily dismissed.  The probes found no evidence of life, the atmospheres and topographies unsuitable.  They'd spent a lot longer looking at Zera B.  Just-about-breathable atmosphere, plenty of water, some signs of bacteria and other low level organisms, but they'd eventually concluded that if multicell life were to evolve it was still millennia away, and the habitation possibilities for colonisation too few.  They never went down to the surface themselves, despite the obvious temptations.

But here they were now.  They'd been in orbit around the planet for nearly seven months.  It was a bit smaller that Earth, but had a similar mix of land and water surface ratios.  The atmosphere was more oxygen rich, the gravity about seventy five per cent of what they knew from home (what used to be home...), but still more than the artificial grav level they had become used to during their conscious periods on board the ship.  The surface was hotter, with desert across all tropical regions, but more temperate, and lush, terrain on the huge land masses at either pole. 

 But the clincher was evidence of life.  Not just vegetable, but animal too.  Sensors showed bird like creatures in the air, a huge variety of different sizes and shapes of creatures on land, and evidence of plentiful sea life.  

Testing could tell them so much, but the moment finally came when humans would descend to the surface of a plant in another solar system.  There was no argument about who went and who stayed, they all knew their roles.  And the two who remained behind knew that, unlike Michael Collins, their moment would come soon after.  

The landing craft had targeted a hilly region not far from the south pole, where there were few trees and several plateaus that offered a good solid landing ground.  The descent went smoothly, the landing without incident.  The four got into their exosuits and set out for their first walk in this new world, Bimbe allowing Chan the honour of being first to step out.  They'd been walking for only twenty minutes when Chan made the spot, the small creatures running away from these strange machine-like interlopers.

There was much to do.  More exploration, yet more sampling.  Only when they were fully convinced, when the algorithms and formulae provided all the evidence needed, would they beginning the reawakening of the other colonists.  It would take more than ten years for a signal to reach Earth, another twenty or so before anyone would join them.  They all knew this, but Greta couldn't stop herself saying the sentence that were all wanting to utter.

"I think we've found our home."

Day 209 - Sneeze

 SNEEZE

Prompt - Sneeze : Write about things that make you sneeze.

What makes me sneeze?  The obvious things of course - pepper, dust, a common cold.  There are all kinds of small nasal irritants about which might provoke a convulsive expulsion of air from the lungs through the nose and mouth, which is all a sneeze is.  It feels like little could be gained from listing them, for I am not aware of any special causation that I face that isn't also shared by the majority.  We're all familiar with the sensation of sneezing, and the situations in which it occurs.

Of greater interest are the times when one sneezes for no apparent reason; and the bigger question that arises for those in the vicinity, of the quality and quantity of the sneeze itself.  I mention the former being conscious that I am a more frequent sneezer than some.  It can come upon me quite suddenly, with only a second or two of warning, from no obvious cause.  Nobody else is sneezing, only me.  My partner often finds this hard to understand, since she isn't affected in the same way - but has to endure the consequences of the impact it has on me...#

Which brings me back to that bigger question I mentioned.  Why is there such a huge range of variations in the ways in which people sneeze?  They can range from the lower velocity, near soundless, almost imperceptible, delicacy of the more 'polite' sneeze, through to loud, uncontrollable explosions that cast moist breath out into the atmosphere for several meters.  The latter are ones you hear on a bus, in a queue, across a supermarket, and wonder who and why and how there is such a noise being blasted out into the world.  Those are the sort of sneezes I have.

Too often.  They seem to come upon me at almost any time (not good when you're sitting in a concert hall or cinema!), and usually in threes.  As soon as one sneeze had been completed it feels like there's another right behind it, and another to follow that one.  And then they are gone.  If I try to stifle them too much it can feel genuinely painful, as if the force of the explosion is occurring within rather than being expelled.  Get the blocking action really wrong and my head hurts, my ears hurt, my chest feels like it's been punched.  So better out than in is a saying that genuinely applies here.

Except others may not agree.  My wife certainly doesn't.  A loud sneeze from me merits a tut.  The second one of 'those' looks.  And third an accusation of "putting it on" or the comment "there's no need for that".  As if I was doing it on purpose.  This has become ritualised between us, so that it no longer has meaning, except in symbolic terms.  It is far less of an irritant than whatever the bloody thing was that set me off to begin with!

Day 208 - Video Inspiration

 VIDEO INSPIRATION

Prompt - Video Inspiration : Go to Vimeo or YouTube and watch one of the videos featured on the home page.  Write something based on what you watch.

Click to see video chosen.

"Come on wimp, nothing's going to happen."  Stephen was starting to get annoyed at Mansar's recalcitrance.

"It'll be OK, if we stick together.  Nobody really believes this stuff, do they?".  Rachel held out her hand to encourage him to join her.  Mansar sighed and moved towards the opening, waving the proffered hand away.  He sensed that failure to join them would strain Stephen's tenuous friendship beyond his limited ability for tolerance.  They moved into the cave, phone lights providing a bare minimum of help to their progress.

But progress they did, jokily at first, more tensely as they went deeper, the walls became damper, the air colder, and sounds more eerie.  

"How much further?"  Mansar had put off asking as long as he could.

"Can't be much to go now, eh Steve?"   Rachel was beginning to sound  less certain.

"Nearly there.  Nearly there."  The repetition suggested Stephen, the leader of the trio in all matters of adventure, was less cocky now.

But he was proved right shortly after when they followed a curve in the tunnel and suddenly there was light beyond the feeble illumination of their torches.  They were in cavern, roughly oval in shape, with a high, high roof reaching up into the hill and open at top.  As midday approached the sunlight was falling in a fierce white cone that spotlit the centre of the space, making the granite floor sparkle and casting sharp shadows around the walls.  They gasped at the beauty of it, fear forgotten, elated that they had had the courage to enter the mysterious Fairies' Chamber, right when it was said to be at it's most magical.  Mansar had to admit it had been worth overcoming his fears.

"What now?  Is anything supposed to happen?"  Rachel's hopes had surfaced.

"Yeah, the fairies all come out and give us a meal and a few drinks.  All we have to do is summon them."  Stephen spread his arms out wide, put his head back, and falsettoed a call of enchantment.  "Come to us great fairies, and bring forth food and drink for your honoured guests."  He giggled at his own bravado, the others tried to join in, but both felt this had been a mistake.  They were right.

There was a sudden swelling of the light, and when their eyes had adjusted they saw, at regular intervals all round the oval, small glowing figures, about a metre high, of uncertain and shifting appearance, and blocking their exit.  One rose into the air, expanded, and took on the clearer, but still fluid, shape of a woman.  She came closer to the terrified teenagers.

"Who summons me thus?  What gives you this right?"  Her voice was young but authoritative, deep in tone yet light in character.  The stunned threesome remained silent.  "Well....?", the speech more commanding now.

Rachel was the first to find her ability to reply.  Shakily.  "We only came out of curiosity, we didn't think you were... well, real like."  She regretted her choice of words immediately, but at least she'd spoken.

"I am Mavrola, Queen of the Grafell Fairy Clan.  Do you still doubt my existence?"  Three heads shook frantically.  "Any yet you doubted, and might still convince yourselves you were dreaming once you have left.  I will put doubt beyond you."  The three looked at one another, hoping to see some spark of understanding in either of the other's faces. When they looked back at Mavrola she was disseminating into a cloud of twinkling lights and moving currents.  The cloud moved towards, over, through and around them, leaving behind a tingling from within, a momentary dizziness, and a sense of difference.  

The cloud spoke.  "For the next twenty four hours you will not be who you seem.  Return at midday tomorrow if you wish to be yourselves again."    And vanished, along with her cohort of shining accomplices.  Once again the only light came from the sun hole above, already past it's high point and shifting focus.  

Rachel looked at the others.  Except she found she was looking at Mansar and... herself?  How could that be?  Where was Stephen?  She looked at her arm.  She was wearing his jacket.  Looked down and saw his jeans, his shoes.  She felt taller, broader, and her hair was so much shorter.

"Who's pretending to be me?" asked Mansar, more aggressive than she'd ever heard him before.  He was looking at her, except that she was a he now and... this was confusing.  If she was now in Stephen's body, Stephen must be in Mansar's.  Which meant Mansar must be in hers.  Was this what the queen meant when she'd said they wouldn't be who they seem?  

"I think we better get out of here" she, he, said, and they jogged their way out of the tunnel and the cave entrance.

Outside it was bright and hot, and they looked for the shade of a tree to sit under.  Nobody said anything at first, all three trying to figure out what they could do.  Mansar was the first to speak, but from Rachel's body.

"We're stuck like this until 12 tomorrow, aren't we?"

"Looks like it", said Rachel, "so how do we get through until then?"

"I'm brown.  I've got a wimp's body.  This can't be happening.  Why us?"  The loud complaining tone sounded odd coming from Mansar's body.

"Because you insisted we go in there and see if the legend was true, thinking it wouldn't be.  So stop whining and let us think what we're gong to do now."  Rachel's sharp mind speaking angrily from Stephen's body was an impressive combination.  They all fell silent again. Stephen with head downcast.

Again it was Mansar who spoke.  "I was wondering if we could stay out all night, go back in at 12 tomorrow, get changed back, and then go home and say we'd got lost?  But I hate that I'd have to miss out on my audition."

"Audition?  Oh, you were trying for a part in that play, weren't you?  I know you wanted that a lot.  And I'm supposed to be on a sort-of date tonight with Sara, how will I ever explain about standing her up?"  Stephen's form slumped as Rachel realised just how much she wanted to be with Sara.

"Well never mind that, I've got hockey training at eight, and stand a chance of getting into the squad if I keep on.  I don't want to miss out."  said Stephen.

"You don't look like much of a hockey player right now" said Rachel, as Mansar, looking at Stephen as herself.  She burst out laughing at how ridiculous they all were, and her sudden levity infected the others.  It was a horrible situation to be in, but they could see how funny it was too.  The laughter helped them to calm down.

"There must be a way to get through this, but we need to help each other.  If we spend the afternoon coaching each other on what to expect maybe we can get through this.  How about it?"  The boys looked at one another, still coming to terms with knowing that the person they were seeing wasn't the person inside, and nodded.  Could they get away with it?

Rachel taught Mansar how to be her.  He was horrified that he'd miss out on his mother's cooking and have to put up with microwaved meal instead.  "That's all my parents ever do" said the girl.  "And you need to meet Sara by the chippie.  Looks like being a nice evening so go for a walk with her, but don't go trying anything on, you're not a boy, OK?"

"No chance of that.  I'm gay too."

Stephen sneered.  "No surprise there."

"You're going to have to stop saying things like that.  You're me now."  

"Oh mansar, that's wonderful.  And you'll know what it's like having to bottle things up, like I do.  I think my dad is homophobic.  But maybe I should come along and make sure it all goes OK.  You could..."

"You can't do that!"  Stephen jumped up, fists balled.  "You need to go along and make sure I don't get dropped."

"But I can't even skate very well.  Although I've been to watch a few hockey games, so I suppose I know a bit about it.  If I go I'll have to pretend I've twisted my ankle and don't want to risk it tonight."

"That might work.  Just apologise and sit and watch.  Shout a few things during the practice game.  If I tell you who's who you..."

"But what about my audition?  Your're going to have to go along and try your best."  Mansar gave his Rachel form an ease of movement she didn't know she had in her.

"Me?  Play at acting?  No way.  I'd hate it."

"Then it looks like I won't be going to the rink."

"What?  But you have to.  I could lose out if you don't."

"And Mansar will definitely miss out if you don't.  We all help each other, or this doesn't work, OK?"  Rachel as Stephen was an impressive combination of moral and physical authority.  Stephen, in the slighter body of Mansar, felt his leadership of the group gone.  Perhaps it had never really been there?

They agreed they'd spend the rest of the afternoon telling each other how to be them, go home to where they looked the part, went on each other's evening out, and get back together in the morning in penty time to be in the fairy cavern before noon.  And if the queen had lied to them... they'd have to deal with that when it happened.

Another sunny day.  They met up at ten thirty and walked together up the hill where the cave entrance was.  Nobody seemed to want to talk first, each worried at what their alter ego might have done for their chances.  Rachel broke the silence.

"I think it went OK Steve, the coach reckons I've, I mean you've got a good hockey brain."

"Really?  How come?"  Stephen sounded impressed, but suspiciously added "What did you say to him?"

"I kind of suggested that maybe it would be good one of the defencemen stayed back a bit more because they were getting caught out, and that Cartie could be better on the right as he looked like that backhand flick of his could be more effective there.  Coach thought they were good ideas.  He said something about not having decided on a captain yet."

"What?  Really?"  Stephen looked stunned.  "That's brilliant.  That's... that's... I hadn't really thought like that before but I can see you're right.  Maybe next week I'll see if coach'll put Cartie on the right of my line, I can see that working."  His, Mansar's, face beamed with the possibilities.

Rachel turned to her self, what she hoped would soon be her reunited self, and looked questioningly at Mansar.

"Sara really liked me.  You.  Yeah, you.  And I can see why you like her.  We had a good time, and she's really interested in drama.  I told her that I was trying to get into acting, well that mansar was, and she seemed to like the idea.  Maybe you should both come along?  They really need some smart people backstage.  That's if I'm still part of the group."  He looked at Stephen with trepidation.  "Am I?"

Stephen paused, built the tension a little.  "Oh, yeah, you're in.  No bother.  Looks like you'll be the baddie - what's he called? - Grayling."

"Wow, I didn't think they'd want me for that, it's a big role, on stage a lot.  How'd you do it?"

"Just shouted a bit and got angry, then tried to look menacing.  The director seemed to like that."

"That's... amazing.  Thanks."

"I found myself enjoying it so I did drop in that you had a friend who might look the part for your sidekick - you know, the one that gets to do the fighting.  You don't mind, do you?"  Even on Mansar's face Stephen's blush was obvious.

"Steve!  You?  An Aaactor?"  Rachel drew out the last word pretentiously, teasing.  They all laughed.  "Anyone else got a big revelation to make?"

"Well..." Mansar began, sounding far more cheerful than he had ten minutes before, "I was in before your parents so I went round to Patel's shop and got a few things, cooked a meal or them coming home.  They loved it.  Told them my pal Mansar had taught me."  He grinned.  

Rachel came over and hugged Mansar.  Stephen was surprised how normal it looked to see his own image go up and put his arms around his little Tunisian friend.  He joined them and they stood, arms around one another, for a while.  

Stephen's night as Mansar had been a surprise.  Such a warm loving family, a reminder of distant times when his mother had been alive.  He thought he now understood more about why his dad had turned out as he was.  The exception had been Lasani, Mansar's older brother, who bullied his sibling at every opportunity.  Why had his friend never mentioned it?  Lasani was a lot bigger than Mansar, but no more than the equal of Stephen.  He might be paying the older boy a visit very soon, and suggest, in his own way, that he lay off his wee brother.

Mansar had, he hoped, reminded Rachel's parents that there was more to life than the rubbish they took from the microwave.  He liked the idea that Sara might be joining the drama group.   Knowing someone who'd come out to their parents, even if they weren't parents quite like his, might be a help in deciding how he could be himself, openly.  

Rachel felt excited that Sara seemed to like her, that Mansar had been such a pal, and that maybe her diet would be improving too.  You never knew, did you?

They walked into the cave entrance, each with their own hopes and fears, and got to the cavern.  At noon the cloud of lights suddenly coalesced around them, coming from nowhere and returning thence in seconds.  Again the slight dizziness, the tingling, the need for the eyes to readjust.  Rachel looked a the others, saw Mansar and Stephen.  They looked as relieved as she felt.  Each was back in their own shoes, but none were the same as the people who'd come in there yesterday.  The trio linked arms and walked back towards the sunlight.

Day 207 - Volcano

 VOLCANO

Prompt - Volcano : Write about an eruption of a volcano

The grey people.  With their grey possessions, boarding a grey train.  The ash was universal now.  It got into hair, eyes, mouths.  It was the surface you walked on, through, it was piled up against the walls, it blew in through doors and windows and through the slightest cracks.  The ash had been falling for... he stopped to try and remember how many days it had been now, but time no longer had any connection with reality.  All there was left was the ash, the heat, the noise, the vibration, the steady flow of the red-gold-white death and destruction that was now less than half a kilometre from the outskirts of the town.  That and the final few people.  The key workers who'd kept things going, the medical staff who'd remained, the rail engineers making sure that the line would still be clear, a few fire fighters to put out the blazes that were becoming more and more frequent as red hot gobbets of molten rock joined the ash fall, the police who'd been pointlessly assigned to stop looting a few stragglers who'd tried to resist the inevitable, and some of his own staff.  And him.  Like the captain of a sinking ship, the mayor had to be the last to leave.  Had to be seen to be last, for there were a few journalists too, and one camera crew too, although how their equipment continued to work under the descending blanket was a mystery to everyone else.

He looked around to see if there was anything left to be done.  The intense background rumble rendered shouting redundant, so he had to wave wildly to a couple of police and direct them to get those journalists on board.  Immediately.  Everyone else seemed to be doing as they'd been told.  The stationmaster came up and leant in close to ask if he could get his staff on now.  He nodded agreement, indicated urgency of movement.

There was another explosion of gloopy thunder that shook the land and rattled the structure of the station.  What little remained of the overhead glass shattered in the flexing of the metal frame, a few more overhead fittings fell down, the whole edifice leaned over a bit more.  It didn't have much longer.  It was time to go.

Once last look round.  His own staff were now looking at him expectantly. He waved them on, started walking towards this, the last train to leave the town.  Perhaps the last train ever.  From the town he'd been born in, had lived in for most of his life, the town that would soon become a modern day Pompeii.  Seventy kilometers from here, along those ash-submerged tracks, his family waited.  There was home now.

Day 206 - Greed

 GREED

Prompt - Greed : Write about someone who always wants more - whether it be money, power, etc etc

This was what he'd working towards for the past decade.  For that sense that anything was now possible.  There had been some reasonably lucrative moments working with lobbyists, some trips abroad where he made contacts that would serve him well later.  But being on the backbenches didn't provide nearly enough opportunity, so he had to play the long game, suck up to him, get the dirt on her, make himself one of them.  And now, finally, it had all been worth it.

Now people did what he said, immediately.  (Or at least they said they did.)  Now he had the power to award contracts worth millions, to build a base that would grow, even once he was out of office.  For he didn't want to put up with the annoyance of bloody journalists for any longer than he had to, prying little creeps that they were, although he had his pets there too.  Money bought people, as simple as that.

So there hadn't been too much fuss when his sister-in-law's company had got that consultancy, and what there was had died down soon enough, when the latest dead cat got thrown up.  And nobody had linked him to the Cayman islands account that was filling up nicely from his ensuring that Robertson got that major NHS supplies gig.  The PM was happy with him - or rather she had to be, given what she knew that he knew and what it would do for her if it ever got leaked - and knew he wasn't after her job.  Being in charge of Health was his dream job, the one that would set him up for life.

It had set him up with plenty women too.  Amazing how attractive a paunchy middle aged man became when he had cash to flash and a title to boast of.  Sir Malcolm.  Nice, eh?  Ah, this was the life.  Power.  Money.  Recognition.  And a future kept well away from his colleagues at Treasury.

This was why he was in the cabinet.  This was why he'd become a Tory MP.  

Day 205 - Hunger

 HUNGER

Prompt - Hunger : Write from the perspective of someone with no money to buy food.

She parked the car, took a long time switching off the engine.  Stupid, when every penny counted.  Sat with both hands tightly gripping the wheel.  Looked in the mirror.  Tommy looked back blankly.  She turned to face him, emptiness exchanging glances, marvelling at his ability not to cry.  Part of her wished he would, just so she could join in.  It would do her good, but she'd moved beyond tears in the last few days.

Turning back her hands went back to their places on the wheel, as if she were about to make a getaway.  As if she could escape, had choices, had a life beyond the one that now enclosed her, the walls that moved ever nearer.  If she stayed here, frozen in time, maybe... Maybe what?  Maybe nothing.  She was as she was, however it had happened.  Del leaving, redundancy, savings gone, benefits wrestled from the system, sanctioned for one day - one! - of missing out on her appointments when Tommy had been too sick to leave.  How quickly the money was sucked away, like the water swirling out of the bath she could no longer afford to run.  How it came down to most basic of choices - be cold or be hungry?  Let Tommy be cold or be hungry?  

Her GP gave her the referral.  She reached across to her bag and pulled out the piece of paper.  Use it and she'd have enough to be warmish, fullish, get through the days until the payments resumed.  She'd looked reluctant, he'd looked encouraging.  He'd looked at Tommy, saying the lad had to come before pride.  That pride had it's place, that true pride lay in caring, in surviving, in being smart enough to know when pride could withstand the knocks.

She looked back at Tommy.  He gurgled a smile.  He had hope, trust, the rest of the day ahead of him, and a tomorrow.  She forced a smile back, nodded, understood.  One more grip of the wheel.  One more breath as someone who coped?  No, she mustn't do that to herself.  The doctor had said that this was coping, that coping was taking help when you needed it, because maybe you'd be the one helping some day.  She got out of the car, put the child into his wonky pushchair, and walked into the Foodbank.

Day 204 - Strength

 STRENGTH

Prompt - Strength : Think of a time when you've been physically or emotionally strong and use that as inspiration.  

I am not a strong man.  Pigeon chested, narrow shouldered, easily puffed.  I don't readily put on weight, which is a good thing, but that also means I don't readily put on muscle either.  Charles Atlas would forever have been kicking sand in my face.

So why did I let myself be roped into helping Jimmy with his house move?  What possible use did I think I could be?  What possible help did he think I could be and was he really that desperate for bodies?  Apparently so.

There were three of us.  Jimmy himself of course, short, wiry, played a lot of football, but did much the same desk job as me.  And his pal Graham.  It was easy to see why Graham had been asked.  While I was a good half a head taller than our house moving friend, Graham towered over me.  Must have been at least six six.  And as wide as the pair of us put together.  Graham looked like he could pull the van, not just load it.

We set to.  I asking Jim what the plan was.  Plan?  He didn't know he needed one.  The big man just looked like he wanted to get on with lifting big things, and no plan was going to help or hinder him.

"Plan, yeah.  We need a bit of a plan, don't we?  Shouldn't we try to make the best use of the space in the van so we don't have to make two trips?  And make sure the stuff we might need at the other end is last to go on?  You know, kitchen stuff so we can get a drink or whatever?"

Jimmy looked impressed, as if I was the first person in the world to come up with this idea.

"Yeah, nice one.  Plan.  So - what d'you think?"  This to Graham.  

"Can I just move some stuff while you do the plan?"  Keen lad, our Graham.

Jimmy looked at me.  I could see the role of senior planner falling my way so I tried to improvise.

"What big things have you got that could hold smaller stuff?  Wardrobe?  Can I have a quick look round to see?"

"Yeah, there's a wardrobe in there" he said, pointing to the bedroom, "and that sort of cabinet thing I keep the booze and plates and stuff in."

They seemed like a starting point so I suggested the pair of them got the wardrobe out while I looked at what could go inside, and if there was any other big things we needed to put in first.  And that's what happened.  I made a few notes, turned that into a list, and stuck it up by the front door.  Plan made.  And, without too many questions, that's what they went with.  Which also meant it was my turn to carry stuff.  I grabbed a couple of bin bags that looked like they might squash into the wardrobe, and went out to the van.  Where I saw...  WTF?

They'd put the wardrobe in, then blocked it off with the cabinet before putting anything inside.  But there were a couple of small boxes in the cabinet already.  Did I accept that this was the way things were, or ask the to get it sorted out into a more practical layout (but who was I to tell them what to do?), or... try and do it myself?  Well, what was the worst that could happen?  (I tred not to think about the answers to that question.)

So I dragged the cabinet out, turned it and opened the wardrobe door.  I'd just managed that and turned, sweaty and breathing hard already, to face the others as they came out with a few chairs.

"No, no, not those yet.  They can be tetrised in later, once we've got the big stuff.  Bring me some more medium size boxes and big bags like these."  And, to my amazement, they did.

Which left me in the van, trying to bring order to the madness.  I eased the wardrobe along a bit, to make best use of space, then started filling it with the boxes they brought out.  Bugger- they were boxes of books.  But I staggered the three yards between van door and my target, got the box in place, turned to see more boxes, and two vanishing backs.  I worked on.  Filled the closet to capacity, moved the cabinet and filled that.

"A few smaller boxes!" I shouted on one of my brief glimpses of the porters.  I needed to work faster, they were starting to box me in.  Breathing hard, aching more with each minute, I move furniture around, filled what I could with what I had, stacked, tied, sweated.

"How much more?"  I asked a suddenly tired looking Jimmy as he leaned on the tailgate.  

"No much.  Just the stuff you said we should leave to the end."  He looked up at the assembled construct of his worldly goods.  "Jeez Andrew, where did you get the strength to do all that?  I kept saying to Graham we'd best go and help you in the van, some of that stuff was really heavy, but every time we came back you'd moved the thing s we were talking about.  How'd you do it?  You didn't even stop for a few biscuits like us."

"BISCUITS!  You had biscuits and you didn't tell me?"

"Well, you seemed really into it, and I didn't know if it was part of the plan, so I thought you'd best be left as you knew best."

Maybe I did.  Maybe I'd done more than I'd thought myself capable of.  But I still wanted biscuits.

Day 203 - Boredom

 BOREDOM

Prompt - Boredom : Write about being bored and make a list of different ways to entertain yourself.

Boredom?  What's that?  I have to cast my mind back a good few years to remember.  Although doing so is aided by looking back at my old diaries from the eighties.  Then I spent much of my time feeling bored.  Because I was at work.  I have had some truly tedious jobs during my career, and often I would try to break the monotony by writing.  Sometimes fiction, mostly just stream of consciousness stuff about whatever was in my head.  Or by writing diary entries.  And in the late eighties I even wrote some computer games (which were never shared with others).  But it was still a boring place to be.

Which was not always true, and sometimes work could be interesting, more so when I moved from Titchfield to Southport.  But it still had the ability to be mind numbing.  Then came retirement.  There a lot of people who fear being retired, and many whose fears are realised for they feel at a loss.  I have never felt that way, and I doubt I ever will.  Since I left work I have some of the very best years of my life.  And the problem is not boredom, but cramming everything into the limited hours of each day.

There are always so many things to do, so many alternatives.  Every day I write, and I try to walk a good distance.  There are books to read, social media to be absorbed in, computer games to play, TV programmes to watch, music to listen to and more books to read.  There are odd jobs around the house, and sometimes bigger projects.  Most days have some food shopping, and the enjoyment of cooking (and sometimes reading when there are periods of waiting for things to be ready).  

And we do stuff.  Maybe not so much now in these strange pandemic times, but that will change.  So there are music and comedy gigs to go to, plays to see, films to watch.  Rugby matches to go and shout at (not just live, but also on TV, with hockey and tennis added into the latter).  And all that takes planning, especially when it comes to the bigger festivals, or when we have guests here to share the experience.

Even in lockdown I was never bored.  Trying to exercise.  Being more creative with the cooking.  Writing more, trying out different hobbies that could be done at home, watching some of the entertainment that was unique to that period, like The Black Isle Correspondent, and the Stand's Saturday Night shows.  

Boredom?  What's that?

Day 202 - Opposites

 OPPOSITES

Prompt - Opposites : Write a poem or story that ties in together two opposites.

October 2019

Only her second Tinder date and was she nervous?  Of course she bloody was.  But she kept telling herself he would be too and it was always like this for everyone who'd ever been in this position and there probably people in this room who were feeling just the same and WHERE THE FUCK WAS HE?

Calm.  Deep breath.  You're looking good, he sounded keen, it's going to be fine.  She took another sip of wine, looked across the room and... that was him, wasn't it?  At least he looked as gorgeous as the photos.  No, maybe even better.

"Sarah?"

"Yeah, hi, you'll be Clyde then.  But you know that..."  He laughed.  Oh, thank fuck, he laughed.  It'll be OK.

And it was.  To start with.  They already knew they had a few things in common, so they talked about music and films and TV and how shit school had been and got on to what they were doing now.  He seemed interested in her nursing job, asked sensibe questions, hoped she'd not had to witness anything too 'grisly', winced at some of the stories from ICU.

"So what is it you do?"

"Was an accountant for a few years, but now I'm an intern for Gavin Stewart.  You know, the MSP?"

Sarah tried not to wince.  Gavin Stewart.  Tory.  And, even by their usual low standards, one of the most dishonest and amoral of the bunch.

"How did that come about?"

"Oh my dad's chair of the constituency party and he's hoping I can make a career in politics so this is a great way to learn the ropes.  Plus Gavin's a great guy and really gets ripped into that shitshow of a government we're stuck with.  Did you see him laying into Nicoliar last week?  Wonderful stuff.  I hope your not one of those Nat types, eh" and he laughed his jolly, hollow laugh.

The wince couldn't hide itself this time.  The face couldn't dissemble.  Sarah put her drink down.

"Well, I'm convinced Scotland will be able to be a better country if we can get away from the UK, and all that nasty right wing stuff they impose on us, so maybe you'd class me as one of your 'Nat types'?"

Clyde downed his pint, put the glass down, stood up.  "I don't think we need to take this any further, do you?"  And he walked off.  Leaving Sarah the drinks bill...

October 2020

She felt like she'd never been home, been to bed, had any time to herself, but here she was again, back at the hospital, back in the full glory of sweaty PPE gear, back looking through the lists of who was out, who was in.  ICU was still choked up, but at least they'd only had one more death while she'd been home, and three had gone to the wards for their recovery periods.  

She checked through the details of the four new cases.  All covid, all critical.  The third of the quartet made her sit up.  That name - there wouldn't be two, would there?  She finished her reading and walked along to see for herself.

Yes, that was the same Clyde McAllister she'd met, briefly, a year ago.  The same intern of the MSP who'd been the loudest in parliament, and, endlessly, the media, about the uselessness of lockdowns and masks and how much businesses needed to open up soon.  Who suggested, without ever saying anything that would get him into real trouble, that the impact of the virus was being exaggerated and this really was just a flu-like kind of thing.  Did Clyde still work for him?

It didn't matter.  He'd be treated like anyone else, with the same care, the same dedication, the same determination to get him out alive.  But she'd maybe keep a wee bit closer eye on this one that she might otherwise have.

He got worse.  For two days it seemed unlikely that he'd make it.  She found herself working longer hours, spending longer at his bedside, always checking.  As if her brain wanted to make sure that she didn't treat him any worse because of what she knew about him.  She was the first to spot that there was a reversal in his condition, that he'd suddenly started to improve, that maybe he'd make it.  Another two days and he was ready to leave ICU, well on his way to being discharged, albeit without any clear idea if he would have longer term symptoms.  She felt as much relief as she would for any other of her patients who'd made such a comeback, but also a strange mix of pride and shame that she'd helped a tory.

After three days on the ward Clyde was sitting up and eager to talk.  He asked the nurses their names, but struggled to recognise them again in their masks and aprons.  He asked who he should be thanking for his survival.  Doctor Spencer was the obvious candidate, but he said it was the nursing staff who'd been responsible for his recovery.  Especially the ICU nurses.  Especially, now he thought about it, Sarah, who'd given him more attention than most.  Maybe it was her he should be thanking if he really needed to say it to someone.

Sarah heard that he was asking to see her.  Did she want to?  She usually enjoyed seeing her patients off, knowing she'd had a part in their being able to leave, but how did she feel about Mr McAllister?  Part of her wanted to hear what he'd have to ay, and he wouldn't be able to recognise her anyway, so why not?

"Hi, I'm Sarah, I was told you wanted to say something to me?"

"Oh hi, I just wanted to thank you for all you did for me and just being able to walk out of here.  I was told it was all getting a bit dodgy and you did more than anyone to get me through it.  So I just wondered if there was anything I could do for you?"  He sounded short of breath after such a long speech.

"Do?"  She had no desire to make this easy for him.

He took a deep breath, coughed, and began again.  "Well I do have some influence in parliament, but I guess that's not really helpful to you, it it?  I could maybe take you out for a meal though, once I get my fitness back?"

"And you'd pay this time, would you?"

"This time...?"  He stopped when he got a proper look at her name badge.  Sarah Kozlowski.  An ICU nurse.  Oh...  

"Maybe you could use your 'influence' to get your boss to stop insinuating that this bloody virus is  bit like the flu eh?  And suggest to him that if we didn't have lockdowns and mask wearing and social distancing you probably wouldn't be alive to tell him, because we'd have been overwhelmed.  Totally overwhelmed.  We came so close at times, so close."  She sobbed back a desire to cry, but the emotion in her voice had already had impact.  "If you really want to be grateful that's what you could try doing, because otherwise your thank-yous are about as meaningful as all that fucking clapping."

He stared at her, conscious that it was no longer his breathing that prevented the words coming out.  Clyde McAllister cried.  Sarah stood looking, still too angry to feel any professional shame at reducing a patient to tears.  She had turned away when he found his voice.

"I will.  I promise, I will.  You saved my life Sarah Kozlowski.  What else can I do?"

She nodded.  "OK.  I hope you do.  And I hope you make a full recovery.  Take care."  She left.  

Would he do what he'd said?  She'd no idea.  Never trust a tory...

Day 201 - Empathy

 EMPATHY

Prompt - Empathy : Write about your feelings of empathy or compassion for another person.

As a society we are becoming increasingly more polarised in our views.  This has become increasingly true over the past forty or so years, and is now reaching worrying levels.  The old 

left vs right has spread into pro and anti EU, pro and anti Indy, pro and anti abortion, pro and anti vaccines, etc etc.  Whilst the dividing lines are blurred, it seems true that many of those in 'anti' categories will fall into the whole group of them.  Then there's criticism of the media, with the left seeing the BBC as a tory government mouthpiece, and the right saying that is too much influenced by progressive causes.  Here in Scotland Indy supporters feel the media is against them, but then so do the unionists!

Increasingly I find there's one word that seems to determine if people fall to one side of the arguments, or the other.  That word is empathy.  And nothing demonstrated that divide quite like one of the most important public demonstrations of last year, the Kenmure Street Protest in May.  

If you're unfamiliar with the incident, and haven't got time to follow the link, it happened when a Home Office immigration van tried to remove two Sikh men from their home in Glasgow because of alleged immigration offences.  The men were long standing members of the local community, and those neighbours rallied round in numbers, and alerted activist organisations, so that the immigration officers found their van locked in place by a huge, and ever growing, crowd of people determined not to let these men be taken away.  The police were called, and eventually they advised the release of the men.  The van went without them.

Reactions were split, each side vehement that they had right on their side.  The SNP, Labour and Greens all commended the humanitarian response of the locals.  The tories condemned the action for breaking the law.  But if it's bad law, and badly implemented too, who's to say what's right?

Ultimately your personal response to these events came down to the word I used above.  Empathetic people were able to place themselves in the position of these poor men, being dragged away from everything they new, without warning, early in the morning.  Others saw it in more black and white terms, without considering any of the human aspects.  

Which side were you on?  Do you have empathy or not?  I'm very much on the side of the protestors.

Day 200 - Extreme Makeover

 EXTREME MAKEOVER

Prompt - Extreme Makeover : Imagine how life might be different if you could change your hair colour or clothing into something completely opposite from your current style.

'You learn who your real friends are.'  He'd had that said to him, many times over, when Alice had died.  Because once your life partner was gone, and you had suddenly to rely on yourself totally, it soon became clear who were the people who'd give support, understanding, patience... and those who quickly found it all too tedious to bother with. Time was the key.  It was easy to be sympathetic when it happened, at the funeral, for a few weeks after... but the hurt lasted, was going to last, much longer.  Much much longer.  

So it didn't take long to become clear which voices faded away and which stayed the course.  Who was still around for you when you needed someone, anyone, to help make the huge gap in your life that bit smaller.  I thank those people with every part of me, but now I've given them a bigger test.

Six months had passed, and I was about to turn seventy three.  I've always treated life as a series of phases, and with each major change I asked myself 'how do I make the best of the next phase?'.  Losing Alice was the toughest change of all, and the one that made it hardest to answer that question.  But it had to be faced.  She was gone, I was still here.  Still healthy, and solvent, enough to do things I wanted to do.  But also knowing there might not be many phases left - so I better make the most of this one.  What did I want my life to be?

Different.  I wanted to be different.  Seventy years of playing safe, it was time to be someone else.  So I told everyone I was getting away for three of weeks and... 

First stop, the salon Alice always used, and was waaay too pricey for me.  Told the boss man what i wanted.  Yes, I was sure.  Yes, really sure, just do it.  So he did.  Then I went to the shop three doors down and spent a long time looking through their designs, talking about the best places and how painful each might be.  I made my choice.  Correction - choices.  I got three, on three consecutive days.  Meanwhile there was other shopping to be done, online and in the real world.  And, at home, stuff to throw out.  I never had any doubts.  Well, not many.

I arranged to meet Janet, Alice's best pal, for a coffee.  Kindly, but always honest, and just way out enough.  She was a good one to try the new me out on.  I got to the cafe first, ordered myself a drink, and sat at one of the pavement tables to await her.  There she was, a smart, petite seventy year old with long grey hair and a purple jacket.  She was looking for me.  She walked past me.

"Janet."  She turned on the doorstep, surveyed the tables.  Looked again.  "Hi" I said when she was looking straight at me.  She continued to look.  "Yeah, it is me."  She continued to look.

"Ronnie?"  I nodded.  "Really?"  I nodded a bit faster.  Pulled out the chair beside me.

"What would you like?  I'll go order."  She sat, still looking.  Up and down, open mouthed.

"Latte"

I walked in for her drink, slowly so she got a better chance to take it all in.  Might as well get the full verdict.  When I returned she'd reassembled her features into something like a smile and began the interrogation.  Yes, I did intend to look like this, yes I had asked for the hair, what was left of it, to be blonde and spikey, yes that really was a tattoo and there were a couple more, and yes, I intended to dress like this and it wasn't for a bet.  

"Why?"

"Why not?  I wanted to be a different me for whatever comes now.  It helps me realise that this is a new life, a life without Alice."

"That... almost makes sense."  And she smiled, for the first time since she sat down.  Looked again at my hair, my clean shaven old face, bareed fully for the first time in four and bit decades, the heart tattoo on my forearm, with 'Alice' running through it, and the outfit.  Tweed gilet over a Gandalf tee, electric blue kilt and biker boots.  "When do I get to see the other tats?"

Day 199 - Hiding Spaces

 HIDING SPACES

Prompt - Hiding Spaces : Write about things you like to hide things at.  What was a favourite hiding spot for you as a child playing hide-and-seek?

It had to be this room, didn't it?  Either that or the garage, which was carrying inconvenience a bit too far.  This was the only room she rarely had any good reason to come into.  There were books she might choose of course, but mostly she stuck to the trash from the library, so it was unlikely.

He'd looked round everywhere else, trying to think as she would.  The only place downstairs she might not be able to check out was on top of the kitchen cupboards.  But if he was spotted bringing it down from there he'd then worry and have to seek out a new spot.  So upstairs it was.  

Their bedroom had a few decent hiding places, but she spent more time in there than he did.  If she felt she had reason to look for it she would also have the time and opportunity.  Burying it in a drawer full of sweaters might appear secure, but not if she felt determined.  And he still worried she might.  While the spare room had few obvious places to hide it.  Down the back of the wardrobe was as much an inconvenience as the garage option.  Anyway, it was in here he would always use it.

When the crisis had first blown up he'd taken it into the office, locked it in his desk drawer.  That had been OK for a couple of weeks, but one of his colleagues had got a bit too nosey.  Anyway, that created a different problem at weekends, not to mention forgetting what had happened the day before!  So it had to come home.  And now the task was to come up with at least one place where it could be safe from prying hands, preferably with alternatives, just in case he was spotted in the act of taking out or putting away.

His desk had no lock.  Nor did the cupboard.  The book cases were open shelving, and it was too big to hide easily behind most of the volumes in there.  But they were high, reaching close to the low ceiling, and deep enough that it would be out of casual sight if pushed to the back.  He'd only be able to get it down by standing on something, but that, and far longer reach he had over her, made it the best place he could think of.  And he could change which one it sat atop each time.

So that's what he did, and took care not to be seen reaching for it each evening (or, in more stressful moments when he needed to unload, during the day).  It felt ridiculous.  But necessary.  After what had happened he didn't want any repeat, and he could no longer trust her to stick to her word.

But it always came back to one simple question - what sort of person reads another's personal diary?

Day 198 -Interview

 INTERVIEW

Prompt - Write based on a recent interview you've read or seen on TV or heard on the radio.

"I'd like to start at the end if that's OK with you.  You've had this addiction - is it fair to call it that? - you've had it for over three years now, but this time you feel you are really able to give up?  What makes you confident that you'll see this through?"

"I suppose it's the realisation that I do have a problem, and have ended up wasting a lot of money.  I've got a lot of good things out of it too, and enjoyed the process that's involved, but it was leading me to pledge for a lot of stuff I didn't really need."

"But you have had some useful items out of it?"

"Yes, loads, including some that get used near enough every day.  Others that have proven very useful.  But there are a couple I've never used at all, and may never do.  And one bought as a present that turned out not to be suitable."

"And what about the projects that have never delivered?"

"Well, after the experience with Breton it's hard to say.  That went on for about three years, and eventually delivered something, just not what I'd pledged for - although at least the backpack I did get has seen plenty of use since it arrived.  But that has left me with a ridiculous optimism for a couple of projects which are clearly dead, and never coming back.  If there's something you really need then don't try to get it through a crowdfunding site.  It'll almost certainly be much later than you were promised, and the need for it may have gone by the time it does arrive.  If at all.  Even if the Breton bag I coveted had managed to be produced it wouldn't have been as useful an item as I'd hoped.  The use case had shifted over the three years and I had purchased better alternatives in the meantime."

"So you are still optimistic about the ones you haven't got yet?"

"Not if I'm honest with myself!  The Pluvi umbrellas are clearly never going to be produced - which is no great loss really, except in the money invested.  I'm more frustrated by the loss of the voice recorder pen, which I really had hoped would be useful to me.  I should look for an alternative.  But not on Kickstarter!  There's also a camera tripod I've been waiting for for a long long time.  It might still appear, but I no longer care."

"What are the best things you've bought through the crowdfunding sites?"

"If we're just talking about actual useful objects, rather than arts related projects, then the wallet I use every day, the Solgaard backpack that has been an excellent shopping bag.  I haven't used the Solgaard suitcase very often yet, and covid's ensuring I won't, but when I have had it with me it's been brilliant.  The shelving unit works really well.  Also got a lot out of some tech items like the two mini laptops.  And come Spring I intend to get a lot of use out of my ebike and all the related items I've got."

"And the most useless?  I've never used the Safy bag, it's too small inside to be of much practical use, and there's another bag my DSLR sits in, but which has never been out yet.  But perhaps the most useless was the one that started me off, the Sequent watch.  Took years to deliver, I wore it for less than two months when the glass cracked.  Sent it back, which cost me, waited a long time for it to return, then it finally came back - and lasted only a few weeks before packing up.  A lesson i should have learned!"

"And are the items you still await going to be of much use?"

"I'm looking forward to the new winter jacket and hat.  And the mini mouse should be a good companion for my new Chromebook, since it's to be used for travel.  And yet another backpack could be the one I really want for my long walks, assuming I'm still up to them.  That's the trouble with crowdfunding, by the time you get what you pledged for your own life has moved on.  That's one of the reasons for giving up now."

"Finally, you say you'll continue backing music projects.  Will you be able to restrict yourself?"

"Yes, because I'm doing them for the artists as much as for myself, so the motive is different.  I like the feeling of being a tiny part of that creative process and will keep on with that side.  Maybe even books or other arts formats as well."

"Thanks for your time and good luck with kicking the habit."

Day 197 - Pirates

 PIRATES

Prompt - Pirates : Write about a pirate ship

For a change we had something to go on, a target to aim at.  John Rebus had been in Aberdeen, selling some of our plunder, and had kept his ears open.  Heard there would be a ship sailing in from Lerwick on eight October, and that it had something unusual on board.  With a bit of digging around, and a few drinks bought for the right man, he reckoned the 'unusual' bit was some old gold items that had been found in an old Norse settlement, dug up when the locals had been taking away stones for their own building work.  John had got back to the village as fast as horse would carry, and told Adam his news.

Adam McAllister.  There was a man to look up to, to follow.  Tallest and broadest among us, his long grey-streaked hair in a waist length ponytail and ragged beard to his chest, he stood out in any group you could imagine.  A clever man too, with a vision for what we could become and escape the poverty we'd been born into.  The fishing hadn't been enough for him, and he'd started up a bit of smuggling, but there was little enough of a market for his illicit wares on the north east coast.  But when the Elspeth came into his hands our lives were transformed.

He'd named her Elspeth after his mother, replacing the daft name the navy had given her and we'd all forgotten now.  We'd been out for the herring when she was spotted, adrift, crewless, seemingly unharmed.  Boarding her wasn't easy in the swell, our smack so much lower in the water than this tired looking warship, but once aboard Adam found everything pretty much as it should be, albeit with no lifeboat, not many guns, and not a single soul, alive or dead, to be found on board.  He took the decision to split our crew between the two vessels and head straight back to harbour.  There might be money to be made from this old ship.

There were discussions.  Arguments too, which caused some blood to be spilled.  In the end the decision was made, and where McAllister led the rest would follow.  We'd keep at the fishing.  But every couple of months we'd go out in the Elspeth, see if there was any suitable prey to rob.  We'd become part time pirates.  

We'd made the ship as fast as possible, to hunt down our targets and escape from any who looked to bring us to justice.  The Elspeth had only eleven old nine pounders, instead of the twenty two she must have once carried.  For speed's sake we cut that down to seven, three on each side and one to stern.  More than enough to threaten any merchant into compliance, not nearly enough to fight any armed vessels, but we would always look to escape if threatened.  Our first voyage found nothing, but on our second we came across a schooner to the south of Aberdeen, with half a dozen wealthy passengers on board.  Their gold and jewels and fine clothing made their way into our hold and we had our first prize.  And with only one shot needing to be fired.  Adam was right, there were easy pickings to be had.  You needed patience though.

So this was different.  We were going out, not in the hope of some random encounter, but knowing what we were looking for and that our biggest haul yet was on offer.  If John had heard aright.

Thirty three men set off as dawn reluctantly emerged, our cautious womenfolk staring after us from the quay.  Conditions promised fine sailing, although the winds were higher than ideal for being able to get alongside a ship and board her.  Clouds scudded across our skies, changing form and colour constantly, so that we had little idea of what the weather might do.  But nobody gave that much thought, for there was real excitement running through the men, imagining that they were on the look out for a quarry that could set them up for life.  One man in the crow's nest three on the quarter deck, one in bow.  The rest of us, whenever there wasn't some sail needing taken in or put out, hugeed the side rails, desperate to be the first one to see what they wanted to see.

"Ship ahoy off starboard bow!"  The cry from the man aloft was almost taken by the wind, but he shouted three times and understanding got through.  Adam climbed the stern rigging with his telescope, found his mark.  

"That might just be her lads.  Let us take a look."  He barked out orders to change course and load on all the sail she could handle.  I was summoned to his side and he asked me to go up top, relieve Joshua, and shout down what I saw as we got closer.  Did I think they would need a shot fired to make them pull to?

Impressed at being given this responsibility I scurried up top as fast as limbs would take me, and swapped position with the older man.  In my head I'd been chosen because of my sharp eyes and wits.  Only later did I realise it was because Josh was by far the superior fighter.  But at the time my enthusiasm and pride took over and looked intently for any signs I could read from the fast nearing ship we were about to capture.  I could see some activity, but no signs of panic.  A couple of women looked back at us from the group lining the deck rail.  They went below as we came within hailing distance.

Adam made it clear that we wanted to board, and pointed to our cannons as a show of intent.  I could see no obvious weaponry on their decks, but several of the crew appeared to be wearing swords, and there were four men in the rigging who looked to have long thin objects slung on their backs.  I shouted down my observations, but the men were too busy getting ready to board to pay any attention to my words.  All I could do was watch as our lads swung across he divide only to find themselves at sword point within seconds of landing.  Meanwhile the men in the rigging, and others who emerged from below decks, pulled forth muskets and aimed them at our ship.  We had been duped.

Only once we had been captured and secured, and our Elspeth taken under naval command once more, did I get to hear the full story.  The captain had approached Adam, telling him he'd been expected.  Adam threatened to blow the captain's ship from the water, shouted to his gunners.  And grimaced at the rumble below as fifteen gun ports fell open in the hull below his feet, and fifteen eighteen pounders, armed and ready, slip forward to cover our ship.  

"I advise you to call off your men and surrender immediately.  Or you will all be summarily put to death sir."  Adam had enough sense to recognise reality.  The men on the Elspeth, myself among them, were already ahead of him in that matter.  We were shipped to Aberdeen for trial.

During our journey we had two mysteries explained.  The 'women' on board had been sailors in disguise, to assuage any fears we might have had.  And the 'Norse gold' was a fiction.  A naval spy, tasked with getting a lead on the pirates who had caused some havoc with local shipping,  had cottoned on to John's line of questioning in waterside taverns and planted the notion in his greed fuelled mind.

My pirating days were done.

Day 196 - Neighbourhood

 NEIGHBOURHOOD

Prompt - Neighbourhood : Write about your favourite place in your neighbourhood to visit and hang out at.

There are no doubts in my mind if asked to name my favourite spot in the locality.  Indeed my favourite place in all of the city.  The doubts arise when I consider why it should be so.  I think there are three main reasons.

The place itself is Newhaven Harbour.  Once a busy fishing port, and home to a big fish market, there's little gets landed any more.  Instead it's home to a substantial number of leisure boats, the Port O'Leith Motor Boat Club, and a jetty installed to take passengers from cruise liners to and from their 'home' on shuttle craft.  The structure of the old fish market remains, but is now home to a few restaurants, one of which has a thriving chippie takeaway section, and an excellent fishmonger.  There's an old lighthouse, some interesting old buildings on the other side of the road, but most of the other architecture is modern brutal or boring, notably the hideously bland Premier Inn.

I went down there today, to give me a reminder of some of the details of the place.  One of the hottest days of the year, so it was shimmering in sunshine under blue sky.  The coast of Fife was clear despite some haze, the Ochil Hills rolling behind.  To the west the spires of all three Forth Bridges made their importance known.  Benches were mostly taken, people sitting talking, eating, admiring, or just sun soaking.  Under the lighthouse a bunch of kids had been in swimming - a risky but exhilarating experience.  Tables outside the restaurants were full - it's a fabulous place to sit and have a meal.

All of which goes some way to explaining the attractions of the spot.  But not why I should consider it preferable to Queens Park or Blackford Hill or the Castle or Cramond.  There are so many spots of beauty and fascination across the city.  Yet this fairly unremarkable old harbour tops my chart.  In part that may be down to proximity.  When I first began my return to Edinburgh we had bought a small flat in Leith, down near the old docks.  Although there were many, many short visits over the decades, it had been almost thirty years since I'd last lived here, and back then I was out on the west side.  We had had family in Leith, and I went to primary school not far from Newhaven, but it wasn't an are I knew intimately.  I was certainly aware of the harbour, and can recall visiting the fish market more than once, but it wasn't a place I knew well.  By the time we had our new accommodation here I had discovered a personal reason to take an interest into the area, more of which in a moment.

Having our holiday flat in Leith meant a lot of exploring, both to ascertain where the best local places to shop and eat, but also simply to see.  We were very near to The Shore, so that was pleasant in itself.  But with close walking distances the most attractive places to have a sit down in the sun were leith Links to the east, and the harbour to the west.  It became a favourite spot to walk to, to take photos of, and to eat in, for by then the fish market element had been reduced to  a preparation plant for the fish shop, and a restaurant in the south end of the long, low red building.  Even though we now live a bit further away, it's still an easy enough walk, or a short bus hop away.

I mentioned taking lots of photos there, and that's another reason why I love the place.  Today was bright and sunny.  Tonight there might well be one of those gorgeous red-gold sunsets that light up the surface of the Firth and make the world feel special.  But those days are rare.  As are all the others, for the harbour has many faces.  Light, wind and, frequently, precipitation levels make this a place that changes daily, and still remains beautiful.  It might be a wave-lashed, salt bearing storm from Norway, but there's a still a beauty to it.  As there is when the haar descends and it's hard to even make out the lighthouse from the main road.  When the whole scene is soft and muffled and ghostly.  The photographic possibilities are endless.  That's also why you do see artists rendering the scene quite often.  

I said there were three reasons and my last is the personal one I mentioned earlier.  In the late nineties the old fish market building housed a small Newhaven Museum.  We went there with my parents one day, having eaten looking out across the harbour, over past Granton, to those bridges I talked about (except they were just a duo in those days).  Many of the photos showed Newhaven fishwives in their traditional striped and weirdly voluminous outfits, and my father surprised me by knowing who some of them were.  With even a distant relative in one.  Yet he said little about his connection to the area.  It was only after he died I found out that he'd been born on Main Street, the one that runs parallel to the main road the fronts to the harbour.  And that both his parents has worked in the fish market, his mother one of those who wore that stripey outfit.  

So when we first had a base here there was already a familial link in my mind to the harbour area.  I love being there because of all I've written about already.  But there's an emotional connection too.  Artificial in many ways, but that doesn't make it less real.  Time at the harbour brings many satisfactions.  And lovely fresh fish...

Day 195 - Changing Places

 CHANGING PLACES

Prompt - Changing Places : imagine living the day as someone else.

It hadn't been too bad a night.  No, he had to tell himself, it was a good night.  He'd found a shop door with a bit of residual warmth.  After a while James had asked if he could bed down beside him, so that was a bit of extra warmth.  And safety.  Always good to have someone nearer any trouble than you were.  James was a decent enough guy, they'd come across one another a few times in the past six months, so he felt OK with him.  But it hadn't been a cold night anyway.  Although it was early October there hadn't been any really bitter ones yet.  And nobody had come near, shouted, kicked, pissed on them.  There were a couple of drunks swaying past loudly at one point, but that had been it until he heard the street cleaning truck passing by.  Yes, it had been a good night.

James seemed still to be asleep, so it gave him a few minutes to think about the day ahead.  Try to give himself some purpose.  He felt in his inner pocket.  the money was still there.  Four pounds, eighteen pence.  Enough for a coffee and a bacon roll at Gaffney's Shack.  He'd start the day with hunger suppressed.  That was one problem dealt with already.

Food.  More food.  Always food.  Today was Wednesday.  The soup van would be on Gerard terrace about one, so he'd best not miss out on that.  Sometimes he'd get seconds too.  Or they might have doughnuts.  Either way it would be enough to see him through the day.  Which meant any money he did come by could be put to having a bed for the night.  If not today then maybe tomorrow.  Eighteen pounds was a lot to get in one day, but he'd done it before.  Maybe not in October though...

If he could get there before others he'd set himself up outside the station early on, see how many commuters he could get something from.  There would be a few of his regulars he could rely on.  Might get three or four quid there.  He peered out from under his cover.  Sky looked cloudy, but not too dark.  He'd be able to say more when it got a bit lighter.  But if the rain stayed off he had a chance to do well.  He felt optimistic.

If he could get a bed at the hostel he could get cleaned up, feel human for a bit.  Eighteen quid was a lot, but it was worth the investment sometimes.  More so when the weather was bad of course, or if there were rumours of 'beggar hunts', gangs of kids out to give homeless people like him a hard time.  Teeth got lost that way, bones broken.  He'd been lucky so far.  Six months on the street and no really violent encounters.  He was forty eight and still didn't look much older when he had a chance to get himself decent.  But if he had to try to survive the winter... he'd look seventy by spring.  They always did.

So if he could get a bed he'd use that as a reason to go and see if Jenny was in at Shelter tomorrow.  She'd been great so far, given him lots of tips, told him she was looking for somewhere for him.  Maybe tomorrow would be the day.  He'd get an address.  Get an address and you can get a job.  Get a job and you have money coming in, can rebuild a life.

He stopped himself.  Should know by now - never think beyond the day ahead.  Money.  Food.  Shelter.  Talk to someone, anyone, to be reminded what being in society was like.  Those were today's aims.  Like yesterday's, and the day before that.  Survival.  Keeping alive, keeping sane.  

James grunted.  That was his cue to start making his move.  He packed up his stuff - didn't take long - stood up and stretched.  Stepped over the still recumbent James and into the early morning air.  He felt a bit dizzy, but nothing that bacon roll wouldn't sort out.  Bring on the day.

Day 194 - Time Travel

 TIME TRAVEL

Prompt - Time Travel : If there was a time period you could visit for a day, where would you go?  Write about travelling back in time to that day.

Time travel has become such a common fictional device, and the basis for one of the most popular children's TV programmes of them all, that we rarely stop to think about the practicalities involved were it to be something we could do in reality.  It used to be bad enough returning to work after a three week holiday and having to adjust to the changes!

But if I could really choose to go back in time for a twenty four hour period what would be the purpose?  There are two main possible motivations.  The first being to see if one could alter histroy for the better while there, the second purely for the enjoyment and/or education to be afforded from being somewhere you always longed to be.  

If I was going to go back and try to change the world my first thought would be to go back less than seven years, to the evening of the sixteenth of September 2014, with the intent of convincing more people to vote Yes in the independence referendum.  But that's when the practicalities kick in.  How, in just one day, can you convince the right person (politician?  broadcaster?  journalist?) that you really do come from the not too distant future, and that these are all the things the No side are saying that will turn out to be lies.  And then get that information out so that the majority of people in the country get to hear about it - and believe it.  There are just too many 'if' moments in the basic concept for it to ever have a chance of succeeding.  There's also the law of unintended consequences, the "butterfly beats it's wings in Brazil" factor, where introducing one change into history also enables others.  Unpredictable others, some of which might turn out to have even greater negative effects.  Although what could be nore negative than still being stuck in Brexshit Britain is hard to imagine.

So instead I will have to go for the pleasure principle.  Where and when would I want to go back to, who would I hope to meet and talk with?  This is a question beloved of TV interviewers of the shallower kind, and one that many people give the appearance of having an immediate answer for.  I am not one of them.  It's back to those pesky practicalities.  Twenty four hours means having somewhere to sleep for a night, means being able to fit unobtrusively into an older and perhaps foreign society, meaning clothes, manners and language would have to fit in.  Am I able to take those things as read and simply let myself slip into the fantasy?  there are no rules here, so why not?  Only my own annoying habit of wanting to know the details underlying any scenario...  (I can't decide if this is a good or a bad thing to be as a wannabe writer!)

So would I go back to meet one of my heroes?  And risk them turning out to be far less than I imagined them to be, or them to hate the person I am?  Perhaps Burns, among the literati of eighteenth century Edinburgh?  To hear what the great poet sounded like, perhaps in one of the salons he attended, and see how the city looked during the great transition period when the New Town was first being constructed.  The notion of visiting Van Gogh also appeals, but he might be a hard man to be with.  But if I could come across him in a field near the asylum in Arles, to sit and watch him create magic in front of me... how special a moment would that be.  I might even sleep out under the same stars he so memorably painted.

Or Raeburn Place in 1871, when Scotland beat England in the first ever rugby international?  What was the game like to watch in it's infancy?  What was the crowd like?  Was the rivalry as real and intense in Victorian times?  

None of this speculation satisfies the brief set out in today's prompt.  I can't even make up my mind on the when and where and who, so it hasn't been possible to move on to write about what it might have been like to be there - wherever 'there' turned out to be.  Today, when I am suffering from back pain, does not feel like one when I can give into the fantastic, I am unable to let go of reality to the necessary degree.  But on another day... who knows?

Day 193 - From the Roof-tops

 FROM THE ROOF-TOPS

Prompt - From the Roof-tops : Imagine you could stand on a rooftop ansd broadcast a message to everyone below - what would you say?

He'd never noticed the hatch before, but there it was, blackly standing out from the grey tiles that surrounded it.  Was this what he needed?  He reached up and pushed on one side with an extended forefinger.  It lifted easily, lighter than he'd thought.  His hand moved across to the slight opening he'd created, latched on to the rail.  He pulled down, pulled some more, swung from his extended limb.  Yes, it would take his weight.

With a strength that would have surprised any onlookers, and had come as a bit of a shock to him too, he pulled himself up, getting a good grip with both hands, his ageing biceps filling and flexing with the power to lift his body vertically until his head was level with the opening and he could prop the hatch open a bit more.  There was just enough light to the lower rungs of a metal ladder running up from the bar he had a grip on.

With grunt of exertion and a swift movement of his left arm he had hold of the bottom rung.  One by one, the sweat running freely down his face, he raised himself higher, until finally, just before the pain got too much, he could swing up his right leg, push back and up and raise his whole body through and on to the ladder.  With one heel helping to slow down the impact, he let the hatch return to it's closed position, and rested on the ladder for a few moments, strength and breath returning, disbelief evaporating.  Suddenly he knew he would find his way up to where he'd never been.

The ladder took him, through the semi darkness (he couldn't quite figure where the thin light was coming from) to another hatch, sibling to the one below.  It too opened freely, and moved him up into a space with a lower ceiling, this time well lit through the glass bricks at either end.   He rested again, considered his options.  This must be the final step before he could get on to the roof.  Crouching slightly, he explored along and above, until he found a small exit hatch in the north wall.  It was stiff, but gave way to a shoulder.  Almost too quickly, for he nearly tumbled through and out on to the curved metallic surface outside, one that offered little grip and very quick way down.  Sticking his head out he saw a grab rail along the side of the wall, leading to a short while flight of metal steps, which took him up to the highest point of the block.  Up with the ariels and the seagulls.

He looked around, his horizons amplified above and beyond the usual views from his windows, now that he was twenty feet higher.   Under an endless blue sky and soft golden sun he could clearly see the Firth, and Fife coastal villages to the north, while the city spread out across the hills to the south, peaks and spires and towers competing for attention with the castle.  Down below the scheme had shrunk, but the people grew, in number anyway, as he was spotted up there with the birds, as fingers pointed and mouths gabbled.  He sensed, rather than saw, the bus arriving in the road at his back, spotted the blonde bob bobbing along behind the wall.  Unfurled the banner in his hands (strange, he couldn't recall bringing it with him, but here it was) and checked the seven letters and single symbol in red.  Small enough to hold wide open, big enough for the word spelled out to be clear to the crowd below.

She came round the corner.  Saw the assembled neighbours first, wondered at the excitement.  Followed their eyes upwards and saw him seeing her.  The banner appeared like magic.  Her name, one heart, one man holding it.  Her man.

"I.  LOVE.  BARBARA."  One vocal blast at a time he gave the world his message.  "ALWAYS HAVE.  ALWAYS WILL."

The audience applauded and whooped.  She smiled at his madness.

Barbara woke suddenly, too quick for her body to keep up.  Fear surfaced in response to the unknown.  

"What the f...?"  Something had happened, something had made a noise.  Had he heard it?

"Wooo, yeah, wayhey!" he shouted, as if someone was there to listen.

Was that all it had been?  He'd been shouting out in his sleep?  Wooh, yeah, wayheh?  What was that all about ?  She turned to look at him, just about managing to prop herself up on one uncertain elbow.  His face was a bundle of soft curves and sunken orifices in the pale light coming through the blind.  He was smiling.  That looked a lot like his "I did it, aren't I clever?" face.  What the f...?

He seemed at peace now, no point in waking him.  Not even for revenge.  She settled back on the pillow and remembered the day.  Forty three years they'd been married today.  She wondered what he'd shouted that woke her up.  Had it made any more sense than the bit she'd heard?  Probably not.  Daft bugger.

She went back to sleep.  He was still high above them.

Day 192 - Copycat

 COPYCAT

Prompt - Copycat : Borrow a line from a famous public domain poem to craft your own

Line stolen from Kubla Khan, Coleridge

They followed paths that climbed beyond

The comforts of the known

Through thicket woods, o'er streams and gullies

That left the trees behind

To stumble on across the rocks which goats had made their own

To reach a peak of mystery that offered prospects new 

Exchanging looks of fortitude 

To enter the nameless land below 

The only path by a river ran

Sheer rock on either side

Delving down into blackest green

Where sun would not be seen

This their road to riches and fame

Pulling them down to earth

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down, down, tumbling dark

Was threat and promise both 

Where teeth and talons lurk in wait

Where leafy glades give rest

Beyond is the unpromised land

The give and take of the strange

To which they took bold cautious steps

The route to stake their claim

Their part in the adventurers' chain

But were never seen again

Day 191 - Cartoon

 CARTOON

Prompt - Cartoon : Think of your favourite cartoon or comic.  Write a poem of story that takes place in that setting.

I'd looked closely, impressed at the brushwork.  Time to take a few steps back and soak in the entirety of the painting, the scope of a work that had grabbed my attention the moment I had walked into this area of the outdoor exhibition.  Something stopped me, a firm press in the centre of my lower back, and a clipped electronic voice said "Please keep two meter distance".  I turned to see who had halted my movement.

"Oh.  Sorry about that.  It gets a bit over enthusiastic sometimes, without me being fully in control.  It's all automatic you know." said a smooth friendly voice, a hint of apology in his tone.

The owner of the voice was a small man of unusual appearance.  He wore a bright red tie and a green tank top that looked as if it had been made from recycled tyre treads.  Over each shoulder there was a curiously bulgy metallic black support strap, joined across his chest by a squidgy looking band with a small nozzle, presumably belonging to some kind of pack on his back.  He had a strange head, bald, pear shaped, with the widest grin I'd ever seen, a bulbous, round nose, and sticky out ears that would have shamed crazy plant-talking Charlie from the palace.

"No problem, I just got a bit of a surprise.  But what do you mean by 'automatic'?"  The man had me puzzled.

"It's my covid-o-matic backpack" he said, turning slightly and indicating the bulky object the straps held up.  "Keeps me safe from infection.  I'm an inventor, aren't I lad?"  He looked down.  The 'lad' shuffled round from behind him, a smooth coated dog of unknown breed, with big curved ears, and huge black nose and... well, no mouth that I could see.  His big eyes looked up at his master, then at me, and did a bit of a roll as if to say "see what I'm stuck with?"

"So how does it keep you safe, what did it do to stop me getting close?"

"Come a bit nearer and you'll see."  I moved towards him and a stick like arm with a small, padded, wooden hand on the end shot from the side of the backpack, landing firmly in the middle of my chest.  "Please keep two meter distance" said a hidden speaker.  

"Does that if anyone gets a bit close.  Still got to make a few fine adjustments, but it's mostly working well."  The curious dog looked sceptical.  "And whenever I go indoors I just pull on this tab here..." he said, indicating a small arrow headed bit of leather on the left shoulder strap.  he tugged it and different arms appeared from either side of the backpack, moved swiftly over his head and pulled a surgical face mask over his big mouth and nose, and hooked it over the protruding ears, before sliding smartly away.  "Gromit's got one too, haven't you boy?"  I looked down to see similar arms slipping back into the dog's collar, leaving the pooch masked and grumpy looking.   "And then tucks them away once used."  And another tug reversed the procedure, both man and dog facially uncovered once more.  I didn't know whether to be impressed or laugh at the weirdness of it all.

"Of course it lets me keep my hands nice and clean too.  Ready supply of hand sanitiser here."  And he put one hand to the nozzle in the centre of his chest, which immediately squirted a clear gel out.  He rubbed his chubby, rubbery hands in a cleansing motion.  "And if I want to pick anything up..."  He tugged on a different leather tab and another robotic hand appeared with a metal claw on the end.  By twiddling with a small joystick on the left strap he made the stick extend and pick up a discarded chocolate paper.  "Handy little thing" he said, clearly amused by his own punning attempt.  The dog did another eye roll.  "What do you think of it?" he asked, seeking my approval.  "I've got patent pending on this little beauty."

I managed a few words that tried to convey what a fine achievement his device was, without sounding liker I thought he was totally crazy.  

"We'll all have one of these soon" he said with assured enthusiasm, "My name's Wallace, nice to meet you, must be getting on.  Come on lad, let's get back home.  A nice bit of Wensleydale waiting for us there.  Goodbye."

He gave a shy wave and turned to go.  The dog Gromit turned to follow him, but stopped and looked back at me, sadly shook his head in long suffering resignation."  I felt, rather than heard, him sigh.  Then his shuffling gait took him back to the heels of his master and they walked out of my life.  I wonder what became of them?