Day 304 - On the TV

 ON THE TV

Prompt - On the TV.  Flip to a random TV channel and write about the first thing that comes on, even if it is an infomercial!

I didn't even know there was a channel called 'Forces TV'.  Presumably aimed at the British military?  I'd just missed their version of the News, which might have been interesting, in time for a double bill rerun of a very old American TV series.  One I'd never seen before, although I'd heard the name, and which I've been told was largely aimed at children.  What this says about the UK's service personnel I'm not too sure...

The programme was ChiPs, which I understand is an acronym for California Highway Patrol.  From the cars I saw I'd reckon it was made in the late seventies or early eighties.  I'd also guess that a lot of these programmes were made, as the production values looked to be on the cheap side.

What I saw of this episode (only about ten minutes, as I had to make the dinner, but I doubt I could have stood much more anyway) showed a very conventional, very 'safe' US drama-entertainment.  One of the first shots, an ariel view, showed an ocean liner firmly docked to the sun drenched quay, which tod me this was Long Beach and the boat the Queen Mary.  They seemed to be very proud of having it as a backdrop because I lost count of the number of times it cropped up in that short period of time.

One thing was quickly evident.  The cast, or at least the 'good guys' were all conventionally pretty, all slim and athletic and tanned, all as bland as the beige they were clad in.  I didn't recognise any of them, but that could be because they didn't get a lot of work after this.  They were awful, although trying to make anything of the stilted dialogue might have given Olivier problems too.  

The plot seemed to centre on a visiting Hungarian delegation, and a minor robbery that took place at the same time.  Within five minutes we had something vaguely resembling a car chase, with the blue car of the robbers being pursued by the huge motorbike of one of the policemen.  Despite the car proceeding at what looked a fairly sedate pace, judging from the vehicle's body language, the powerful bike couldn't catch them and gave up the pursuit when they went into a car park and 'disappeared'.  The bike rider didn't move with much urgency either, but too great a speed might have messed up his hair...

As well as the dreadful script, the backing music was dire - formulaic and distracting - while the sets looked on the shoddy side.  Although I did notice that following ChiPs came Blake's 7 - vastly superior acting and plots, but even worse sets!)

I guess squaddies aren't renowned for their critical faculties...

Day 303 - Go Fly a Kite

 GO FLY A KITE

Prompt - Go Fly a Kite : Write about flying a kite

The girl watched raptly as her father laid the box on the grass, opened it, and carefully removed each of the contents and laid them down for her to see.  As he did so he kept up a constant commentary on what the objects he handled were called, and their purpose, looking across to her regularly to check that his words were being absorbed and understood.  She didn't say anything, but nodded from time to time.

Then came the construction process.  There was a point where he invited her to connect one part to another, but she shook her head, frowning as she did so, and he accepted her decision.  Thought that her enthusiasm would surely flood out once the point of the exercise was realised.

With everything, done, and the ensemble double checked for any possible weak points, he announced they would now test it out for real.  His enthusiasm for the moment wasn't in doubt, but she still did nothing more than nod.  He set up a small launch platform, the flat surface of the box raised on a pile of stones he'd collected, ensuring that there would be no snagging when he attempted to get airborne.  Then he wound out about six metres of string from the bobbin and looked around, once more. for potential obstacles.  A pointless exercise as he'd selected the site, free from trees and cables and with few birds around, weeks ago.  

His eyes shone with excitement as he looked across at his daughter.  She had closely observed everything he did, but never asked a question or made a comment.  He had hoped she'd be more involved, couldn't figure out what he was doing wrong, but decided to go ahead with the big moment, sure that she would be captivated once the kite was in the air.  

"Watch now, this is how we get it to fly."  She nodded again, still soundless.  He licked the forefinger of his left hand, held it to the mild breeze, looking in command of the situation.  "We do that to test the strength and direction of the wind."  She already knew this, but nodded politely, looking to humour him.

He waited for a bigger gust than most, then launched himself downhill, a perilous move when done backwards, his unsteadiness adding to the drama of the moment.  She watched him turn into a stuttering marionette, so unlike his usual smooth presence, and only turned her head skywards when he cried out "Look!  Look!".  There was the kite, swinging side to side, bobbing up and down, jerking in response to the variations in the wind, and getting higher as he fed out the string.  "Isn't it beautiful?  Isn't it?"  His enthusiasm was bursting from every movement of his body, and she wondered who was meant to be the child here?  Who was this for?

He called her down to him, offered to let her hold the bobbin, with his help of course, to feel the power of flying an object so far above where they stood.  But she turned him down.  Told him she was happy watching and that she liked to see him enjoy himself.  So he did.  Puzzled and frustrated, but not so much that his childish joy could be suppressed.

Eventually he knew he had to stop, put it all back in the box, go home.  In the car she finally spoke.

"Thanks Daddy, I enjoyed that."

"Did you?  Really?  But why didn't you want to join in?"

"When I fly it won't be like that."

"What will it be like then?"  He hadn't heard her talk like this before.  Or had he not been paying attention?

"I'll be the kite, not the kite flyer.  The falcon, not the falconer.  Do you understand?"  He didn't, not really, but he said yes, of course he did, and they drove home.

Later he related the events of the day to his wife, wondering if she had any idea what their daughter had meant about kites and falcons?

"She's going to be a pilot.  How didn't you know that?"

How indeed.

Day 302 - Clutter

 CLUTTER

Prompt - Clutter : Is there a cluttered spot in your home?  Go through some of that clutter today and write about what you find or the process of organising

I have piles.  Piles of paper mostly, but sometimes the piles will contain bits of IT kit, or envelopes, or plastic, or surprising rubbish.  Most of it is my room, my study, so that it is at least contained.  But there's always a pile of papers on the kitchen table, and there will be some detritus on my bedside cabinet (and, to be fair, on top of the cabinet on the other side of the bed, albeit, to less messy ends).  And my desk... is a mess.  At present it, and floor of this room, are both considerably better than they were a few weeks ago, before I installed the new desktop PC, a process that forced me into having a tidy up.  At last.

So I looked at the remaining piles of paper on the floor, for the purposes of this exercise.  That means ignoring, for now, the other piles in this place.  Which includes an ancient hard drive of no further possible use; a couple of cardboard boxes awaiting some of the many CDs and books I have found the resolve to throw out (and donate to a wonderful second-hand shop on Leith Walk); tow old briefcases that contain I know not what, although I think one is music related; a couple of boxes that I don't really need any more; and, worst of all, a big spread of jars and paints and files (the rasping kind) and books and tape and the box and the 2CV model kit that was in the box, partially completed for months and now very dusty...

Which is why it was easier to opt for the paper on the floor.  Only two small piles.  The first contained some banking documents.  A couple relating to an old account which I think is now closed (but I should make sure...), the rest to signing up to manage some financial investments online.  I did try before, but the website was Byzantine, and ended up defeating me.  I should try again.

The second pile was much easier to deal with.  Most of it was papers relating to a class I helped run for new volunteers at Advocard.  By the time I do it again (if I do it again) it will be out of date.  that will go into the recycling when I go downstairs in a few minutes.  The only other item in the pile was an old A4 notebook, partly filled with notes for minutes when I was on the AdvoCard board - a long time ago.  It did see some use recently, when I was working through the Kickstarter projects I've backed for a piece I was writing, and also some basic notes for a poem I wrote several weeks ago.  I have found a novel place for the book now, fitting perfectly into the gap between the box on the wall to my right, which I use as a device charging station, and the bookcase beside it.  So the room is a little tidier as a result of having to do this exercise.  Now I should do something similar to the rubbish on the desk....

Day 301 - This Old House

 THIS OLD HOUSE

Prompt - This Old House : Write about an old house that is abandoned or being renovated

Three months.  It didn't sound long if you said it quickly, looked at in the context of a lifetime, and if you managed to ignore the rest of the sentence.  Four months living with my parents.  That was full story, and it sounded like a lifetime within a lifetime.  But we knew it was the only way to realise our dream.  Assuming our marriage didn't crumble under the strain.

Ever since we'd first talked about living together we'd had a vision of the home we wanted to bring our kids up in.  Some rambling Victorian pile with four of five bedrooms, three of four reception rooms, one of them being a library of course, a big welcoming kitchen and a bathroom with space for a massive, original, claw foot bath in the middle of the floor.  And we'd found it, only a year after the wedding.  Victorian and rambling for sure.  Five bedrooms upstairs, along with a huge bathroom.  Three big rooms and a massive kitchen downstairs, with plenty space under the stairs for a shower room.  Affordable.  Very affordable.  And there was the catch.  

It needed work doing.  Some of it could be done over a period of years.  But it still needed a lot doing to it simply to become habitable.  The place had been empty for years, utterly neglected, hence the bargain price, and the plumbing and electrics needed to be done from scratch.  No toilet, no power, some unsafe floors, and we wanted to knock through from dining room to kitchen to create a big welcoming area to entertain in.  We had to sell our wee flat to buy it, and we couldn't afford to rent while the work was being done.  So this was the solution.  We'd stay with my parents, who were only two streets away, while the all the really major work got done, and the wreck became at least the outline of a home, and then we'd move in and carry on with our own plans.  Most of this initial phase required professionals, so we wouldn't be able to spend much time in there until it was done.  That was the catch.

It's not that I don't like my folks.  But ever since I left home the relationship has been strained, and Mum is one of those who thinks that no girl could ever be good enough for 'her boy', so Sarah has a hard time of it.  It would bb bad enough for me, worse for her.  But we agreed it was worth seeing through, teeth firmly gritted, to achieve our goal.

The work was progressing well, so well that it looked like we might even get in ahead of schedule.  Floors repaired and made safe, plumbing installed, damp sorted out.  Most of the electrics done too.  But there was one big job to come that could turn this positive picture around.  Knocking down the kitchen wall would be messy, and the builder was concerned that the wall seemed to be thicker than he'd normally expect.  They'd have to make a start on it before they could determine why.

Turned out that there had been a false wall installed on the dining room side.  So well done that it hadn't been immediately obvious.  Why had someone done that?   The first skull to turn up provided a strong clue...

As well as a big shock to the poor guy making the discovery.  The builder called the police, the uniforms called the detectives, and suddenly our wannabe home was a crime scene.  The first we knew was the police coming to my parents' door in the early evening, asking to see us.  Once we'd been talked through the discovery, which was shock enough, we were told that work in the house would have to be suspended.  Indefinitely.  Which answered our next question, and not in the way we hoped for.  We would have to wait.

And wait.  One skull turned into a full skeleton turned into three.  Plus a couple of boxes of documents.  Every time we asked for information we were told to wait until the full story was available.  Every time we asked the word 'indefinitely' still appeared somewhere in the reply.  It took more than six weeks for the house to be returned.  By which time our builders were on another job and it would be at least three weeks before they could return.  They had all our money so what could we do but wait?  We went into the house a few times ourselves, hoping to be able to do something useful, but there was little could be done, with the threat of dust clouds from the impending wall demolition a serious hindrance to any cosmetic activities.  And there were still reporters sniffing around, keen to ask questions we weren't keen to answer.  

The story emerged bit by bit.  The house had once been the home of an elderly woman who had died without direct heirs.  Somehow the system managed to fail to the point where ownership was undecided and the property left to decline.  This proved useful to the owner of a chain of betting shops, who lived a few doors away, when he had some bodies to dispose of - members of a syndicate that had tried to cheat him out of millions.  Under the guise of doing some safety work, his men went in and built the false wall, the bodies, and the details of their activities, hidden away from interested parties.  We had bought into a major murder story.

The builders returned, eventually.  More work than expected, what with the false wall and the damage done by the police forensics people.  But they got there.  Eventually.

It was a terrible tale, a horrendous crime.  We hated that bookie.  Three months had turned into six, and Sarah and my mother may never speak again.

Day 300 - Battle

 BATTLE

Prompt - Battle : Write about an epic battle, whether real, fictional or figurative

The general put down the phone and looked around at the tense, expectant faces in the bunker's command room.  He both did and didn't want to say what he knew he had to say, for he would have liked further time to consider the implications for himself, but time was now like the last of the sands in the timer.  Running out, moving faster and faster.

"That was the president."  A redundant statement, for they all knew was the only person who could have called.  But they also knew he said it to give himself time to phrase what came next.  And, like him, they both did and didn't want to hear it.

"There are Chinese missiles heading for the US west coast, and for southern Europe.  We are awaiting news of how many, if any, make it through our outer anti missile defences.  As soon as this is known a decision on launching will be taken and conveyed to us.  In the meantime we are to arm and ready all missiles targeted on the Chinese mainland.  Jack, take the necessary steps to convert all silos into immediate launch readiness."

Jack, aka Colonel Grubaur,  swiftly, efficiently, unthinkingly gave the orders that enacted the order he'd been given.  One step at a time, with double checks on systems after each step.  It took twenty four minutes from the command being issued to a complete state of readiness.  The Colonel went back the General, saluted, and said exactly what he was supposed to say.

"All silos are now open, missile command launch sequences initiated and held ready for immediate action, all warheads are armed and targeting confirmed, sir."

"Thank you Jack.  And now we wait.  I'll address the command."  The General moved over to the internal comms desk, asked the operator for a mike patched through to the entire bunker.  He took a deep breath and began his address.

"Ladies and gentlemen, no need for formality now.  We all know each other well, and we all know exactly why we're here and how we got to this position.  Those of you not in the command room at present will have heard the noises and know exactly what they mean.  On the orders of the Commander in Chief we have now opened all silos, and both missiles and warheads are in a state of immediate readiness.  You will be wondering what happens next."  He paused, trying to find the right words.  "And that all depends on the next call I receive.  We are all in this together, and I think we should all hear the news at the same time. All personnel please make their way to the command room as soon as possible.  You should know what there is to know as soon as I know it."

There was a mild ripple of approval around the room, the others in full agreement that everyone on the base should be there to share the fateful moment.  And so they made space, moved what could be moved, as a further fifteen people steadily entered, nodded, took their stance.  

"Feel free to talk among yourselves, there's nothing more to be done for now.  But I want complete silence the moment that phone rings."  The General looked meaningfully at Warrant Officer Lachowitz, who snapped to attention and saluted to show his understanding, to be given a warm nod in return.  Lachowitz moved closer to the phone receiver.  

The phone rang, Lachowitz bellowed, and thirty two pairs of eyes turned on the General.  he picked up the red instrument, put it to his ear, stated his name rank and name.  And listened.  He didn't have to listen for long, but while he did his eyes stared up at the ceiling, well away from any possible contact with others.  His face remained passionless, his lips thin.

"Colonel Grubaur."

"Sir!"

"initiate firing sequence on all missiles, immediately."

"Yes sir."  Grubaur gave only three short orders.  The second almost immediately following the first, the third taking him a little longer, as he absorbed the immensity of his words.  He walked back to the General.  "All missiles launched sir."  With the crispest of salutes.

"Thank you Jack."  He looked around the room, looked at the varied expressions of stoicism, disbelief, fear.  "We have all done our duty here, and enacted the orders of the Commander in Chief.  God bless America.  Other than the tracking team you may all stand down.  I'll let you know what I know when I know it."

There were muttered thank you sirs as the group broke up, voices soft and contemplative.  Everyone left to their own thoughts.  

Most shared the same thought as the General.  'This is how the end of the world begins.'

Day 299 - Concrete

 CONCRETE

Prompt - Concrete : Write about walking down a sidewalk and what you see and experience

It's a warm day for late October, and yet another minor piece of evidence towards the impending disasters of climate change.  But it's cloudy too, a bit breezy, and there's a hint of moisture in the air that suggests rain isn't too far off.  I've left the green expanse of the Links, which now spreads out to my right, and walk along a tree lined stretch that offers many parked cars, imposing old terraced housing on the other side, and a pathway which requires careful observation, for I know from past experience that there are many cracks and uneven surfaces due to tree roots breaking through.

There's a small group of people, of mixed ages, stood by the bus shelter across the road.  They look upwards to smile, not at me, but into the phone camera one of them holds in her hand.  A selfie?  Here?  Must be tourists.  Perhaps that's their guest house behind, for there are many such along this road.

I move on, the grass either side laced with the fallen brown leaves of Autumn.  A few cars go by in either direction.  I look for a gap, and make my way across to the other side, the residential side, squeezing past a baby blue Fiat 500.  On this side the pavement is more even, a little wider, making it easier to keep a decent distance from oncomers in these covidy times.  Street furniture provides the signage of urban environments, a traffic sign informs drivers of revised traffic lights ahead, a school nearby.  Low on the wall to my left a street name - Hermitage Place - sits beneath railing on which the residents have displayed No Parking In Front Of Gates.  Maintaining access to a drive must be difficult in a street that sees so many residents, holidaymakers and commuters parking nose to tail.  

I'm approaching the junction now, where the road I'm on meets three others, but in a pattern that renders traffic management more complex than at a simple crossroads.  The end of the Links, the green, to my left is coming, just past that bus stop across the road, and I can see, ahead and to the right, the imposing red brick structure that is now flats, but was once Leith Academy school, where my mother attended way back in the thirties and forties.  Awaiting the buses two women sit in the shelter, one at each end, both intently looking at their phone screens.  A sign of the times.

The lights are at red, but the crossing indicator is green so I speed up to get across before the change, carefully avoiding the path of a man pushing a baby buggy, clearly on a mission to get wherever he's going as soon as possible.  There are more people here, mostly in something a bit waterproof, for the threat of rain is increasing.  Two teenage boys, in the curious black tracksuity outfits that are some kind of age-denoted uniform, cross in front of me.  Once on the other pavement I pause to look along Duke Street, an electric car crossing my field of view, looking incongruous against the old world of the old school.  A bus turns the corner, almost empty of passengers, while two lines of car wait their turn to cross the junction.  I continue up Easter Road, the wind feeling stronger in my face, but still with that mildness to it.  A blonde woman in a green coat stands to the side, in conversation with the phone held to her right ear.  Ahead of me a woman keeps stopping to check on her dog, which is reluctant for keep up with her, tugging against the lead.  On the street to my right the traffic has begun queuing at the red light, including another near-empty double decker.  Past them I look on the entrance to the Tesco car park.  It doesn't look too busy in there.

Past the pub with the hanging basket, I look for a way past between the woman with the recalcitrant dog, and a stolid hooded walker in grey.  The dog forces her to stop once again and I go out into the street to pass, but she reasserts her authority over the pooch so that we are no moving in parallel.  I speed up, slow briefly to check that the side street is clear, then move on.  The woman/dog combo is held up by two big women with prams blocking the pavement, but I stay in the gutter to get past the bus stop, where there are several people hanging around.  A move not quite without danger, for one of those electric scooters whizzes past close to my right elbow, with no sign of respect for people or the law.

But I'm back on the pavement again, and there are few others walking this way.  Past blocks of flats, with a solitary sign showing that one has been sold, past the roadworks on the opposite side.  Ahead there's a tall man in black clothes, grey beanie, sitting astride a bike while he checks something on his phone.  His sunglasses incongruous on this greyest of days.  He doesn't look up as I pass.  Seconds later another man walks towards me wearing, yes, sunglasses.  What's going on here?

At least the DPD delivery driver, now walking across to his double-parked van, looks more sutied to the day.  He drives past me soon after.  The flats on either side are older tenements now, solid and reassuring.  A man in a parka goes past with arms swinging military style.  On the other side I young man is hanging out of a first floor window.  He shakes something - I can't make out what it is - then puts both hands akimbo on the sill and looks up and down the street.  Does he know I'm recording him?  The window to his left is wide open too.  Has somebody burned the toast?

I walk on.  A man approaches holding his phone horizontally to his face, in conversation.  I have never understood the fashion for using a phone this way, when it's so much easier held up to the ear.  I am old school.  I've caught up the the DPD van, parked little more than a hundred meters from where I saw it before, and the driver comes round to open the rear door as I pass, checking his device for whatever it is he is to deliver.  Just then a siren sounds.  I'd seen the flashing blue lights approaching in the distance, and here's the ambulance that owns them, threading through cars that have stopped to make way.  I hope that whoever they are going to, or carrying, will be OK.

The traffic resumes, so do I.  Past a corner shop, past another dog walker, the wind getting stronger.  A woman comes towards me, head down and serious of expression, wearing a green hoodie.  Spread out across her enormous chest are the words Staley Falcons, which later research tells me is a US baseball team.  She certainly doesn't look the athletic type...

My boots keep me going onwards.  I pass a young woman, masked, trying to get key into the lock of a red tenement door.  She isn't having much luck, but when I look back seconds later she's gone.  In presumably.

More flashing lights ahead, yellow this time, as a Highways truck pulls up by the kerb to my right, and men in high vis clothing emerge to do whatever their task is.  Now the rain has come though, and I quicken my step, seeking shelter.  A woman comes around the corner, pulling a fur lined hood tight about her head.  One more side road to cross, between two red cars waiting to turn, past the bus shelter, past two women who shout unintelligible farewells, one to head down the hill from whence I came, the other returning to the warmth of her flat.  The rain gets heavier and now getting to my destination is all that matters.  There's traffic, there's road signs, there's people, but all I can see now is the car park of Lidl and a place out of the sudden downpour.  Time to go shopping.

Day 298 - In the Moment

IN THE MOMENT

Prompt - In the Moment : Write about living in the present moment

Do your poo and post it in, learn to live each day as if it were the last.  That was my lesson.

I had been feeling a bit listless for a while, but thought little of it.  With ageing comes a gentle deterioration of the body, and a gentle (sometimes) incrementation of weariness and laissez-faire.  That's how life goes.  I didn't worry because otherwise I felt in the best shape I'd been for some time, with minor ailments banished and pains kept at bay.  But I did my bowel screening test as requested because, well, because you never know.

It's not the most enjoyable of processes, and needs a prism of humour to make it more palatable.  Taking your own stool sample requires a bit of twisting and manipulation, and extreme caution for, even though it's mine, I had no wish for more contact with the substance than was absolutely necessary.  The humour comes in contemplating the recipient.  Who went to their school careers advisor and said they'd love to have a job where they got to run tests on human excrement?  Nobody... so how do they end up there?  It's definitely one of the short straw jobs, unless you have a very specific sexual quirk!

So off it went, to be thought no more off until the letter comes back to say that the poor old tester has found nothing of interest.  Except that the letter, which returned surprisingly swiftly, didn't say that.  Instead I found myself at the beginning of a process leading who knew where?  They'd found some blood traces and would I like to submit myself to having a camera stuck up my arse?  Not exactly their wording, but I the mental picture was unavoidable.  I certainly wouldn't 'like' to, but did realise I ought to.  It was probably nothing, perhaps just a few haemorrhoids, but better safe as they say.  

So in I go and I they get the camera inside me and it's a weird sensation, not just the internal feel of the probe, but being able to see the results on screen.  I don't think Channel 4 will be buying it, but I have to confess to being fascinated with this glimpse into my own insides.  But if they'd offered me the DVD...

The most fascinating bit was when they came across the source of my little problem.  Not for me the innocence of swollen veins.  The camera quite cleared pointed out the sanguinary flow that had sounded the alarm bells.  A little growth close to the top end of the colon.  Which might, or might not, involve use of the C word.

That takes you aback, especially when you've been feeling so good.  It's one of those most emotive of terms that can't help but trigger a multiplicity of reactions and ponderings and fears.  Unashamed fears.  

Which were, somewhat bizarrely, slightly assuaged by the confirmation that cancerous was indeed the diagnosis.  Because certainty is easier to deal with.  And the liberal use of words like 'early stage' and ' straightforward' gave back some of the lost confidence.  From then on events moved swiftly, and soon the missives bearing the big blue letters of the NHS were coming regularly.  A pre op.  A covid test.  And the big day itself.  All was explained, questions were answered, stats rolled out.  The 'major' in front of 'surgery' was a bit of a blow, but aided down by words like 'routine' and 'low risk'.  The stats backed it up, with the added pointer that when things did go a bit wrong it was for people with additional risk factors - obesity, age, other health problems - which were categories I didn't fit.  

The came, the day went, and I was, to my surprise, fully aware, in no pain, and even looking forward to being told to get up the next day.  Initial progress was rapid, and while the long path to full recovery has the odd bump in it, and takes a few rough corners, it has a clear destination.  Fully operational once more, back to fitness, ready for life.  

I could say "I can't wait".  But I can.  Best to take it day by day, don't rush the process, and savour the small wins that crop up with regularity.  From the first poo to the first cafe outing.  From slow eater to ravenous wolf. Those times will come.  But I have learned that it's today that matters.  Do what's possible, seek the joys, be yourself.  Live for the moment.

Day 297 - Phobia

 PHOBIA

Prompt - Phobia : Research some common phobias, choose one, and write about it

Jake smiled when he thought about all the hard work the others had put in to make his job so simple.  He knew he had to be quick, but could do so calmly, with the knowledge that all possible obstacles had already been removed.  Now inside, there were only a few more steps to carry out, and they had about twenty million Euros worth of jewellery to take away.

Gerry had done all the research, all the planning, so that they knew, in great detail, the physical layout of the shop, the set up of the security systems, and the habits of the staff.  Working with George, their IT whizz, had identified which day of the week, and point in the month, that would give them the maximum haul for the minimum of effort.  And risk.  On the day itself Geraldine and Jim, who none of the staff had seen before, went in to buy an engagement ring.  They wanted one anyway, so buying one provided perfect cover and reduced any chance of suspicion.  While Jim paid his fiancé planted the tiny device that George had designed.  

Then it was down to timing.  And to Jake.  George and Gerry were in a car, parked anonymously about eighty metres from the back entrance.  As soon as Jake approached the rear door he heard the locks click.  He pulled it open, and closed it behind him immediately, while pressing the button on the transmitter in his pocket.  The locks clicked shut again.  George had arranged for the short interruptions to look like system glitches.  And, more importantly for Jake, for the alarm to be briefly disabled each time.

He donned the infrared glasses, and turned on the little 'torch' on his wrist, giving him enough 'light' to see his way along the corridor without anything seeping out through windows.  Past a couple of cupboards, and the staff kitchen, and he was at the door of the strong room.  Another click of the button, and the lock thunked open.  Push in, push to, click the button.  He was locked in.  George had it all covered.  

Using the torch he quickly found the drawer he was looking for.  They had decided that, for speed, they would only hit the one, so it had to be home to the best collection in the shop.  Quite how Gerry had worked out which was which Jake wasn't sure, but he had been impressed so far so he had no doubts his target was the right one.  Another press in his pocket and a whirring sound eased the drawer open.  Jake shone the torch inside.  And froze.

Back in the car Gerry was swiftly feeling impatient.  In the plan the drawer had opened, Jake had lifted the contents into the commodious pockets of his specially made jacket, and sent the signal for George to re-secure the drawer, all within thirty seconds.   But almost a minute had passed and nothing.  He suddenly realised the one flaw in his plan.  If anything had happened to Jake they had no way of contacting him.  No phone was to be taken in, and the tiny device in his pocket did no more than send a signal for George to operate the next step in the sequence.  If anything had gone wrong (how could it?) they had no way of knowing what it was.  He looked at George who was now breathing deeply, unsure what to do next.  Then the signal came.  And, only a second after, another one.  

George looked at Gerry expectantly, hoping he had some explanation.  But all he could say was "Get on with it.  Maybe he was a bit slow asking for the drawer to lock, and now he's at the door."  Gerry hoped his makeshift explanation was the right one.  George did the necessary.

Another signal, George locked the door to the strong room.  He hoped Jake had got out.  Another click - surely quicker than expected? - and he'd unlocked the back door.  They watched as Jake's figure emerged from the shadows and ran off in the opposite direction.  He hadn't clicked to ask for the door to be locked, so George looked at Gerry.  "Lock the bloody thing!  then let's go."  

George put the control box back into his backpack, and they climbed out of the car.  It had been stolen, and could safely be picked up by the police in the morning.  They walked back to their own car, on the CCTV-free route they'd devised, and drove back to the meeting point.  And waited.

Jake turned up about twenty five minutes late.  He looked pale.  Before Gerry was able to ask Jake blurted out "I didn't get it."

"What?!  Why not?  What went wrong?"

"Me.  Arachnophobia."

"What?  What are you on about?"

"A spider.  In the drawer.  Fucking huge thing.  I can't... I just can't go near them, they terrify me.  I'm still sweating.  I had to sit in the car until the shakes stopped."  His face testified to his genuine fear.

Gerry looked at George.  George looked at Gerry.  They thought they'd thought of everything.

"Oh fuck" said Gerry.

Day 296 - Cravings

 CRAVINGS

Prompt - Cravings : Write about craving something

Defined as an intense, urgent, or abnormal desire or longing.  Craving is not addiction, lacking the latter's physical imperatives.  The addict cannot help themselves.  But a craving?  That's there to be controlled.  Or indulged.

I get cravings.  Less so that I did when I was younger, and now they head off in different directions.  This afternoon, watching Edinburgh play in Parma, I had an intense desire to see the boys score one more try and clinch the bonus point.  Which they duly did in the final play of the game.  But was that a craving?  Or just a moment of passion?  I'd say the latter, for I was fully conscious that such moments come about from the heat of watching 'my' team, and then dissipate.  It's not a craving to want to see the team you support do well.

But almost every night, as I work through the final wee jobs before going up to bed (or, more likely, this PC!) I find myself wanting chocolate.  Even if we've had some during the evening.  Sometimes I manage to ignore this and leave the craving behind.  But most nights it ends up with something sweet going into my mouth.  Maybe a bit of chocolate, depending on what we have available at that time.  Maybe several bits.  Or, more frequently, if there's nothing already open and waiting, I'll dig out a spoonful of chocolate spread from the jar and slurp it all down.  If I'm managing to be good it can just be the one.  There are too many nights when the craving has it's way and the one becomes four!

Nowadays there's little else I crave.  I am satisfied with my life.  There are things I want to do, things I enjoy buying.  Sometimes I come close to craving objects I've seen in shops.  But it rarely lasts.  Most of my desires nowadays are for books and music.  Twas not always so.

When you're young the cravings are stronger, more varied.  I had a craving for particular cars.  Or to go to some place I hadn't been before.  Or for women I'd seen.  I managed to own a couple of the cars.  I got to some of the places.  But most of the time the craving for a woman wasn't enough to overcome my shyness and lack of confidence.  Cravings don't provide a boost, just a nagging itch.

It's good to be relatively craving-free.

Day 295 - Apple a Day

 APPLE A DAY

Prompt - Apple a Day : Write about a health topic that interests you

As we get older our concerns in life shift.  And since, obviously, the older we get the nearer we are to our own eventual end, the subject of death, and our health more widely, becomes an increasingly common preoccupation.  For most of us the notion of our own mortality is something that we are at first wholly unaware of, then choose to ignore, for it seems to have little relevance to our younger selves.  But eventually the moment will come when it pokes it's head up - the death of a parent, a health scare, a friend dying or becoming seriously ill at an early age, and other similar events can raise our own awareness that we all share the same fate in the end.  And once it's there it's never going away...

Some readers will be aware that Barbara had her own reminder of this.  A routine bowel screening test showed up internal bleeding, which then revealed a small cancerous growth in her colon.  The resultant surgery went well and she's going to make a full recovery, but it's one of those reminders, isn't it?  We are not immortal, we are not perfect.  And the older we get the more the wear and tear on our bodies will tell.

I have no fear of being dead.  It will feel like it was before I was born - nothingness.  But the dying bit, and the potential for pain and suffering that could bring, well I'm not so keen on those aspects.  So my focus on my own health isn't so much about prolonging my life as far into the future as possible, but about trying to ensure that for however many years I do have left I'm in a condition to enjoy them.  Still as physically and mentally sharp as my body will allow me to be.

Advice on what that entails changes all the time, but most of the basics are pretty obvious.  For all that a great deal of how the future pans out is going to owe much to my unalterable genetic inheritance, and the way I've lived my life to date, there's still a lot can be done by eating healthily, and exercising brain and body.  I would like to be able to manage my own decline, as far as possible.

In the past much of the emphasis has been on aerobic fitness as one of the best ways to prolong health as we get older.  Recent thinking has seen the emergence of maintaining decent muscle tone being as, or even more, important in ensuring that getting older doesn't mean gradual incapacity.  So a bit of physical exercise every day, including some weight resistance activity.  Nothing too strenuous, just enough to make sure everything is kept in reasonable working order.  And looking for new ideas, new games, new mental challenges to keep the mind exercised too.    

I intend to keep trying to do what's needed for me to be able to do the things I most want to do - getting out every day, walking a few kilometres each day, getting myself to gigs and plays and films, reading and writing and laughing.  And for as many years as possible.

A few years ago, having had a very swollen and very painful left foot, I was diagnosed with gout.  So I took the doctor's advice, and sought out information on the internet, and adjusted my diet accordingly.  That mostly meant drinking a lot of water each day, and no alcohol.  Although I now consume a very occasional glass of the latter, my overall consumption must be about 90+% less than it was before the diagnosis, and I continue to down water like I'd just emerged from the Sahara.  I know of other gout sufferers who have chosen to ignore this approach, and still happily down their pints and drams as they always did.  While I can understand reluctance to give up old habits, I never liked the drink so much that I'd want to risk the pain of a gout attack, or, more importantly, the inconvenience it can bring.  Being housebound is not my idea of enjoying life (nor crawling about the flat on all fours, as I did during the worst bout - Barbara thought we'd acquired a dog...).  

Quality, not quantity.

Day 294 - Lost in the Crowd

 LOST IN THE CROWD

Prompt - Lost in the Crowd : Write about feeling lost in the crowd

He was lost.  Phone battery dead, hadn't thought to have a bit of the old technology backup, aka 'a map' along with him, and no clear idea of where he was actually headed for.  Around his the streets were crowded, commuters and delivery people and kids all going about whatever it was they were doing.  All with purpose and that clear eyed look you have when you know exactly where you're going.  And then there was him.

Berlin was a huge city.  With no knowledge of German he'd been relying on his phone to translate.  So if he asked someone for directions, assuming he could get any of these people to stop for long enough, he was beaten already if they didn't speak English.  Maybe a bit later, when things quietened down, people might be more receptive, but for now he felt he was on his own .

Best to head in what he thought was the right direction, look for some landmark that might help him get his bearings.  Or, better still, find a U Bahn station.  He thought he could get back to the hotel that way.  But for now it was all he could do to find a way through the rushing crowds, stick to his path, and not get run over.  

None of this caused him any panic. He basked in his anonymity, happy to go unnoticed.  Cities, and their ability to hide individuals away, were still fairly new to him.  An upbringing in a small village, where everyone knew everyone and everything about them, whether you wanted them too or not, had left him craving aloneness, invisibility, in his adult life.  Some called that loneliness, or disconnection, or alienation, but he found it soothing not to be the subject of discussion, the odd one out.

That was fine in the streets.  His childhood had ;left him totally unprepared for the world of parties he'd experienced as a student, at least in the early days.  He soon learned that these events were not his friend, that they only provided the sort of crowd in which a person like him was not just alone, but truly lonely.  They were the worst kind of crowds, the ones where people expected you to be 'happy, to 'enjoy yourself', whatever that meant to them.  But he was happy now, he was enjoying himself, exploring these unknown streets, hearing a mysterious language all around, floating through in his own bubble of contemplation as he weaved through the bodies hurtling homewards.  This was his kind of party.

Day 293 - Get Well

 GET WELL

Prompt - Get Well : Write a poem that will help someone who is sick feel better quick!

Was it all that pasta

That's giving you post-op vim?

Or is it just because

You're young and fit and slim?

Your progress is incredible

And it's a joy to see

That very soon they'll let you

Be coming home with me

Day 292 - Job Interview

 JOB INTERVIEW

Prompt - Job Interview : Write about going on a job interview

It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life.  I'd seen the ad, needed the work, what could be simpler?  "Van Diver Needed - must be experienced"  And then the contact details.  Diver?  Lol!  It pays to check for typos.  But clearly what they wanted was a driver, and I had the experience coming out my fetlocks.

So in I go and it's just that bit odd from the start.  Two guys, one woman, all around thirty.  I'd expected to be shown into an office, maybe sat down, but they took me through what was clearly a lived in home, and through to a big shed at the back.   There was all kinds of junk in there, but they took me into a corner where a big tarpaulin covered a lumpy looking pile.  Pulling back the cover the first guy asked me if this looked like the sort of kit I'd need.  Which was not what I was expected.

The newly revealed pile was dominated by a couple of oxygen tanks, but there were a couple of wetsuits, hefty looking belts and harnesses with weights attached, a helmet, three pairs of flippers, and beside all that a winch with a two inch cable furled round it.  What to say?  I looked at the guy asking the question.  I looked at the expectant faces of the other two.  Nothing, no clue that this might be some kind of joke, or test or whatever it could possibly be.

"What do you want me to do with it?"  They looked at one another.

"Dive of course.  And bring stuff up."

"Dive?  Like diving down underwater kinda dive?"

"Well where else would you dive?"

"I don't know, I guess nowhere, but I've never dived so I wouldn't know."

"We asked for experience.  What are you doing here if you can't dive?"

Well... I thought it must be a typo.  That you were looking for a van driver.  You know.  And I've driven vans for years.  I didn't know there was such a thing as a Van Diver."

"I told you so."  This, sharply, from the woman.  "You pair of divvies."  The guys looked at each other, they looked at the woman.

"Well we need someone to dive down and look inside those vans and bring stuff up, so what else would you call them?"  This wonderful bit of logic from Guy 1.

"Aye, what else could you call them?"  Guy 2 chipped in, sounding aggrieved.

"It's just a diver we need.  A diver to go and look for things.  And we should have said we've got all this kit they could use."  Scathing from the woman.

"Wouldn't they need to know what sizes you had too?" I asked, not wanting to be left out.

They all stared.  Unhappy that I'd dared break into their private disagreement.  

"What do you know about it?  I thought you weren't a diver?" from the woman, who, more and more, appeared to be taking charge of the situation.

"Well, I'm not, but it's just sense, isn't it?  There must be different sizes of kit cause there'll be different sizes of diver person."  I have no idea where 'diver person' came from.

They pondered on this revelation for a bit, before Guy 2 said "He might be right Janice."  They hadn't really thought about this much.

"What is it you're trying to get up, and where is it?" I asked, hoping to be helpful.

"Why the fuck do you need to know?" snaps Janice.  The atmosphere chilled.

"I don't, I really don't, I just thought I might be able to help." I babbled, starting to feel worried.  "Probably best I get going anyway, as I'm not what you're looking for." and I headed for the door.

"Don't know any divers, do you?"

"No.  Sorry."  And I left them to it.

Day 291 - Title First

 TITLE FIRST

Prompt - Title First : Make a list of potential poem or story titles and choose one to write from

Arthur and the Ducks

His Trousers Didn't Do Him Any Favours

Clear the Desk

A Nest Without Eggs

Reading Gravestones

The Music Lift

Granular Reciprocity

The Cleaner's Song

Artificial Insubordination

Got a Way With It

Give and Rake

Blank Verse in Rhyme

There's a First Time for Every Body

Bar Trek

After the Dancing's Over

Grim Reapers and Joyful Sowers

Get the Milk In

Kickstarter Addict

All the Meanies at Her Disposal

Corstorphine

The Ballad of Pilrig Park

Homosaurus

Moonlight Begets Shoe

No More Elbows

The Day I Took My Nan to the Pub

There But For Grace

THE DAY I TOOK MY NAN TO THE PUB

Grandmothers.  Kindly, caring, benign.  Doting on their offspring's offspring, knowing they always get to hand them back.  Seeing them as someone to spoil, indulge, even conspire with.   Stereotypes.  And not everyone can fit in.

My Nan didn't.  She hated my father, her own son, for what he'd done to my mother, for what he'd done to me.  And I loved her for that.  For being able to recognise the evil in her own flesh, and to act to save those he hurt.

I was nineteen now, and fresh back from my first term at Uni.  Went round to see Nan, check on how she was doing, get the welcome I knew I'd get, that made me feel about six again, but also made me feel so safe.  Except that it wasn't quite like that.  My going away had confirmed for her that I was now her equal, with less need to be indulged, or humoured, and more to be subjected to her homespun sarcasm and view of the world.  And that was fun, once I adapted to it.  Suddenly I had a Nan who was a bit of a mate.

So we talked about what we enjoyed doing, and the subject of drinking came up, and she offered me a Guinness, and then, definitely not according to plan, I suggested I buy her a drink.  She was out of her seat before I'd had time to reflect on the consequences of my words, and rushing to get her shoes and coat.

"Where we going then?"  I hadn't thought that far.  This was more her part of town than mine, at least as far as drinking establishments went, for I hadn't really done much drinking before I'd left.  So the pause gave her time to answer her own question.  "We'll go to The Targe, I don't know so many folk there."

So out we went, with me pondering the meaning of her last statement.  How many pubs around here was she known in?  How many did she visit regularly?  And how many people knew about this side of her character, for it was a surprise then, and about to become an even bigger one.

I bought our drinks, and took them to a small table by the far wall, where Nan was sat on the bench and licking her lips.  When I made to sit across from her she tutted and told me to sit down by her.

"That way we can watch the buggers about their business."  Whether there were specific buggers to watch, or the term covered anyone else in the place, i wasn't sure.  Not that there were many.  Now I had a chance to look properly I realised I wasn't just the youngest in there, but the only one likely to be alive in ten years time.  Even the barman looked like he needed a bit of a lie down.  Only five tables were occupied.  Two men in sleeveless Fair Isles and flat caps playing dominos.  Three large red faced old guys with the look of ex-dockers about them.  A small beige woman on her own who never let her fingers stray from the half pint glass on the table.  A couple, clearly very very married, sitting in silence and staring into space.  And three women with broad beams and big laughs who provided the main source of noise.

"Anyone you know then?" I asked Nan.  

"Maybe."

"How maybe?  Does one of them look familiar?"

"You might say that.  It's whether she does or not that matters."  I was pondering the enigmatic nature of this information when I realised the voluble trio had gone silent.  One of the pair facing us was making jerky moves of the head towards us, and whispering slyly.  So that the one with her back to us turned, slowly, and the look she gave was not friendly.  "Ah.  She does." said Nan, with a smile I'd never seen on her before.  Like she was holding a winning hand and not letting on at the same time.

The woman with the unfriendly face got up, and started across to our table.

"You've got a bloody nerve coming in here." she stated pointedly.  And the dominos ceased clacking, the dockers swivelled, the small woman let go of her glass, and even the couple unified in joining the audience.  These were moments not to be missed.

"Why's that then?" says Nan, like Leith's Lauren Bacall.

"You know.  After the last time.  My Freddy's never been the same since.  Who's the goldfish?"  And she nodded at me, for my mouth had started opening and closing without my say-so, my brain uncertain how to react.

"This is Gary, my grandson.  He's just back from the university."  This said like I'd just returned with the Nobel Peace Prize.

"Let's hope he's not as big an arsehole as his gran then, eh?"  This wasn't on, was it?  I stood, advanced, ready to give this aggressive blob of a woman an indication of my strength of feeling.  But three words in she walloped me.  Not a smack, but a proper punch, with all her considerable mass behind it.  I fell, pushing over a chair as I did so, and cracking my head on one of the legs.  She watched me fall, I watched her watch me, and then I watched as my Nan, my sweet, kindly old grandmother, took up her glass, threw the beer in the woman's face, and battered round the head with the receptacle.  The glass didn't break, but it was the woman's skull I felt greater concern for.  That had been some swing.

The other members of the trio stood, Nan waved the glass threateningly, and they didn't move any further.  Nobody else did anything much, except the beige woman who looked over, raised her glass to Nan, and downed it in one.

"Come on son, up you get and we'll go somewhere a bit quieter.  They get some funny types in here."  And with that she was heading for the door, leaving me to scramble to my feet, and stagger across the floor mumbling apologies to the apparently unconcerned barman.  And the dominos restarted.

When i got out, and managed to catch her up, I thought there's be some explanation.  But all she did was point across the road to Deans Bar and march, because there was a definite swing to the arms about her now, over and in.  We got our drinks, sat down, and it was as if this was the first place we'd come, like nothing had happened.

When we left, a couple of pints later, she did ask if I was OK.  And when I nodded she winked, turned, and sauntered off like she'd had the best day out ever.  Leaving me to work out my most pressing concern.  What did I tell Mum about the day I took Nan to the pub?

Day 290 - Birthday Poem

 BIRTHDAY POEM

Prompt - Birthday Poem : Write a poem inspired by birthdays

I would count the days, passing so slowly

Wondering over and over what would be

In the pile of presents on the day

As a child that's what my birthdays were to me

They came round with ever greater speed

Excuses to be someone else and I'd see

What food to eat, drink to get drunk on

As a man that's what my birthdays were to me

Now I will ignore those random days

Take long walks on sunny streets and by the sea

Forget reminders of time going past 

I'm old now - that's what birthdays are to me

Day 289 - Imperfection

 IMPERFECTION

Prompt - Imperfection : Create a poem that highlights the beauty in being flawed

Art Deco frontage it might be,

But old and tired and faded

It got worse when you'd go inside

The fittings all degraded

Seats were hard and often broke

The toilets best bypassed

Cafe and bar were past their best

Stuck firmly in the past

Freezerfield, the Fridge of Dreams,

As cold as being outside,

But it was once our second home, 

A place we went with pride

Day 288 - Sacrifice

 SACRIFICE

Prompt - Sacrifice : Write about something you've sacrificed doing to do something else or to help another person

X to mark the spot.  X to start a revolution.  X to change lives.  This X, if it does it's job, will change my life.  For good.  For bad.  For ever.  My X, joined by dozens, hundreds, thousands, millions of others, can, will, alter my life, your life, the life of the nation.  It will bring us independence, a freedom from the creeping fascism of the south, a time of beginnings and hope.

And despair.  For there will be casualties.  It is the nature of revolution.  One of them will be me.  The company I work for does almost ninety per cent of it's business with the south.  The owner is a unionist.  Fanatical you might say.  Although his passion for his cause is no more or less than mine for the one he opposes.  He has told us to place our X carefully, to think of the consequences for ourselves.  If Yes wins he will shut up shop and shove off south.  he will not take us with him.  As if we'd want to go!  So if my X does it's job then I will lose mine.  I will face uncertainty, difficult decisions, worry that I can provide for my child.  

But it will be temporary.  My X is for him, his future, his safety.  A little short term inconvenience is a worthwhile give for the take of a better, fairer, society.  There will be other jobs.  For all those like my boss there will be others rushing in the opposite direction, spurred on by access to the Single Market.  There will be people too, bringing their optimism away from the small tyrannies their lives now face.  

I will be unemployed.  I will be happy.  We will all be better off.

Day 287 - Scary Monsters

 SCARY MONSTERS

Prompt - Scary Monsters : Write about a scary (or not-so-scary) monster in your closet or under the bed

It was now, exciting, scary.  It seemed so big, so dark, so mysterious.  Everywhere seemed distant, everyone so far away.  My parents had taken possession of our new home, a big, three story, six bedroom, ramshackle Victorian pile.  Sixteen miles and several lifetimes away for the cramped two bedroom flat which had been home all my life.  That we could leave those cosy surroundings and suddenly start up life in such an alien environment was .... I wasn't really sure what it was.  Good or bad?  It was just different, so different, and I kept being told to enjoy my new freedom to roam within.

That was fine.  In daylight.  I was the explorer, running up, down, around.  Looking into every room, getting in the way of removal men and my family.  It was wonderful.  But then I was tired, and the men had gone, our world sat in boxes, and it all got dark so quickly.  Only a few rooms had light bulbs - I had heard my dad cursing the previous owners for their meanness - and the ones we had seemed to cast a weak light, leaving dark shadowy corners.  Innocent enough in daylight, residence of the unknown come the night.

We had the rare luxury of a takeaway for dinner, which was a big plus, then mum told me to help get my bedroom ready, which kind of cancelled things out.  But I had a bed, I had a few of my possessions unpacked, I had a lamp on a small table by my bed, and we'd do everything else in the morning.  All I had to do was sleep the night through and there would be adventures awaiting when I woke.  Promise.

The door creaked shut, I heard her steps move away, and down the long, deep old staircase.  I was alone.  There were no curtains yet, so the room was brighter than I'd expected it to be, but it still felt so big, so old, so full of don't-know-what.  And yet, with all that in my head, I was soon asleep, my six year old body hitting the buffers of the physical efforts of my day.

I had no idea of the time when I woke.  It took me a while to realise where I was, that this was home and not, repeat not, the ghostly, moonlit chamber it seemed.  Then I heard it, and knew what had wakened me.  In the corner of the room, by the window, was a tall wooden panel, which my mother had said was 'the press', long since jammed shut.  I had no idea what she meant, but I certainly hadn't connected the word with a door.  But there was, and it was creaking, and it was slowly opening.  I held my breath.

Decisions.  I had to make some right then.  Did I open my eyes, or keep them shut?  Should I shout or stay silent?  Which option made me safest?  Maybe whatever was behind this door, this inhabitant of 'the press', didn't know I was there, would ignore me if I pretended, really, really hard, not to be there?  Maybe.... I pulled the duvet over my face.

"Peter."  A voice.  And not a voice.  It didn't make a sound, didn't have an accent or tone, but it was speaking to me.  I could hear it, inside my head, my ears bypassed.   Couldn't I?  Did I  was this a bad dream, would I wake up sweating?  "Peter, I want to talk to you, to welcome you to our home."  

'Our' home?  Whose home?  "But this is our home" I thought.

"That's right Peter, yours and mine, we live here, don't we?"  I hadn't said anything, yet he, it, replied.  "Don't worry, you don't need to speak, we can talk with our thoughts.  That's cool, isn't it?"

I tentatively tried a few thoughts out, so that he understood I was scared and needed to know who he was.

"I'm the house.  Come out from under the covers and you can see me."  So I did.  And gasped.  Then laughed.  Then cowered.  There was a .... thing.  At the foot of my bed.  It was shaped like a tall boy, then it wasn't, then it was, and the shape kept moving all the time.  It was white, but also grey and blue and sliver and green.  There were eyes which became sockets and then eyes again.  But, for all it's weirdness, it looked kindly.  I found the urge to shout had gone.  Though the panic hadn't, not yet.

"I know, you have never seen anyone like me.  Nor ever will.  For few houses are spirit.  Few spirits show themselves.  The circumstances have to be exactly right.  As they are between you and me."

"What... circumstances?"  I struggled with the word I didn't really know.

"I knew it when you and your family first visited to look me over.  I could feel you within me, and it felt right.  So I made sure to put off other possible buyers - there's a real art to what humans call haunting, even if it was really just me having fun.  I must show you some time.  Anyway, you have moved in now, and I made sure you would be the one to have my room, the one I like to hide out in."

"How could you make sure?"

"Your mother is a lovely woman, but very easily influenced."  This 'said' with a laugh, and the shape shimmered and vibrated at the pleasure it had given itself.  "And isn't this the finest room in the house, the one at the top, with the best views across the fields at the back?  The room you and I now share."  I panicked slightly, unsure of the implications.  "If you'll let me" came though in a consoling fashion.  

"Yes.  Yes please."  Because I suddenly knew he, it, was a friend.  The shape, somehow, smiled.  

"You should sleep now.  Tomorrow night I will begin to reveal to you my secrets.  Goodbye for now Peter."  The shape floated across the room, slipped into the space by the window and the door creaked shut behind it.  I went to sleep.

In the morning when I woke I wondered if it had all been a dream.  Yet instinct prevented me from sharing my thoughts with the others.  When the shape returned that night I learned it's name - Gershon - and age and all sorts of things about the house.  Over the years it, became my best friend, confidante, guider in life.

Yesterday I turned eighteen.  Last night was the first I'd ever spent in this house when Gershon didn't come to see me.  And I know he never will again.

Day 286 - Outcast

 OUTCAST

Prompt - Outcast : Write about a time when you had to make a difficult choice

My admission had set the process in motion and, despite her efforts to reverse from the endpoint, and my own doubts about my future, it still had a slow burning fuse of inevitability about it.  I'd told her about the affair, that it had ended, and that despite that I was left with the feeling that I could do better than I had now.  That the life we had wasn't enough, wasn't doing me, or maybe her, any good.  

After the howls of anger, the tears and accusations, it eventually calmed down, and her schemes began.  Would I go to divorce counselling?  What did she need to do to make it better?  Surely I'd be unhappier on my own?

The irony wasn't lost on me.  One of the many reasons that drove me to seek out the company of someone else, apart from the magnetic attraction, had been the up and down nature of my married life.  The constant threats of leaving, the frequent suggestion that we'd be better apart, the big bust ups without the pleasure of a proper reconciliation.  And yet now here she was, being given the chance to grab on to the one thing she's been suggesting for almost all of our time together, and pushing it away like a child been given the present they'd asked for from Santa and then complaining it wasn't grown up enough.  

So we sought out counselling.  It took months before we reached the point on the list where we could be seen.  And in those months, despite the loss of my lover from my life, there was nothing in her 'reformed' behaviour that had shown me I was wrong.  The counsellor was pleasant enough, keen to explore and suggest.  I went along with it, partly to see if it would make a difference, partly to be able to say I'd tried.  There was one session stood out in my head.  I'd been asked to leave the room for a bit, so I went out for some fresh air.  And there, across the road, was my lover's car.  She was just getting out, saw me, hesitated.  Trying to save her own marriage, so I wasn't convenient.  But so what?  She smiled.  She stood by the car, unsure what to do next.  And then the counsellor called me back in.  I shrugged and went with her.  But a part of me remained outside.

I pretended.  I pretended because I didn't know how to make it final.  But I knew it had to be, and the longer I pretend the worse it would be.  We'd done the counselling sessions.  We were, in theory, doing alright, making progress, coming together, shaping a future, any one of endless  bland platitudes that hid away what was really happening.  I didn't want to be there, to be with her.  Nothing in those two years had changed that.

I still had doubts.  Seven years living with someone makes you wonder how you'll cope on your own.  memories of the years before that time weren't always encouraging.  But I was a new person, I was not the man who'd hidden away back then.  I wanted to be out there.  

I tried to choose my time.  But no choice made it easier.  I'd decided, the only hard part was announcing it, and making sure it stuck.

So I did.

"Sorry, I know you've tired, but I still feel the same as I did two years ago.  We need to part."  I had set the final stage of the process in motion.

Day 285 - Repeat

 REPEAT

Prompt - Repeat : Write about a time when you had to make a difficult choice

There are important discussions you have to rush, because failure to do so will make things worse, and there are others where the time spent on coming to the answer is well worth it, for the end result needs to be carefully considered.  If there's an immovable deadline there can be no choice but to have to pick a way forward, even if not fully informed.  But where time isn't an issue, and especially if the choice to be made determines how life will then unfold, then best to gather as much information as possible, and carefully examine the options.

In the nineties I recall having to make many decisions, but one in each of the above categories stands out.  The informed choice ended up with me splitting from my first wife, and finding a much happier life.  The realisation that I could do so much better came out of an affair, which then ended.  But it taught me to value myself more, made me realise I could be someone and do things I didn't think I was capable of, and that I would be able to live a happier life on my own than in a broken marriage.  It took years to get to that point, and the story would have a very happy ending, because the person I had had the affair with reached the same decision a little later, and we have been together for twenty eight years.  But getting to the point of going for it took months, years, of deliberation, looking at alternatives, procrastination, indecision, but ultimately the right choice.  

The time-pressured choice came in '99, when I was a so-called 'millennium bug' project manager.  So there was a clear deadline to meet, a plan to be adhered to as best I could, but knowing that along the way there would be points where things weren't working out as envisaged, and then I would be faced with difficult judgements.  Times when I would have to rely on instinct as much as information and opinion.  In this case both my deputies were pressing me to delay the next stage of the rollout, arguing that there were too many flaws in the software.  they were right in that respect, but the bigger picture was the impact of delaying this stage on the overall plan, and what that would do for our already fragile credibility in the user community.  I went against their advice, told them I would take full responsibility and let my board know that I was doing this in the face of a very considered reluctance from my team.  It was a nerve wracjking moment, and I suspect I lost a lot of sleep that night, but I knew that, whether right or wrong in the end, it was essential that I do something.  Eventually my choice proved to be the right one, to my relief (and my team's surprise!), but it could so easily have backfired.  Yet not as much as deferring and deferring and making no decision at all.  Leadership is like that.

Day 284 - Making a Choice

 MAKING A CHOICE 

Prompt - Making a Choice : Write about a time when you had to make a difficult choice

He hated these moments.  The seconds that went by so slowly, and revealed his deepest character flaw to anyone with the wit and intuition to observe his behaviour.  Assuming they were ever looking at him in the first place, for he had long ago accepted his insignificance to the rest of the world.

It had been hard enough, and time enough, to make the choice that had brought him to this point.  Although he felt he'd made up his mind when he was outside, giving the list careful study, weighing up the options, the cost/benefit breakdowns, searching his own mind to really know what it, he, desired, all that work had gone to waste when he saw what the words on the blackboard.  In a surprisingly neat curly script it said 'Specials', and there below were additions to the list that he hadn't been able to consider before entering, and it had been as if he'd walked straight in without any thought to looking, without having tried to determine his own path.

He wouldn't be rushed.  But he also felt the pressure.  The gaze from behind the counter, looking for sings he was ready, looking for their chance to come across and stand above him, asking the question he dreaded.  But he'd got through it, passed that point where he had to commit, and then the wait while he went over whether or not the choice had been the correct one.  

So now his order sat in front of him.  A black Americano.  And an egg and black pudding roll - his original choice before the board had befuddled him.  He breathed deeply, looked at the red, looked at the brown, and felt the burden of decision paralyse his muscles.  It had to be overcome, the egg would be getting cold.  So do it.  Now.  One or the other.  Ketchup or HP.  

He went for brown.

Day 283 - Brick Wall

 BRICK WALL

Prompt - Brick Wall : Write a poem that is about a brick wall -whether literal or figurative

There is a brick wall across my path

My journey has come to a halt  

I will wait right here

Hoping someone will turn up

Who can help me find a way

To go on with my wander

Something will turn up

There is a brick wall across my path

My journey has come to a halt  

I will turn around

Go home to where I came from

I may choose to remain there

Or look for a road elsewhere

This is not my path

There is a brick wall across my path

My journey has come to a halt  

I will search the land

Looking for means to break through

Is there a bulldozer near?

A place to buy explosives?

I will smash my way

There is a brick wall across my path

My journey has come to a halt  

I will look all ways

To go round, over, under

Any which way I can find 

Whatever it takes to pass

I will travel on

There is a brick wall across my path

My journey has come to a halt  

I will take my paints

Maybe without the talent

Of Banksy or Da Vinci

Yet I will make my mark here

I will create art

Day 282 - Promise to Yourself

 PROMISE TO YOURSELF

Prompt - Promise to Yourself : Write about a promise you want to make to yourself and keep

2021 has been my best year for writing.  The 365 challenge has pushed me most days, and although I've not managed to produce something for every single one, I have written more stories, and poems, that I ever have in my life before.  Despite having wished I could write since my teenage years.  Despite having attended a creative writing course in 1988, and writing several stories then.  And despite my attempt at 'therapy after my breakdown in which I even went on a journey to Skegness simply to try and get a story out of it (which I did, but never managed to complete it).  So the 365 Challenge has been by far the most successful of all my efforts.

Which leads me to my promise, which is to not let that progress fade away.  If 2021 was my year for writing very short stories - few reach a thousand words - 2022 must be the year where I produce longer works.  That will mostly be short stories, but of three, four, or five thousand words.  Or, if I'm really making the effort, an attempt at a novella.  But these are fairly vague notions, so I'm going to go into detail, and come up with something that will be a kind of outline plan to put, and keep, me on the right course.

Step One is to complete the 365 challenges I missed out on this year.  At present there are nine subjects on the list, and I am determined it shouldn't slip beyond a dozen.  (There have been a few others, but I've managed to catch up on some of them.)  Which means my first 750s of 2022 will be used completing the days I missed out on.  

While I'm doing this I need to begin on Step Two, which is to read three or four about being a writer, and see what lessons I can learn.  I need to try and take that as a serious exercise, aimed at improving the way I writer and come up with ideas.  

Then I need to look at writing some longer stories, which is where Step Three begins.  It seems sensible to return to some of the ideas I has twelve years ago, when I had the breakdown.  There were four stories based around train journeys, three of them slightly twisted love tales, two had a fair bit written by were never completed, the others have only a few notes, but the basic concepts are still in my mind.  The first of them, based on the trip to Skeggie, will have to be rewritten from scratch, as Barbara found it hard to identify with either of the central characters.  The other was more promising and she wanted to know what came next.  Me too!

Step Four, which can start a bit later, but run in parallel to Three, is to share some of my 2021 stories, from Bits and Pieces, on writing websites where writers can read and criticise one another.  I might not like the feedback, but I must look at it as a way to get better.

And Step Five, if I can keep the above going and feel I've achieved things, is to try to write a novella about the guy who can be in two places at once.  That would be really stretching myself.

Finally, I should have mentioned Step Zero, which is for this year - get on with editing some of the stories I have written, and add them to my Bits and Pieces blog, let a few people have a read.  Who knows, I might get a reaction one day?

That's the promise.  To end 2022 with a few longer short stories, to have shared some of my better pieces with other writers, and to have at least begun to try and write something more ambitious.  Despite my long history of failure I have more confidence than ever before that I can really start to move on.  The 365 Challenge will only have been really worthwhile if I do.

Day 281 - On the Farm

 ON THE FARM

Prompt - On the Farm : Write about being in a country or rural setting

It had been an idyllic two days, and there were still five more to enjoy.  The holiday they'd wanted and planned for so long.  A cottage by the loch side, no other humans within a mile or more, just trees and beach and water, and the sharp outlines of the hills on the other side.  The sun had shone, they'd walked the whole shoreline of the loch, swum in the clear water, climbed the nearest hill to get better sight of the perfect views.

This morning it was raining.  The temperature had dropped, the views constrained by drizzle and mist.  The cottage felt less welcoming, the damp seeped into their existence.  They wondered what they could do with their day.

But they'd already had that conversation last night.  Even if it had been golden sunshine they'd been unsure.  They'd walked round the loch, swum in the waters, climbed the hill.  If they went out at night it meant taking the car, staying sober.  And anyway, hadn't they wanted to 'get away from it all'?  There was only one problem.  What were they going to do with those five remaining days?  The change in the weather limited their already limited options.  All of which had involved doing more of the same.  They were baffled.  Why had they wanted to come here?

The reality was clear.  the countryside was... a bit shit.

Day 280 - A Far Away Place

 A FAR AWAY PLACE

Prompt - A Far Away Place : Envision yourself travelling to a fictional place, what do you experience in your imaginary journey?

It felt like an out of body experience.  His mind had come back to life, but the physical self was slow to follow.  But that gave him time to reactivate memories, to dispel the fog and floatiness of his senses, and figure out where he was. 

He had been chosen to take a place on the first ever interstellar colonisation ship to leave Earth.  As part of his preparation he had been cryogenically placed into suspended animation, so that he could experience the process of being put into stasis and then reanimation.  He remembered that feeling of returning, and this felt much the same.  But was this another training exercise, or the real thing?  He tried to recall what led up to his entering the pod and being shut down from being a fully functioning human into a hibernating animal.  It felt like the training exercises, but then that was the point of training, wasn't it?  He felt like his senses were beginning to return, so he tried opening his eyes, cautiously. 

There was a soft light that almost, but not quite, defined his surroundings.  It was quiet, but for a near imperceptible hum and hiss somewhere below.   Again, all was consistent with waking from the frozen state, but the experience would be the same both on Earth and across five light years of space.  He awaited further information while trying to strengthen the memories he did have.

The light increased slowly, his bodily senses reappeared, so that he knew that he was in a pod, and it would take several more minutes before he would be checked over.  Trained patience kicked in.  He sensed movement.  A face above.  A face he felt he should know.  And then the change of air, the increase in sound, as the pod opened.  The face smiled at him.  It was Ted, but not Ted.  Dr Martin, but not Dr Martin.  It was the face he should have known he'd see, but it was different to what he expected it to be.  Then he knew.  Martin was one of the skeleton crew who had been on the journey fully awake.  He must be nine years older.  This was the real thing, wasn't it?

"Where are we?" was the sentence formulated in his brain, but motor control still hadn't fully returned and it came out as "Eb ah ee".

But the doctor knew exactly what everyone's first question would be, knew the answer needed.

"In orbit around Planet 5XG of Alpha Centauri.  Exactly where we should be.  Now don't try to talk any more and I'll go though the tests."

So Gari shut up, satisfied that the adventure was about to begin, and let the doc do his job.

Six hours later he was sat up in the surgery, reacting to various stimuli to check his functions were fully restored.   Then he was placed into an exoskeleton that amplified his muscle movements.  He'd wear it for a couple of days until some strength returned.  But for now it meant he could move around the ship, and take in what was happening, before he'd be declared fit for duty.

Time to get used to the strangeness of it all.  To seeing Dr Martin, and the other seven crew members who'd remained functioning, looking older, while he and others who had been reanimated were just as they had been before the launch.  To going up to the observation dome and seeing a very different sky to the one they'd left, with no stars where he'd expect them to be, but in very different arrangements and intensities to what he'd been familiar with.  To look down upon a very different planet.  Instead of the blues and greens and whites and greys he'd been used to from orbits back home, here were browns and reds and yellows, and a few splashes of blue.  The sun that provided the illumination for these observations was more a blue white than a  yellow white.  

This was what he'd been prepared for, the shock of the new.  It was still a shock though, to see it for yourself, to share the wonder of others.  Those few days of acclimatising, while his body regained some strength and he would be able to recommence exercising, were, he realised later, some of the best days of his life.  The new sights, the sense of anticipation, the excitement.  Days of being a child of wonder again.  Before the real work began.

Day 279 - Flashlight

 FLASHLIGHT

Prompt - Flashlight : Imagine going somewhere very dark with only a flashlight to guide you

It was definitely getting darker.  It was definitely closing in much faster than she'd anticipated.  She was definitely in trouble.

It had seemed like a good idea.  Having spent longer on the hill than she'd anticipated, a short cut through the woods seemed the best bet for getting back to the hostel before dinner.  Bad bet, she now realised.  If she'd stuck to the road the going would have been easier, and she might have picked up a lift.  

She checked her phone again.  No hint of a signal, no smidgen of connectivity.  She was navigating blind.  And, she realised, about to be walking blind.  The clouds had been starting to mass as she headed down the slope, and with the added cover of the trees there was almost zero moonlights penetrating to light her way.  She'd need to be careful of protruding roots, growths, mounds.  A fall out here could prove... she tried not to end that sentence on 'fatal' and failed.  If she was going to make any sort of progress, in safety, she'd have to use the torch on her phone, and pray the battery would hold out.  Her decision to ditch her charger because of the added weight did not look smart right now.

She turned on the light, and progressed steadily, cautiously.  Trying to focus on the ground in front, and keep as near to a straight line as she could.  Trying tot to suppress the thoughts that clouded her brain.  Was she going in the right direction?  It became increasingly impossible to say with any certainty.  Would her light attract anything she wouldn't want it to?  Were there any predatory animals in these woods?  She didn't think so.  Wasn't the largest carnivore around here the wildcat?  She'd be too big for one of those, wouldn't she?  Her ignorance fuelled her fear.  

But what else was there to do but keep going, and try and crowd out those thoughts with concentration on where her feet were falling, looking for overhanging branches, and looking out for any signs of habitation.  Was her light sending out a signal for help, or preventing her from being able to see house lights?  The nature of her helplessness became ever clearer.

She stopped and turned off the torch so she could look around, see if there were any lights at all.  But there was nothing, except the strange noises of the trees, and the sense of things moving around her.  She turned the light back on, kept going.

She'd lost all sense of time, of direction, of her own abilities, and panic was only a shriek away.  The light seemed to be fading.  She checked the screen.  Four per cent battery.  What would become of her.  She despaired of her own overactive imagination as it provided a flood of answers to her question.

"Hello!"  A man's voice, directionless, floated in through the blackness.  "Are you lost?"  Should she admit her weakness, with the risk that her helper might only be there to help himself?  "Are you Sarah?"  How did he know that?  Was somebody looking for her?  She had to answer.

"Yes.  Yes to both your questions."

"Thought so.  Your friends were worried, so I said I'd go look.  I'm Davey, one of the park rangers."  A more powerful torch advanced towards her, followed by a man in dayglo.  "This way, follow me."

Along the way he explained that her friends had looked for her on the road, but found nothing.  When he heard them trying to organise themselves to look for her in he woods he'd suggested they'd be more likely to end up lost themselves, but he'd go and take a look around.  Wouldn't let them come along as they'd slow him down.  He'd only been looking for less than half an hour, constantly stopping and turning off his own light so he could looks out for hers.  More judgement than luck.

Davey never once blamed her, or said she was stupid.  Just as well.  She was the best one to do that.

Day 278 - Sticky

 STICKY

Prompt - Sticky : Imagine a situation that's very sticky, maybe even covered in maple syrup, tape or glue.  Write about it!

She was my best friend.  Pals since prams.  But since Mel had had the twins our relationship wasn't what it had been.  No surprise, but still a disappointment.  She was a natural mother and I... certainly wasn't.  Which Mel had always been well aware of, but wiped from her mind by the perfection of her children, whose actions she expected everyone to admire as much as she did.  For the sake of our friendship I did my best to go along with it.  But much wine, more and more it seemed, was needed after each visit to her chaotic home.

Last Friday was a full bottle job.  I'd left work early, got a bus out to Garstons and Mel's semi.  Her welcome was enthusiastic enough, but last less than thirty seconds before the twins intervened.  Attention, attention, always wanting attention.  I followed Mel into the kitchen where jam sandwiches were being prepared.  An expression that means one thing when it involves an adult, and something else altogether when wee kids are involved.  In the adult version the majority of the jam ends up on the bread, as it should be.  In the alternative universe it is spread more widely, over people, surfaces, clothes, dogs, anything that comes within range.  And sometimes bread too.

"Oh, grab Georgie, will you?"  Mel, struggling to keep Helen in some sort of order, barked pleadingly for me to retrieve the girl's escaping brother.  So I did.  I was her friend.  I did so warily, reluctantly, fearfully, but I did it.  In the face of determined lack of cooperation from the fleeing boy.  But what's the odd scratch and kick between friends.  And their brats.  The worst bit was the jam.  Hands, face, tee shirt were strawberry sticky.  Within seconds so was I.  But I got him back in his place and relative sanity resumed.

It was only when I got a chance to clean myself up that I noticed I'd lost an earring.  Which was upsetting, because I'd inherited them from my gran.  By then Tom was home too, so while he held the kids at bay Mel helped me search for it.  We looked on the table, work surfaces, floors, anywhere I'd been.  But no earring.  In the end I had to call the search off and get myself home, quietly simmering at the non-angelic Georgie, who I was certain was to blame for my loss.  The wine went down well.

I was turning off lights when I saw it.  Stuck to the back of the sofa, there was my grandmother's earring.  What the...?  It came away stickily.  From the spot where I'd been sitting.  I felt round the back of my top.  More stickiness.  The earring had got stuck to my back, courtesy of strawberry conserve.  I now had a jammy top, a jammy sofa, but at least I had gran's jewellery still.  All the same - little bugger!

Day 277 - Chalkboard

 CHALKBOARD

Prompt - Chalkboard : Imagine you are in a classroom.  What does it say on the chalkboard?

Detention.  Again.  Why was it always me?  Why was it always me when Miss Simmons was in charge of the detainees.  And why, this time, was I the only one being kept back?  I hadn't really done much wrong, but enough for her to say I should be kept back today.  It was almost as if she'd done it deliberately.

I was keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact, but couldn't help but hear her chair scrape back, heels click across the floor, and the sound of chalk on blackboard.  Why?  Click?  What was going on?  She, or any other teacher, had never bothered to put anything up on the board during detention before.  And surely, when she came into the room, she's been wearing pumps, or at least footwear that didn't make much sound?  So where was the clicking coming from?  

"Tommy."

I looked up then, and when I saw what I saw I wasn't sure where my eyes should have been pointing towards.  There was the image on the board.  And there was the image that was Miss Simmons, a very different image to that she'd presented when she had come into the room and told me to get on with my work.

On the board was a simple representation of an upright oval with the top and bottom points verging towards sharpness.  Inside was another, similar, oval, and then details within, a small opening and a line coming down from it.  Outside the oval there were small tight swirls.  I knew enough to know exactly what it symbolised, even if I was yet to see the real thing.  The internet was a wonderful resource.

That she had drawn such a thing on the board was amazing enough, and indicative by itself that this was no ordinary detention period.  But it was her own appearance that made me stare more.  Simmons was known as a bit of a prude, a fatty, a woman in her thirties or forties that nobody took much interest in, except for what she knew about history.  She was dowdy, plain, unexciting.  There were woman teachers who elicited desire among the boys.  Simmons wasn't one of them.  

But now?  I had barely noticed what she was wearing when she came in.  I recalled a long skirt, and her usual turtle neck sweater.  Now the sweater was gone, to reveal a strappy red top with a deep V at the front.  And a cleavage that, even from three rows back, looked deep and inviting.  The skirt was still there, still below the knee, but several buttons had been undone so that, perched on the edge of the desk, one knee and a good view of plump thigh was on offer.  Her flat footwear had gone, replaced by high stilettos that none of us could ever have imagined her wearing.  And, when I could finally raise my gaze, her face was different too.  Subtly, but the eyes were darker, the lashes longer, the lips redder.  Her tongue licked those red lips.  This wasn't an ordinary detention, was it?

"What do you see when you look at this drawing?"  Recognising that I'd taken in the changes to her appearance, she was going to move things along, wasn't she?  Was this heading where I thought it was heading?  Wasn't she risking her career doing this? 

"Umm, not sure miss."  I couldn't say, could I?

"Really Tommy?"  There was a softer quality to her voice I hadn't heard before, and a smile on her face that was it's new companion.  "I'm not sure you're being honest with me.  Are you?"

I sat, feeling my face and neck redden, feeling another part of me start to react to that voice and smile, and my mouth go dry.  Had the air suddenly got thicker in here, because it was hard to breathe.  "Let me give you a clue." and she slip from the desk and moved behind to the board, the clicking from the heels and a sway to her arse and hips I'd never even noticed before.  I watched, dumbfounded, as she drew what was, very clearly, a erect penis.  Much like the one straining against my pants at that moment.  Even in all the excitement of the moment, and what appeared to be unfolding, a part of my brain was impressed by her artistic skills.    That was a very realistic picture for such a raid rendition,  Where did she learn to do that?  And what other secret abilities did those hands hold.

"I do know what that is miss".  I could hardly say otherwise, although the voice I uttered them in didn't sound much like me.

"And you can see the relevance to the first picture?"  I nodded, but the movement felt jerky and forced.  "Well, that's something, maybe we're getting somewhere.  You need to be honest with me now Tommy."  The heels clicked again, coming nearer.  I hadn't thought my face could get any hotter, but it did.  She sat on the edge of the desk beside me.  The legs crossed.  There was a lot more thigh this time.  Simultaneously I tried not to look and to see further up the skirt.  My breathing had stopped.  "Look at me Tommy"  I was.  "At my face I mean."  I did as I was told, immediately looked away.  I couldn't, could I?  She wasn't, was she?  I wanted it to stop, I wanted to freeze the moment, I wanted it to move on.  I no longer knew what I wanted, but I knew exactly what my erection was hoping for.  "I don't think you want to carry on making notes on that book, do you?"  I thought my head was indicating a negative, but I wasn't sure of anything any more.  "I thought not.  Why don't you come to the staff room with me, much comfier there."  She stood up, reached across and took my hand, puling to get to me out of my seat and coming with her.  I tried hiding what was in my trousers, but she giggled (Miss Simmons - giggling?) and told me not to bother, she had noticed already and didn't I need some help with it anyway?  

I'm not sure how my legs supported me down the corridor.  Part of me expected there to be more talk, maybe she'd ask what I wanted or what I thought or...  No, she wasn't wasting time on any of those things.  Once in the room she pulled me too her and brought her lips to mine.  Her tongue explored while she rubbed against my hard, desperate cock.  "Come" she ordered, and I was her obedient slave.  

She stood me in front of a simple wooden chair, loosened my belt, pulled my trousers down.  Soft hands rubbed against my pants, laughingly skipping over the damp patch where I'd already pre-cum, and freed the contents.  Her light touch on my member was like a charge from a socket.  "Sit".  It was a command, and also a caress.

She unbuttoned her skirt further, further, until I could see stocking tops, suspenders, bare thigh.... and no pants.  Just a closely shaven pussy, her parts glowing with pinks and moistness.  I stared.  I think my tongue might have been out.  "Hope I didn't mislead you with the hairs on my drawing?", the teasing in the question self evident.  She put one hand on each of my shoulders and manoeuvred herself over the target, looking for a successful docking, found the point she was looking for, and sank down on to me with a huge sigh.  

Her body moved, twisting slightly, rocking, causing sensations to flash through me, to increase the want I had bursting from inside.  Up she rose, down she fell, up she rose, down she fell, up she rose, down she fell, and I had cum.  I had cried out fit to waken the ghosts of teaching staff long gone and shuddered and gasped and buried my face in that inviting chasm between her breasts.  

"Sorry" was all I could mutter.

"Don't be.  There's still something you can do for me, if you want to make amends..."  She pumped up and down a few times more, but there was less and less for her to work with, more and more spunk seeping down on to my balls.  Climbing off she took my hand, directing the other to hold my trousers up, and we tottered and scrambled to the sofa where she sat back and pushed me to her knees, grabbed my shirt and drew me in between her akimbo legs.  "Lick!"  Another command.

I wasn't sure where to start, but Miss Simmons did, skilfully (she's done this before hasn't she?) and gently guiding my head, telling me what to seek for, telling me when I hit the spot.  The instructions flowed at first, dried up as my tongue found a rhythm, found a groove I didn't know I had.  "Hold on!"  Another command.  I wrapped an arm around each thigh, smart enough, or instinctively guided, to know she wanted my tongue to remain where it was even while her hips were starting to heave with the increasing tension building within.  It was hard to keep the place, for her movements became wilder, her need escalating exponentially until we hit the top of the line.

"Oh, fuck!  Fuck, fuck, fuck, don't fucking stop!!"  This was not a Miss Simmons any of us knew about.  Her body rolled and shook and jerked like a epileptic marionette.  "Ohgodyes" she forced out, "Ohgodyes."  One more massive heaving shudder.  "Youcanstopnow."  I licked again. "Ooooohjeezfuckyesstop"  I stopped.  Got some breath back, savoured the rich taste of her juices and my spunk cocktailed.  

"Is there any more you want me for miss?"  I wondered if detention could end early.

"Oh fuck yes, so much more."  But it wasn't going to.