Day 334 - Sweet Talk

 SWEET TALK

Prompt - Sweet Talk : Write about trying to convince someone of something

-But I'm really really good at it

-You would say that though, wouldn't you

-It's not like I can produce references, so there's only one way to find out if I'm telling the truth

-Or maybe I shouldn't take the risk

-But they look so lovely.  They deserve to be touched.

-I don't think how they look really comes into it

-It does for me.  And they look lonely.

-Don't worry, they can keep each other company

-I mean, why wouldn't you want me to touch them?

-Because they're mine, and I'm not in the mood

-But if I touch them that might get you in the mood.  Worth a go, isn't it?

-No

-And there could be health benefits

-Eh?

-I might find a lump.  I might prevent cancer.  I could save your life.

-Hmmm

-And being happy is good for your health.  We'd both be happier if you let me handle them, I promise.

-I might not be.

-Well I would.  Couldn't it be your good deed for the day o do something that would make me happy?

=Hmmm

-I'd stop if you weren't getting any pleasure from it, honest.

-Hmmm

-And I do have soft hands, with a gentle touch.  But not too gentle.

-Hmmm

-So what about it.  Do I get to touch them?

-Maybe.

-What else can I do to convince you?  I could start on the left, just for fifteen seconds, see how it goes?  Or would you prefer the right?  I'm happy either side.

-The right.

-Really?

-Really.

-You sure?

-Oh, for fuck's sake, give me your hands.  There.

-Oh god.  Oh god.  They feel... wonderful.  Do you like that?

-Hmmm

-And that?

-No, not yet, go back to where you started.  Yeah, like that.  You're right.  We're both going to be happier...

Day 333 - Banking

 BANKING

Prompt - Banking : Write about visiting the bank

A challenge from the past.  I'd looked unbelieving when I took the slip of paper from the envelope.  A blast from the past, a link to the ancients, an outdated practice.  A cheque.  I had paid for the ticket of the resolutely non IT literate, very analogue, Jennifer and she had sent me this by way of repayment.  A small printed rectangle with lines and numbers and handwriting on it.  A cheque.

Should I cash it?  Or frame it?  As a testament to the last desperate skirmishes against the onslaught of digital progress.  No, she'd be insulted if the payment didn't go through.  I would have to pay it into my account.  And that meant going somewhere I hadn't been for about two years.  A bank.  It also meant reminding myself of the process of paying in, which itself was no doubt more automated than it had the last time I had to do this.  Which was....  I couldn't remember when.  

Somewhere, in one of my drawers, I probably still had a cheque book.  It might even have paying in slips, although I'd be prepared to wager they were from an era before they became machine readable.  I tried to remember the last time I might have written a cheque.  There was someone, four or five years ago, who'd insisted on one as payment.  But who, and for what, and when, eluded me.  This is how life goes.  Thirty years ago it would have been the most natural of actions.  I would have habitually carried my chequebook in  jacket pocket.  More convenient, easier to keep track of, than cash.  State of the art.  

But so much can change in one lifetime.  At least in the last two hundred years, as horse gave way to trains and telegraphs and then to internal combustion engines, and then, and then...  Progress became exponential.  In the past half century, as the computer gained a bigger a bigger role in our lives, until it became a home essential.  Not to be internet connected was to be part of a deprived underclass.  Even the Jennifer's of this world had had to accept that.

So off to the bank I went.  The layout had changed.  There were a couple of assistants, already talking to other customers.  I was on my own.  Locating the paying machines was easy, although finding the paying slips took a bit longer.  I guess even banks don't expect to see these transactions very often now.  Filled in, I took it to machine, and followed the instructions on the screen.  It took about two minutes, mostly because I kept double checking (ha ha) that I'd got everything the right way round.  And then it was done.  My account should be richer by twenty five.

An assistant came over as I was turning.

"Everything OK sir?  No problems?"

"No, nice and easy" I lied, "why'd you ask?"

"Most people find it strange, because it's something they haven't done in a long time."

"I managed."  I tried to make it sound like a minor triumph.   I didn't want her to think I was the sort of person who got a lot of cheques...

Day 332 - Records

 RECORDS 

Prompt - Records : Go through your file box and pull out old receipts or records...write something inspired by what you find!

The story was there in black and white.  Addiction.  Was there any other word for it?  He'd been trying to figure out where his money went, why he was always broke at the end of the month, despite the pandemic meaning that so much of what he used to do - gigs, football, the pub - and had pulled out his credit card bills for the past year (he wasn't even sure why he got them mailed to him , as he did all his banking online).  They made it clear what had been happening.  He had known, but not wanted to admit it.

Every month, more than once, a word jumped out from the page.  Kickstarter.  Mostly followed by Non-Sterling Transaction Fee.  Interspersed with the odd payment for import taxes.  How many items or projects had he pledged for?  How many of the few items he'd received so far had actually proved useful?  Why did he go through the Newest tab on the app every single day, looking for more people to back.  Clothes.  Bags.  Electronics.  Music.  He couldn't resist.  It was getting to the point where he was struggling to pay the credit card off, and for what?  Was there anything he'd pledged for that he couldn't live without?  Did any of these things, this stuff, 

make his life better?  Didn't the richness come from doing, not having?  

He looked at the projects he was backing.  Two of them had yet to reach the end of their funding cycle.  The clever speakers, which gave a visual as well as aural interpretation of the music, had easily surpassed it's target.  So if he were to cancel his pledge it wouldn't really hurt them.  But they did look so nice, and he could see them on his desk.  While the CD project was struggling.  Cancelling his pledge now would dishearten the musician, one of his favourites, further.  He couldn't do that, could he?

He'd think about them.  He had four days left on the gizmos, seven on the music, so there was plenty of time to decide.  Then he'd give up for good.  delete the app.  Except he needed it to keep track of all those projects he was still waiting to deliver.  So it would still be there, watching him as he watched it.  But he wouldn't pledge for any more.

Except, last night, he'd seen a watch that looked pretty special...

Day 331 - What's Cooking

 WHAT'S COOKING

Prompt - What's Cooking : Write something inspired by a favourite food or recipe

Sprouts have always had a bad press.  Often once of the most loathed foods of childhood, frequently the only part of a xmas dinner left aside.  Lots of work to prepare, with so little benefit it seems.  And, in the past few years, a certain kind of right wing nutjob has even sworn against them because of the 'brussel' appellation.   Crazies, but it does nothing to further these mini-cabbages' reputation.

But how many were turned off sprouts in their early years by simple bad cooking.  The overcooked pale green mush of the sprout that has been boiled to death is a food to avoid.  For this wee emerald gem to be fully appreciated for its worth it needs to retain it's shape and some notion of 'bite' when your teeth do their job.  (With one exception, which I will come to later.)  In my experience there are two ways of achieving this, although the best of these I have. sadly, only learned in the past few years, with the realisation that I have been missing out on one of life's great culinary experiences.

The best way to enjoy the more traditional sprout is steamed.  There is less risk of overcooking, and the flavour is more effectively retained.  For perfection they should be removed from the steam whilst still al dente, and tossed in a pot of melted butter and grated nutmeg.  With a little black pepper if you like a bit of heat, as I do.  Gorgeous.

And yet still a poor relation to the glorious discovery I made a few years ago.  I had a few left over sprouts in the fridge when I was preparing a tray of vegetables to be roasted.  Out of curiosity, for it's good to expand the variety in the dish, I added half a dozen sprouts.  Prepared as they would be for steaming or boiling, with the other leaves removed and their bottoms crossed.  They emerged slightly charred, well cooked, and spectacular to the mouth.  These were sprouts as I had never known them before.

So I Googles roast sprouts to discover they were very much a thing, and well recognised as a source of delight.  So what else could be done with them?  Risotto was the answer, and provided the exception I mentioned above.  Sprout and Stilton Risotto to be more specific.  Around sixty per cent of the sprouts are to be prepared as usual, except sliced into halves and then roasted until caramelising.  They get stirred into the near finished potage towards the end of cooking. 

 The remainder are finely chopped, and added to the mix shortly after the rice has been coated in the oils and flavoured with wine.  These add to the depth of flavour, while largely disappearing into the mix as the cooking progresses.  With the addition of a good blue cheese the end result is wonderful, creamy and full of flavours, with the charred demi sprouts the little nuggets of gold to be sought out.

Of course cooking risotto takes time, and isn't something I'd want to have to do every night.  So I tried to think of a way to get that sprout and stilton combo, but with a lot less effort.  Which led to me inventing the sprout and stilton pizza.  Not something that's commonplace in the wider world, as far as I can tell (although I have since blogged about it, so I hope it's something others have tired since...).  Purchase a ready made, good quality, margarita pizza.  I often use a sourdough base with tomato and mozzarella topping.  Prepare the sprouts as you would for the risotto, halved and roasted, but this time not to the point of being ready.  Cover the top of the pizza with crumbled stilton.  Dot the near-ready sprouts across the surface, and cook as usual.  The end result isn't as spectacular as the risotto, but it does have it's own charms, one of those being simplicity and speed.  

I now look forward to winter arriving and first bags of sprouts appearing.  So much deliciousness to look forward to...

Day 330 - Escape

 ESCAPE

Prompt - Escape : Write about where you like to go to escape from it all

He looked at the clock.  12,10.  More than three hours unaccounted for.  How had that happened?  He checked the device on his wrist.  Over twelve thousand steps for the day.  What the...?

The day had started well enough.  Awake about seven thirty, up just after eight, down to feeding the cat, prepare breakfast, have a catch up on the news and trivia on his social media feeds.  He had come back up by nine, ready to do his daily stretching routine, have a shower, dress, eat and be out before ten thirty.  Things to do in town.

But.  Why was there so often a 'but'?  Plans gang agley.  Not for the first time, probably not for the last.  What had sparked it off?  He sat down on the bed, trying to remember the sequence of events, simultaneously worrying that if he allowed himself to dive into a new river of thought the pattern would be repeated.  

He'd come back up, his phone had pinged for a new email, and he'd gone in to read it.  First mistake, for one so easily distracted.  It was from his ex, demanding payment for their son's school trip to Austria.  What she didn't know was he'd talked to Jake last night, and he'd said he wouldn't be going.  Could he come and stay with his dad for a week instead?

And it went from there, into his head.  Replaying the conversation with Jake to be sure he was right.  Composing his reply to the email, rewording it, trying to extract the maximum awkwardness and hurt from the situation.  Then wondering how it had all come to this and doing what he'd done so often, and doing it over and over - going through the sequence of small moments and fights and big disagreements which had stirred up the vortex that sucked his marriage down the plug hole.  Going over old arguments, now reworked to include the smart replies he should have given, and the crumpled look of defeat and loss she'd have had if only those were the words he'd used.  He replayed those moments, again and again, each time emerging more triumphant, more in the right, more sure, than the time before. 

Enthused by his imaginary victories he moved on to how he'd outwit the woman, have Jake back living with him, and be free from her demands.  Which led to all the things he and his son would do together and the good times they'd have.  Proper bonding sessions.

It had all seemed so easy, so pleasant to loop over in his mind.  In there he was articulate, clever, on top of situations, a good dad, a wronged husband.  In there...

But now he was out here again, in the real world, and the smile at the memory of his imagined dialogues and adventures was already fading into the hassle of having to get stuff done.  He'd better get that shower.

Day 329 - Trail and Error

 TRIAL AND ERROR

Prompt - Trial and Error : Write about something you learned the hard way

Learning stuff came too easily to me during my school years.  I was a natural at exams and didn't have to work hard to pass them.  Rather than try to develop this intellectual talent I instead became lazy.  Why bother trying if you could get by without much effort?  Of course I struggled with some subjects, failed the odd exam, but I always did enough to be near the top of the class in most of what I did.  

This did mean I missed out on my one childhood dream career, as an airline pilot, because I was told I'd struggle to pass physics.  Rather than say I'd give it a go I took the simpler path.  That carried on into university, until, when it looked like I really would have to do some actual work, I opted out, took a lesser degree and went on my way.

So when I had to try and learn to do a real world job, especially one I had little natural aptitude for, I struggled.  Hugely.  And would end up resigning within nine months - before they fired me!  I went back to doing a low level job that was very simple and which I was good at, while trying to figure out what to do with my life.

It was a careers adviser at the Jobcentre who suggested computers (not IT - that term hadn't arrived yet!), based on some aptitude tests and my interests.  I had no previous experience of computing (at that time I hadn't even seen an ATM) so in the end the only place that would take me on, and train me from scratch, was the civil service.  And so I found myself over four hundred miles from home, learning to become a COBOL programmer with three other people.

Within a few weeks it was obvious to everyone, even me, that I was going to be the star of the quartet.  The logic and language used came naturally to me, and I loved learning to design and code.  Then I hit a bit of a snag.

Not in my understanding of what I was having to learn, but physically.  I was lucky enough to find a GP who knew about glandular fever, and was able to diagnose it quickly.  Except that there wasn't really any treatment, it was something I had to get through.  That meant about three weeks off work at first.  I came back, and soon caught up with the others.  Then I was off again, for a bit longer this time.  When I returned to the office I was not having an easy time of it.  Weak, slow, easily tired, couldn't socialise with anyone as I felt so exhausted and unable to consume alcohol anyway.  I would work on the training course as hard as I could, struggle home, and collapse.  Sometimes I would get in, flop on the sofa, and be unable to move for a couple of hours.  As in literally unable to find the energy to open an eyelid.

The people I lived with thought I was asleep when I was in that state.  But I was usually conscious, able to listen and process what I heard, but totally unable to respond in any way.  So they'd say what they really thought, clearly unable to understand what the illness did to me, or simply not caring.  i was boring, I was a pain, I was getting in everyone's way, I was useless.

Things were better in the office, where most in my immediate circle were more understanding, but I was still seen as an outsider who wouldn't join in.

All I had was the job, trying to get through the course so that I could start my career.  So for once in my life I worked hard.  So hard that, despite having lost about six or seven weeks of a four month training period, I caught and passed the others and was seen as the top prospect by the end of it.  So much so that I was recommended to one of the sections which took the brightest graduates from training.

That produced further fear of failure, for even by that time I was still physically very weak - it would take well over eight months to be back to anything like my normal self - and thought I couldn't live up to the build up I was being given.  But my new bosses were very good, gave me time to develop my skills and accepted that I wouldn't always be able to deliver one hundred per cent. 

I'm glad I got glandular fever.  While I would always be lazy, and still am, that period showed I could fight for what I wanted if I really needed to, and that memory would help me in the future.

Day 328 - The Windows of the Soul

 THE WINDOWS OF THE SOUL

Prompt - The Windows of the Soul : Write a poem about the story that is told through someone's eyes

Mouths masked, muffled voices

These half faced strangers in our shops

On the buses, on the trains

In the cafes, on the streets

Covid leaves the eyes exposed

Pandemic communicators

Exercise them well, for they will tell

Of happy and sad and tired and strained

Of the life we now live

Of the person within

Let them shine, sparkle

Let them share good cheer

Let them inspire joy in others

Let them life another's day

They are the two way mirrors of question

They are the storywriters of our days

Day 327 - The Unsent Letter

 THE UNSENT LETTER

Prompt - The Unsent Letter : Write about a letter that never made it to its recipient

"Any mail?"

"Just something for me that looks like the bank, and one to The Resident.  Says Urgent."

"Sounds dodgy.  Resident stuff's usually junk trying to get you to switch broadband or something."

"No harm in having a look though.  I'll open it after mine."

She checked her own letter.  The bank, right enough, offering a loan hey didn't want or need.  She examined the bulkier envelope for clues.  "Looks like the post office have sent it.  Some kind of redelivery.  Might as well open it and have a look."

She slit it open and took out the contents.  There was a tatty brown envelope and an A5 piece of paper.  The former was addressed to Leonard Wilkinson, at their address, with 'Not known at this address' scrawled alongside.  There was a printed address on the back for a firm of solicitors in a town twenty miles away.  The accompanying note gave some explanation of what had happened.

The letter had been posted twenty two years ago - she checked the postmark to confirm this - and returned by the occupant.  Instead of then sending the letter back to the solicitors it had become lost in the system, only to resurface recently.  The legal firm no longer existed, so the letter was being sent on in the hope that someone might know something about Leonard Wilkinson.  And that if this was not possible the letter should be returned to the post office.

"Well, that's interesting."

"Is it?  Why?"  Greg didn't share her sense of curiosity.

"Yes.  It's a mystery, and mysteries are always interesting, aren't they?"

"Not necessarily."  Greg could sense what was coming and he wasn't keen.

"So we should have a go at finding this Leonard Wilkinson, see if we can get the letter to him."

"Isn't that the post office's job?  Why don't we just send it back?"

"Because it'll be fun.  I fancy a bit of detective work.  Something different."

"What can we do that the post office can't?  Any why?"

"Why?  Because it'll be fun, like I said.  And we can start by talking to Mrs McGregor, she's been here for ever."  Greg sighed.  He knew there was no point in arguing.

A week passed.  Mo had spent her Saturday afternoon chatting to her elderly neighbour.  Ida McGregor could certainly talk.  And she remembered Leonard.

"Nice man, but very quiet, didn't have much to do with the neighbours.  Not many people came to visit.  I don't think he had any family, but I couldn't be sure.  Moved away over twenty years ago, or was it more like twenty five?  No idea where he went to.  The Harrisons came in his place."  Were the relevant bits from over ninety minutes of discourse on the subject.  Not much help, but at least it confirmed part of the story.

On the Sunday she'd gone to the solicitor's address, to see what was there now.  A supermarket, so that told her nothing.  But there was an estate agent across the road, that looked well established, so she went in to see if they knew what had happened to the law firm.  The guy who was there was too young, but thought maybe his father might know something.  So she went back on Tuesday.  And he did.

"They went when old Mackay retired, must be over ten years ago now.  He's died since, but his partner Buccleuch went to Grensons.  He might know something."  A lead worth pursuing.

By this time Greg had admitted that Mo was taking this thing seriously, and actually finding stuff out.  He offered to help.  His office was near Grensons so he went in during his lunch break.  To find that Buccleuch had retired a couple of years back, but if he left his details, and what he wanted to talk about, they'd see if the old man would be willing to talk to him.

Meanwhile Mo had written to Elsa Lauder, who they'd bought their house from, to see if she still had any forwarding address for the Harrisons, and started doing some internet searching.  By the time Elsa had come back to say she'd lost all that information, Mo had found Gail Harrison on Facebook, although she had gone up a few dead ends before that.  Gail remembered buying the house from Leonard Wilkinson, that it been a bit of a bargain at the time, and she would look to see if she had any information that might help Mo find him.  

Twelve days since the letter had arrived, the mystery had been placed before them, and the investigation began.  Gail Harrison and Gary Buccleuch got in touch the same day.  The solicitor had gone into the office to check over old records and had found very little referring to Wilkinson.  He could see that a letter had been sent, but it wasn't clear what it had been about.  Probably related to probate though.  Had they opened the letter?  

They hadn't, and it didn't feel right to do so.  But it would be a last resort if they slammed into the buffers.  Buccleuch hadn't any forwarding address, but he did have contact details for a relative, Henry Wilkinson, who might have been Leonard's brother.  

Gail Harrison had something better.  The forwarding address for one Leonard Wilkinson, to which she remembered sending a few items that turned up for him after he'd gone.  It was in Tollburn, a one time mining village on the outskirts of town, and definitely not a place on the tourist itinerary.  Greg was reluctant to go, but the following Saturday he found himself driving the tired and dirty streets, looking for 19 Winding Street.  His reluctance increased when they found it.

In a road of crumbling, untidy cottages number 19 stood out are the crumbliest of the bunch.  Flaking paint, missing tiles, long grass, unruly bushes, an old fridge in the front garden.  Greg was all for driving on, but Mo wasn't to be deflected.  

TO BE CONTINUED...

Day 326 - Say It

 SAY IT 

Prompt - Say It : Write a poem or story that uses dialogue between two people

-Can I help you?

-Er, no, well, maybe.

-Have you come to see someone?

-Well, no, not really, just the place itself.

-This house?

-Yes.  Sort of.

-?

-I used to live here.  Long time ago.

-Oh.  And you wanted to revisit old haunts?

-Suppose so.  Moved away years ago, and this is the first time back in town for a long, long time.  I've been looking round seeing what's the same, what's changed, and I wondered what my old home was like.  You live here?

-Yeah.  Eight, no nine, years now.  I love it.  How long were you here for?

-About twelve years.  We moved here before I went to school, and I left at sixteen.  That's... bloody hell, that's twenty nine years ago.  Scary.

-Do you want to see inside?  See what's changed.  I doubt if anything's the same, even the layout in some bits.

-Yeah.  Thanks.  If it's not too much bother that would be great.  You sure it's no trouble?

-No problem.  It'll be interesting to see the place though other eyes and memories.  Come on in.

-Garden seems different.  Less lawn, more flower beds.

-I added that one over there, with the roses.  And took out the bushes down the side.

-I'd forgotten about them.  Door's a different colour, and we didn't have double glazing back then.

-Windows were in when I got the place, but the door colour is down to me.  Come on in.

-Wow.  This is a lot brighter than I remember.

-It seemed pretty dark when I came so I opened up the passage through to the kitchen, took the old carpet up and painted everything in shades of white.  Made a big difference.

-What colour was the carpet?

-Oh, hard to remember now.  A sort of green and brown I think.  Bit stained in places.

-No, that wasn't the one I remember.  It was striped.  Black and maroon.  Bit weird.

-Come in and have a seat.

-Can we have a look around first please?  I feel like I need to know.

-Know what?  If there's anything still the same?  I've redecorated everywhere since I've been in.

-Yeah.  Something like that.

-OK.  Well, front room.  I got rid of the sliding doors to open it up to the back, gives a bit more room.  Kept the fireplace, but painted it and put lights in the grate.  I'll show you.

-That's nice.  Used to be a horrible old electric thing in there.  More a hazard than a heater.  Good you got rid of the doors, less able to hide things.

-Dining table in here.  Not that I use it much, but sometimes family come round.  Tempted to put french windows in at the back some day, but not sure I'll get round to it now.  The back door always seems good enough.  You OK?

-Eh?  Oh, yeah, yeah.  Just... looking.  Remembering.

-Did it get used as a dining room in your day?

-Dining room?  No.  Well, sort of.  There was a table.  Strong table.

-Come through to the kitchen.  That will be totally different to you.

-Yeah.  Different.  Safer.

-Safer?

-Yeah.  You know, less sharp edges, less clutter.  Less risk.  Still got knives out though.

-?

-Garden looks not too different.

-No, I've not done much there.  i should get the patio re-laid some time.

-I don't think so.

-Why not?

-I just wouldn't.  You never know what you might find.

-Find?  I don't think Fred West was ever here!

-Maybe not.  But there were others like him.  What's that in the corner there?

-A compost heap.  It was already a bit of a mess there so it didn't make things worse.

-A mess?  Like a sort of disturbance?

-Just a bare bit of ground that didn't get any sun so it was never going to be very fertile.

-That soil might be richer than you think.  You've got a lot of flowers.

-I love spending time in my garden.  My main hobby really.  You must have played out there, eh?

-Played?  Not played exactly, but I did spend a lot of time there.  That corner provided a bit of shelter.  Sometimes.

-Right.  Well, do you want to see upstairs?  Follow on.

-Is it still the dark cupboard under the stairs?

-Oh, no, I've put a wee loo in there.  Handy.  See?

-No thanks, I'll head on.

-Oh, OK.  Let's go up.  You can see I put in a ladder to pull down to get into the attic, and I've had some flooring put down up there.  Mostly just for storage, but there's a bed for the odd time when I've had a lot of people to stay.

-In the attic?  To stay?  And they were OK?

-Fine.  Well, I've only ever had my nephew up there, but he's a bit of a moaner anyway.

-What did he moan about?

-Noises.  Strange noises.  Said it was creepy.  My sister told him to shut up.  

-Noises.  That figures.

-Why?

-Oh.  It was always a bit ... creaky.  Not somewhere I enjoyed being.  

-You spent time in the attic?

-In a manner of speaking.  A place to get away from it all.

-The small bedroom I use as an office.  Which was your room? 

-I didn't really have a room as such.  Things were a bit more... fluid.  But I did have time in here.  Too much time.

-Back bedroom for guests.  

-Clean.  Tidy.  Looks a happy place.  It didn't back then.

-Why not?

-It just didn't.

-And the main bedroom.  This one will look very different.

-I wouldn't know.  

-Why not?  Weren't you allowed in?

-No.  Not that I'd have wanted to.

-You don't make it sound like a very happy home.

-No.  Not happy.  Not much of a home.  I hope it's better for you.  And there's no ghosts disturbing your life.

-Ghosts?  Did somebody die here?

-I couldn't say.  Maybe.  But it wasn't me.  I got out

-Let's go down and get a coffee, eh?

-OK.

-I'll get the drinks if you want to sit in there.

-No, I'm going.  Don't touch the patio.

-Hey, aren't you going to stay a bit.  Hey...  I never got your name.  You...  You've gone.  I wanted to ask what you meant about the patio.  I would really like to know.

Day 325 - Lost and Found

 LOST AND FOUND

Prompt - Lost and Found : Write about a lost object

Is there an alternative universe for missing socks, leaving their partners for better times?  They seem to be the items of mine that go missing most often.  But the most frustrating one of recent months, and an ongoing mystery and nagging nuisance, was one very simple piece of equipment, that is old fashioned and not always considered very useful nowadays.  But given my preference for wearing walking boots in the colder seasons, and for ankle boots that don't always make themselves easy to get into, it is a small piece of hardware I find extremely useful.

A shoe horn.  Ubiquitous in shoe shops, less so in homes nowadays.  But so helpful in getting into boots that are otherwise a struggle to get into.  

A good quality one, slightly longer than the average, came with a pair of boots I bought a couple of years ago.  It was about seven inches in length, made of a good quality plastic made to look a bit like bone.  I put into the box that sits under the small velour couch just inside from the front door.  The spot that's essential to people of our age for making it much easier to get footwear on and off, sited on the entrance carpet which is that hard wearing ribbed fabric you find in many shop and hotel entrances.  It got a lot of use, helping me into my walking boots, and the electric blue suede pair that lace up quite high and require a lot of fiddling about to get on.  

Until the day it wasn't there.  So I looked for it.  And looked and looked.  Inside the box, and its companion alongside.  Under and around the sofa.  Under the sofa cushion.  In the cupboard where several pairs of boots reside.  In coat and jacket pockets, and in backpacks, in case the object I sought had accidentally been picked up with some other item.  I looked for several days.  And found nothing.  Not a sign, not a clue.  I was out of ideas.  

I ordered some replacements from eBay.  they arrived.  Just as functional, but smaller, cheaper, less pleasant to hold.  I miss their predecessor.  Writing this has made me want to start searching again...

Day 324 - I Believe

 I BELIEVE

Promot - I Believe : Write your personal credo of things you believe in

I believe in laughter

I believe in music

I believe in art

I believe in people and humanity

I believe in making the lives or ordinary people better

I believe that being welathy is pointless, and contributes nothing to society except division

I believe that education and healthcare and a decent standard of housing are fundamental human rights

I believe the far right are the greatest threat to democracy in the UK, and wider Europe

I believe in Scottish Independence as a vehicle to realising some of the above, as a means to escape the evil divisiveness of politics in England

I believe in staying healthy, active physically and mentally, eating well, as a mans to ageing well

I believe in getting out for a walk every day

I believe in the power of books and reading

I believe in the power of writing to make me feel better about myself

I have no coherent belief system, and have a deep distrust of anyone propogating such notions.  We are all individuals, trying to find our best ways through life.  Cults and belief systems are useful as funds of ideas, but ultimely restrictive to personal development. 

There are good and bad aspects of approaching life to be drawn from religions and other myth based systems, but they are historical artefacts, necessities in times when we did not have the science and education to help us make more sense of the physical world.  But of little use, and much active harm, nowadays.

They are sources of some of the bigotry we see pollutuing out lives.  I am against any form of discrimination against groups or individuals based on any inate characterisitics - gender, skin colour, place of birth, sexuality, age, etc etc.  It is fine to take positions against the political and social viws of adults becuase those are choices.  Whereas discrimination on religious grounds is a grey area.  It is a choice, but sometimes one that societies make hard to avoid.  If everyone is being brought up to think that way then it's hard to go against that force.  But ultimately superstious belief (which is what religion is a subset of) can not be an excuse for bigotry.  It is too often ued to justify misogyny, homophobia racism etc.  The KKK purports to be a christian group!

As said above there is no coherence to my beleifs.  There is no 'system' as such, other than a degree of tolerance.  But zero tolerance for bigots.

Live life as you want to live it, live the life that makes you happy, while being aware of the needs of the community you are a part of, taking a part in it, and doing no harm to others.  And enjoy art, for it is what makes us human.  That's the best summary I can come up with.

Day 323 - Decade

 DECADE

Prompt - Decade : Choose a favourite decade and write about it

Decisions, decisions.  Do I choose a personal favourite, when I felt happiest, or the decade before the UK started turning into the toxic shithole it has become in recent years?  Especailly considering that the former is also the most sriking example to demonstrate the latter progression...

My personal favourite has been the decade just gone.  What do we call it?  The Tens?  The Teens?  Whatever name history bestows, it was a hugely enjoyable ten years for me, between 2010 and 2019.  It began with retirement, and the chance to do with life as I wished.  And hten, other than my diagnosis of gout, and the annoyance that breifly brought, it turned into a decade of self development, of change and discovery, of enjoyment.  It took me fro a nice house in Southport to a wonderful flat in Edinburgh.  From a relatively sterile fan of motor racing to an active fan of first hockey, then rugby.  From someone who wrote a daily diary and little else into someone who wrote something, anything, every day, and which would eventually lead to this year of coming up with short stories and poems.  From being moderately fit to being able to walk for hours.  And who had, sort of, returned to gym work.  From being unsure about how th rest of life would turn out, to finding some sense of purpose, and getting to enjoy so much creativity laid before me.  It has been a happy decade.

It also allowed m to develop a new approach to life.  To treat life as a series of phases, either major or minor, and not to dwell too long on the phase gone by, but to concentrae on making the best of the phase ahead.  The most major examples of that were leaving paid employment, and the move north back to my home town.  But along the way there has been losing the social activity of being in the Caps family, the move into the new flat, the recognition that Advocard work was something I was quite good at.  All adjustments to be made, taken into the daily fabric of life.

There has also been my development as a writer (of sorts).  The discovery of 750words and the help that gave me in becoming committed to writing every single day  (I am currently on a 1409 day streak, which started well back into my chosen decade!).  The impetus to start a blog, which has now been going, in fits and starts, for over nine years.  That leading into the hobby of writing reviews of the shows and films I go to see.  And on into what would become the 365 project this year, with, I hope, more to come.

My creativity has extended to the visual, with the enjoyment of Instagram, although I did let myself down by finally buying the DSLR I'd been promising, then failing to learn to use it!

At the same time our new found liesure has increased our consumption of live culture, and sport.  That's been enhanced by the move to Edinburgh.  The golden years were 2015 to 2018, when we truly had life sorted.  Summers spent at all the wonderful festivals - Trad, Film, Jazz, Fringe etc - and a winter of going to our second home at Murrayfield Ice Rink, where we became a part of the furniture, where we elt we fitted in.  It was sad when the Caps period came to an end, but I was lucky to them move on to Edinburgh Rugby, which would ultimately lead on to reconnection with my oldest friend.

In contrast to that hugely enjoyable personal life, the political background has been disastrous.  We moved up to Scotland in 2014, full of hope for independence, and I played a minor role in the campaign, only to have those hopes shattered.  Worse was to come two years later with the madness of Trump and brexshit.  The latter continues to make lives worse, and there's more to come.  But those events were part of the logical flow that began in the eighties, with Regan and the vile Thatcher.  Ever since I watched the rise of far right influence in UK politics, and that is currently our greaest danger.  

Which is why I'd choose the seventies as my best decade in the wider world, alhough less so if you were part of any minorities.  But the far right were a bad joke, with scum like the BNP enjoying risible support.  For all that there were serious problems in that decad, like three day weeks and the winter of discontent, they were share problems.  The UK was a far happier place pre Thatcher's divisiveness, mostly because it was more equal.  And that's something we have to learn to recapture. Roll on Indy...

Day 322 - Personality Type

 PERSONALITY TYPE

Prompt - Personality Type : Do you know your personality type?  Write about what type of personality traits you have

Introvert?  Yes, definitely.  Albeit with complications, as most of us are.  Reluctantly sociable, scared of initiating conversations, prefer to crack a joke than be serious.

But also a performer, at least I was, abe to get up on stage and act, or deliver a long talk about my job.  In both cases, where I was not being me, but acting a part.  One scripted by a writer, the other created by myself to firt the label I carried.  Project Manager or whatever.  I used to hide behind my professional persona.  As I do when volunteering for Advocard.

Beyond that I can be quick to anger, too long in holding a grudge, even if I have mellowed with age.  I am often good at being dispassionate, analytical, but also get emotionally involved quite easily, as my recent love for Edinburgh Rugby, and the New York Islanders, has shown.  

That can also show up in obsessiveness, such as my daily insistence on writing 750 words, and walking eleven thousand steps.

A strange mix of traits that meld into me.  Whatever that is.  Far from perfect, but not too inhuman.

Day 321 - Wait Your Turn

 WAIT YOUR TURN

Prompt : Wait Your Turn : Write about having to wait in line

I was impressed with myself.  Which wasn't something that happened often.  But for someone as intrinsically lazy as me, to be up and out well before six thirty was a huge achievement.  Especially when I didn't really have to be.  Then into the car, drive twenty eight miles, and be parked and outside the theatre well before seven thirty was simply amazing.  

It had been a bit of a shock to turn the corner and see the queue for the box office.  There must have been near to a hundred people in that human snake, all of them potentially deadly to his chances.  Suddenly I was feeling less impressed.  But consoled myself by thinking that they probably hadn't had as far to come as I had.

I could have tried to book online again.  But the last time the show did a recording anywhere near enough I'd failed to get seats because I took that approach.  Better to get there in person I'd thought, be one of the first through the doors.  Except I wasn't.  Tickets were going on sale at nine.  Not just to the hundred people ahead of me, but to online and phone sales too.  I started to do some mental calculations of his chances.  The theatre seated about eight hundred.  Most of the people ahead would be wanting at least two tickets, but some would be taking more.  So around three hundred or more would be gone that way by the time I'd reach the front.  Meanwhile... I had no idea what the throughput for online sales would be, or how many people would be manning the phone, but it must be dozens.  Hundreds even.  I gave up trying to work it out.  All I could do was stay in line.

There was little chat, which suited me.  I've never been the sociable type, and having to make chit chat with a stranger at that time of day, and without a coffee, would have been beyond me.  It was dry too, which was another good thing, because I'd probably be here for a couple of hours.  But it would be worth it if I was successful in my quest.  My wife was a huge fan of the show.

As nine approached there was murmuring from near the front.  They must have been able to see the staff getting ready, and were anticipating getting their paws on the prize in short order.  On the dot there was a ripple of applause and, a couple of minutes later, I found himself moving forward.  But progress was slow.  I tried to time it and it worked out about half a dozen places every five minutes.  At this rate it would be ten thirty before I got there.  How many bloody people did they have serving?  

An hour passed in frustrating shuffles, with the odd hopeful spurt, and just as frequent dead stops.  I was still about twenty metres from the windows that would at least allow me to view what was happening.  But eventually I got there.  Only three people sat behind the glass.  Each one taking about two or three minutes to process a customer.  Another fifteen minutes he thought.

Twenty passed and I was inside.  Another five and I was the next one up.  One customer left and I made a move to replace her, but the woman I was heading for got up and walked off.  Grrrr. 

 Another minute, another customer left.  I moved forward to take the spot, only for the guy to stop me with blunt force.

"Sorry sir, that's the last of the tickets gone now.  We're completely sold out now."  The man did at least have the decency to sound trepidatiously sheepish.  As the impact hit me the last customer to come away happy was leaving, giving me a sympathetic glance.  I thought about arguing, or pleading, but what would be the point?  The queue behind dissolved into grumbling as the news filtered back.

Impressed no longer, I trudged back towards the car, shoulders sloping.  I didn't know when to break the news to his wife.

"Excuse me!  Excuse me!  You in the brown jacket."  I turned, not really expecting to be the target of the call.  But there was the man who'd got the last tickets running towards me.  Last seen taking a phone call outside the theatre.

I checked my pockets.  Had I dropped something?  But I'd never even got to the point of taking my wallet out.  Had this guy chased me just to gloat?

"Sorry to have to shout like that.  I didn't want to miss you.  Just as I left back there I got a phone call from my wife.  She'd had a call from her sister to say they're now going to Canada in October."  He looked at me expectantly as if I should be saying something.  "Sorry, of course, you don't know what that means.  They were coming to the show with us, but can't now.  As you were next in line I wondered if you'd like the tickets?"  I stared at him open mouthed.  He must be joking, mustn't he?  But why?  What if he was genuine?  I struggled to find words.  "Here."  And there were two tickets in his outstretched hand.  "You won't be next to us, I couldn't get four together, and I've kept the better ones for us, if that's OK, but these are better than walking away without.  If you love the show like we do."

I took the tickets from him.  

"Thanks."

"No problem.  See you there maybe."  And he was turned and walking off in a hurry.

I looked at the tickets.  No reason not to think them genuine.  I'd be going home with my trophy from the hunt after all.  Then I remembered.

"Hey, I didn't pay you for them."  But he was already some distance away.  I gave chase, but he crossed a road, I got held up, and I'd lost him by the time there was a gap for me.

There was a small part of my brain wanted to go back to the theatre and ask at the box office if the tickets were genuine.  I didn't.  They were.  And I never saw our benefactor again.

Day 320 - Instrumental Inspiration

 INSTRUMENTAL INSPIRATION

Prompt - Instrumental Inspiration : Listen to some instrumental music and write a poem that matches the mood, beat and style of the music

PACO DE LUCIA AND OSCAR LOPEZ - GYPSY PASSION - FIRST THOUGHT NOTES

In Spain.  It's hot, there are dancers, in their traditional tight costumes, waiting to strut.  But first the slow build up, as befits the heat.  Ripples of sound to get the attention, then the rhythm being established, the bass notes, giving the framework against which the virtuoso, proud and assured, plays the flying notes.  With increasing complexity.  With increasing impatience.  But it slows, allows a casual interplay of teasing differences.  The stolid man allows the woman to fly. There is love in the music, and desire.  A build towards climax.  There will be shouting.

Now the clapping joins in, and the sounds of feet.  While the guitarist improvises, describing movements he can see in his mind.   And plays so fast the feet couldn't keep up, but such is passion.  And then it fades away, still full bodied, but spent...

POEM

Under a bright blue sheet, in dazzling light

There are fingers and feet to match

Dancers await, their time will come

Taut, tight elegance softened by frills and haze

They come alert to the first, clear notes

The ripples that resound in the ear

Pull all eyes to those long lithe fingers

And the rhythm begins, listeners move

Bass orders passive toes and fingers to join

A frame is built before your ears

Our virtuoso sits proud, assured, deft

Waterfalls and merry go rounds and glasses coming together

Interplay, moments of simplicity entwined with thrilling speed

The sound of love, of desire, of passion

Hands clap, feet stomp, the earth moves

Building, building to climax, improvising with light touch

So fast, so fast, the feet can't keep up

And fading, fading to a satisfying close

Time to dance

Day 319 - Determination

 DETERMINATION

Prompt - Determination : Write about not giving up

Gypsy Brae ahead now.  They heard the assemblage before they saw it, a childish babble of excitement.  That meant the masses hadn't left yet, there was still time to get a clear path ahead.  And that maybe, just maybe, they were still on schedule.  Five miles to go.  Watches checked.  They needed to do it in a bit over eighty minutes.  It was still possible.

The route took them left, up past the refreshment tents and the shouted encouragements of the volunteers.

"Banana please" shouted James when he was about six metres from the first table.  A woman promptly grabbed his choice, held it out in his path and he grabbed it without breaking stride.  "Thanks."  And he was past.

"Water please."  George was a bit slower with his request, had to pause, grabbed the bottle, and tried to move his legs as fast they would go.  It took almost thirty seconds to catch James, who wasn't about to let up.  He'd spotted that the shambolic group to his right was being called to order, sensed the countdown was about to commence.  And then he heard it.  Looked at George, a pace behind.  The returning look mirrored his own, fear of being caught behind the five milers mixed with exhilaration that they might not.  

No words needed, both raised their speed, kilts billowing, heads shoved forward, to get ahead.  And did it, with seconds to spare.  There would be a few of the quickies from that group would come with them, some, so much fresher, might head off into the distance, but the dreaded pack had been avoided, well before the paths would narrow and hold them up.  They grinned at one another and settled back into their natural pace, taking in yellow fruit and clear liquid.  

"I always hate this bit."

"Hmmm."  George more economical with his oxygen supply.  They'd got to the path that would take them off the coast pathway, heading inland towards their final destination, and, for the next mile or so, on the most uphill section of the fourteen and a half miles.  Why now, when they'd already been pushing for ten?  It felt so cruel, and their calf muscles concurred.  But they grunted their way up, trying to grin some appreciation for the enthusiastic cheerleaders at the top, and rolled their eyes once past.  The next mile would be the worst.

Up past Silverknowes Golf Course, the sun getting ever hotter as midday loomed, the cool of the harbour long since forgotten.  On up past the white harled semis, the cars in the drives, the tidy wee row of shops, the stewards shouting at them to go on the right hand pavement.  As if that mattered.

And finally back on to the walkway cum cycle path that would see them through to the final section.  Not too many kilties before or behind now, they were on their own.  They walked on, feet sore, backs aching, legs complaining, minds numbing, bodies sweating as if they'd sprung multiple leaks.  On and on.  A board on a lamppost made them smile again.  Three miles to go.  Maybe a bit over fifty minutes, exhausted old bodies permitting.  

Over that intersection and down.  Over the bridge that offered false promise, it wasn't the one they wanted to see.  Then the real thing.  The parting of the trees revealed their first glimpse of their cantilevered end point, Murrayfield Stadium.  It was enough to return some life to limbs now finding it harder to respond to the brain's demands.

And then they were at the end, down, turn, down turn, down, turn, and on to the path by the railway line, more turns, more straights.  End in sight across the parched parkland.  Watches checked again.

"Shit."

"Shit."

They had three minutes.  Could they?  Would their sixty-something frames and muscles allow?  Stride out, ignore the pains, the reluctance, the sense of doom.  Push on, push more.  And they were coming in now, under the trees, the buzz of the crowd ahead, the greeting party assembled before them.   As they crossed the line they punched the air, and the wee guy with the mike laughed.

"Well done guys, high fives", and he held up a hand for slapping.  The effort barely registered now.  Elation took over.  They came close to hugging the women handing out their finishers' medals, but resisted, moved on, into the open space.  And, finally, stopped.  Three hours twenty nine minutes.  Target achieved.  They would suffer tomorrow.  Maybe Tuesday as well.  But they'd done it, what they'd set out to do.  Determination overcoming the ageing process.  Maybe it was for the last time.  But they'd done it once, and that's what mattered.

Day 318 - Health & Beauty

 HEALTH & BEAUTY

Prompt - Health & Beauty : Take some time to peruse your medicine cabinet or the health and beauty aisles at a local store.  Write a poem, short story or journal entry inspired by a product label. 

It was a disaster.  In ten minutes time I had to leave for an interview that could change my life.  Would change my life.  I was sure of that.  Until my idiot daughter managed to tip jam in my hair.

Cue panic.  Cue anger and fury and a frustrating sense of what never was.  I yelled, she cried.

"Ideas?"  I looked around the room in search of hope.  "Anyone?"  They looked too frightened.  "Come on, I have ten minutes.  TEN MINUTES!"

Geraldine had been staying with us for a few days.  My sister-in-law suddenly threw her arms up and rushed from the room.  She was back within thirty seconds.

"Try this" she commanded.

She was holding out a white tube.  In big aqua lettering were the words 3 MINUTE REPAIR, and under that, in smaller font RINSE OUT TREATMENT. "I've never used it yet, but I've heard it's good."  I had nothing to lose.

She came with me to the bathroom, trying to make sense of the tiny print on the back.  "Here, let me."  She sat me on the edge of the bath, put a towel over my shoulders to protect my clothes, wet her hands and ran them through my sticky thatch to dampen.  Then she rubbed in the treatment, a white cream that smelt of nothingness. "Now wait."

She left me for a couple of minutes, then returned, checking her watch.  "That's it, three minutes. "  She wet her hands again, through a little water from her cupped hands into my scalp.  Massaged away.  "Stickiness gone" she announced proudly.

I rushed into the bedroom, blasted the hairdryer and comb though my repaired dome, and thanked her as I made my exit.

Disaster averted.  It did what it said on the tube.

Day 317 - Airplane

 AIRPLANE

Prompt - Airplane : Write about meeting someone on an airplane and a conversation you might have

I hate flying.  Not the actual being in the air bit, or the take off or landing, those are simple events that happen whatever.  No, it's the people.  It starts as soon as you're going through security, and it's hard to tell who's the thickest, the public or the security staff.  Then the massive over-commercialisation of the airport waiting areas, the lack of seating, and far too many brats.  But the worst bit is being on the plane itself.  A couple of hundred people, with nothing in common but their destination, crammed into a tube with no regard for personal space.  That's the terrible bit.

If it's one of those first come, first seated type arrangements I'm happy to stand up early, get to the front of the queue, and dash my way into the aircraft, there to find the most suitable seat.  Except there aren't any, are there?  So I placed myself by a window, snapped shut the seat belt, got my book out and started reading.  And sending signals.  I hoped.

Nobody fat please, I don't want your blubber oozing into my side.  Nobody loud, talkative, or, worst, inquisitive.  The overfriendly sort who are convinced you just need 'bringing out of yourself'  When you're perfectly happy inside your own head.  A sleepy, introverted, skinny person is my ideal travelling companion.

So I had my head down, I'm sending out the vibes, ignoring everyone, trying my best to look even more sociopathic than I really am.  But it's fully booked, so the inevitable happens.  Someone is siting beside me.  I risk a glance across and so far there's nobody in the aisle seat, so there isn't going to be a couple having a conversation.  This has its pros and cons.  I avoid the droning sound of someone else's conversation, but have an increased risk that the person might seek out my company.  

Eventually another body completes our little trio.  From the glimpses I've risked (I am definitely avoiding all eye contact!) the man next to me is older, perhaps in his fifties, while beside him sits a woman of indeterminate age, but some sizeable bulk.  He has settled in quickly and has, to my relief, a Kindle in his hands.  She is taking a long time.  A stewardess is hovering, concerned that this flustered creature is going to hold us up.  The women looks over at her new companions, but neither of us are looking back.  She leans into Kindle man, squeezing his shoulder over towards me.  

"How did you two get this sorted out so easy.  It's a nightmare."

"I'm sure the stewardess will soon get you sorted out if you allow her to do her job."  Curt.  Sharp.  To the point.  Avoiding any responsibility.  This from the the man in the middle.  I start to warm to him, impressed with his passive aggressive response and convincing desire to remain apart from the problem.

The stewardess seizes her chance, gets the woman's belongings stowed, her belt tightened, her frustrations soothed and moves on.  A pro.  We all settle into our own little worlds.

Take off.  Lined up on the runway, then the brakes are off and we are hurtling forward, and then, almost imperceptibly, aloft.  The woman grabs hold of the nearest thing she can find.  Which is the man to her left.  I feel him flinch, but he allows her to grip until we have completed the climb.  Then, silently, he declaws the clench and places her hand back in her own space.  Without a word.  I am filled with admiration for his patience and performance.  He is already back into his reading.  She is still getting over the shock of the big metal bird being in the sky.

We are all quiet, we are all doing what we are doing.  The drinks trolley comes round.  I look up, shake my head, return to my book.  I can sense my nearest companion doing the same.  But not aisle woman.  This is her chance.  

"Either of you wanting drinks?  Sandwich?"  We both keep our heads down.  The stewardess - the same one, judging by the voice - says she's already aware of our needs and what would the lady like?  Plenty as it turns out.  She didn't get to be that size by accident.  At least it keeps her occupied for a while.

But not for long.  She tires to draw him, me, into her orbit.  Asking what we're reading, where we're going, are we together?  I show her the cover of my book, but that's the most she'll get from me.  But man in the middle is smarter than me.  He starts off on a full plot exposition until her eyes start to wander and she says she needs the toilet.  She's off, waddling up the middle of the overpopulated space.  

He looks at me.  I make eye contact for the first time.  He smiles.  I smile.  That's all we need.  Against all the odds, I have found a friend on a plane.

Day 316 - Come to Life

 COME TO LIFE

Prompt - Come to life : Imagine ordinary objects have come to life.  Write about what they do and say

Why was he being nudged in the back?  Who by?  What time was it?  Why wouldn't they - he, she, it? - let him sleep on?  He tired opening his eyes.  He shut them again, quickly.  It had looked as if the bedside lamp was leaning in towards him.  What had he been drinking last night?

But he hadn't had anything.  He thought this must be a dream of some kind, the scary ones you have in that half awake and half asleep twilight state  of not quite imminent consciousness.  But the steady poke in the back felt real enough.  He tried opening one eye.  The lamp was still there.

"Well?" it said.

It did, didn't it?  The lamp was asking him... something.  But it's a lamp.  "Are you getting up?"  It had a light, metallic voice, like a young girl filtered through a steel tube.  "It's time.  You forgot to set an alarm, so we thought we'd best help out.  You've got that interview today."

That was true.  he did have an interview, for a job he really, really wanted.  How could he have forgotten to set the alarm?  He grabbed his phone, checked the time.  Seven forty.  Time he should be getting up, getting ready.  The place was on the other side of the city so he'd have to leave soon after nine to make it.  So the voice (the lamp?) was right.  He suddenly found himself awake, aware, almost alert.  The prodding in his back changed into a constant, insistent push.

"OK, OK, I'm getting up!"  And he did.  The lamp leant back into it's usual position as he rose.  Looking back he could see nothing in the bed.  Who or what had been shoving him?

"Thank you bed, I think we can take it from here." said the lamp.  There was a brief flex of acknowledgement form the mattress.  

"What's going on here? What's happening to me?  You can't speak."  His voice sounded shrill, panicky.  Not what he needed today.

"Stay cool," said the lamp, "if you go to the kitchen the coffee machine will explain.  As if this was a perfectly reasonable explanation to give.

He shuffled into the bathroom, did what needed to be done, splashed some water in his face, tried to reason it out.  Couldn't.  

He moved on to the kitchen.  As he passed the sofa he could have sworn it smiled at him.  Was he going crazy?  The stress of wanting this job getting to him?  On a work surface sat a mug, with steam rising.  In it was coffee.  Had Gill turned up without telling him?  But she was down south, wasn't she?  

"Good morning Gavin."  The voice was soft, deep, African.  He looked around, heard a rubberised movement, saw the coffee machine come forward.  "We know this is a surprise to you.  Shock even.  But we're here to help."

"We?  Help?  Why?  How?"  Reduced to monosyllables.

"We, the collective of your household, saw how nervous you looked last night, and the lamp spotted that you'd not set your phone to waken you.  We know how important today is for you.  As it is for all of us, because if you don't get this job then some of us may have to go, won't we?"

Gavin stared at the machine.  It was right.  He didn't know how it could be right, but he knew it was.  This couldn't get any weirder, could it?  "Why don't you drink your coffee and I can tell you the plan we've worked out?"  Why not?  So he did.  It was exactly as he liked it.

The coffee machine told him the plan, and who (who?) was in on it.  After his coffee he should go to the bathroom.  Bath would already have filled itself, ready for him.  The shower head had been briefed to keep him on target for time, so no need to worry about checking.  When he got into the bedroom he'd find his suit. shirt, tie all laid out ready, courtesy of old mirror cabinet he had in the corner.  Get back to the kitchen and breakfast would be done.  The machine would supervise of course, but most of the work would be done by toaster, cooker and the tools on the rack.  He'd eat up.  His shined shoes would be ready.  Together they'd make sure he was out on time.

And so they did.  Gavin, to his own surprise, went along with it.  Because he could.  Having everything done for him, exactly as he would have liked, relaxed him, let him concentrate on what he'd be saying later.  He went out with more confidence than he'd had in weeks.

When he got back home he was excited.  It had gone well, he knew it had, and the things the interviewers said at the end made him certain he was in with a good chance.  He rushed into the kitchen to tell all, and was already babbling his gratitude and enthusiasm before he got through the door.  But there was no reply.  He was talking to a coffee machine.

Day 315 - Rock Star

 ROCK STAR

Prompt - Rock Star : Imagine you are a famous rock star.  Write about the experience

And we're off.  Three tumultuous encores added on to a two and half hour show and we're all totally knackered.  And totally buzzing.  Great crowd, one of the best.  But I don't want any more of them tonight.

Greta's on hand immediately.  Taking my sweat drenched shirt, helping me towel down and holding out a silk dressing gown to slide into.  A glass of champagne?  Or the bottle?  I go for the latter, and swig happily as I make me way down to the dressing room, fizz dribbling in my path.  

The five of us will get together later, but for now it's good to be in my own space with, if I want them, my own people.  

Garth comes in, relays details of the offers I've had, shows me their photos, tells me about why they claim to be 'special'.  They're all the same.  Pretty, barely dressed, vacuous looking.  And young.  So, so young.  I gave up on young a long time ago.  I gave up on groupies.  Well, almost.  But tonight I tell him to say no, to send their little disappointed faces on their way - unless he fancies helping himself of course.  Feel free Garth.  He often does.

Greta stands, waiting.  She knows what I'm like.  Unpredictably predictable.  There's a limited number of options I favour, but which ones on which night are unknown to anyone.  Even me, until I'm backstage and collecting my scattered brains about me again.  I've used up reserves of mental, physical and emotional energy to give what they wanted tonight.  To do what I was put on the planet to.  To be the best.  

"Shower"  Only a word needed.  Greta goes through, gets the shower on.  She's already got all my the stuff I like in there.  Just in case.  Greta is indispensable.  And dedicated.  So that by the time I come through she's naked, and swiftly has my clothes off, pulls me to her under the water, and pampers my body until satiation is reached.  She dries me off, hands me my clothes, quickly dresses and leaves.  Giving me time alone to unwind a bit more.  I know she's off to get Garth, to have the car ready for the moment I want to get out of here.

There's to be no partying tonight.  This is our fourth in a row, there's another tomorrow, and mutual agreement that at our age we have to take some precautions to keep going.  I'd like to just slip away, but I give Arty a call.  He's overseeing the packing away, as a good manager should, but confirms the promoter would like a word if I've got the inclination.  I haven't, but I feel the need to keep him onside.  No idea why, as he's got to do what we want or we'll be off elsewhere.  But he has a lot of good ideas and tonight I want to insert one of my own into his brain, so I can leave it there for a few days then see what's grown from the seed.  

Arty brings him down, we talk, Arty takes him away, Greta slips in like a shadow.  I nod and she calls Garth.

"It'll be at the door when we get there."

And it was.  My four wheeled cocoon.  A black glassed palace of luxury.  There's more champagne, there's cream leather and fur cushions.  And there's Greta, ever there, ever ready.  But I'm not.  I'm exhausted, and heads straight to bed at the hotel.  Knowing I'll be dragged from sleep only when it becomes absolutely essential.  Knowing it's all the same, and all different, tomorrow.

Day 314 - Romance

 ROMANCE

Prompt - Romance : Write about romantic things partners can do for each other

"And here we still are."

"Aye, after fifty five years.  Who'd a thunk it?"  Rab looked at the other three with a mix of wonder and disdain.  The familiarity of a lifetime and the strangeness of being together as a group after such a long time.  A long, long time.

Friends since they first met at school, scattered across the land to universities and jobs and marriages, movements occasionally bringing two, or even three, of them close enough to meet up.  A few xmases and new years early on, where all four had returned home, but that didn't last.  A couple of meetups with families in tow.  Now they were all retired, and widowed or divorced.  Kids long gone.  Homes empty.

It had been forty two years since all four of them had sat together in a room, with hours to spend in one another's company.  There was an immediate camaraderie, a sense of never having parted, and a lot of catching up to do at the same time.

So the stories got told, the drink got passed around.  Jobs passed over, careers now a laughing matter.  The cars they'd had, the places they'd been.  And eventually, their marriages.  The good the bad and the ugly.  The sex, the kids, the rows, shared and the separate.  The conversation drifted, in meandering fashion, to romance.  Who brought that one up?  It had to be Marty, didn't it?  He was always the romantic in the group.

So they talked about the most romantic moments of their lives, the ones they still smiled at, even if the relationship had soured in the end.  

This was Gordy.  "There was that one anniversary.  The first where the kids were away at uni, and we were free to do something for ourselves.  Rented a cottage on the Black Isle for a week, the sun shone for once, we swam in the sea, and made love in the water.  Only time we managed something like that, but what a memory to have.  Like merman and mermaid we were."  He grinned at the salty taste of the memory.

And Rab.  Nobody expected any great romantic moment from the gang's wee hard man, but there were parts of him the others knew nothing about.  "We were both travelling a lot for our jobs.  Just the once out paths crossed, and we both had to spend a night in Leicester.  Booked into a hotel as Mr and Mrs Smith and spent the whole time acting like we were having an affair.  Open like, so the hotel staff were sniggering at us.  Don't know what came over me really, but it was the best sex we ever had, and built more of a bond that anything else we ever did.  Served us well as a way of bringing the other one back when they got angry."

Then it was Graeme, Mr Timid.  Now here was a surprise.  "I guess it was when I proposed.  Took ,e ages to get the nerve, so I thought if I made a plan I'd have to stick with it.  Margie was going on holiday to Paris with her sister Dot.  I arranged with Dot that they'd be up the top of the Eiffel Tower at a certain time.  And when they got there I was waiting.  Dropped to one knee and asked the question.  She couldn't really say no, could she?"

Last came Marty, Mr Softy.  The trio awaited tales of giant bouquets, champagne, a trip to an island in the Indian Ocean, every cliché going.  "I reckon the most romantic thing between us was me making her  a cup of tea every morning, and taking it up to her in bed.  And her rubbing my feet every night once she found I got cramp.  I was the start of her day, she was the ending to mine.  Isn't that romantic?"

Romance.  It's whatever we want it to be, isn't it?

Day 313 - Playground

 PLAYGROUND

Prompt - Playground : Whether it is the swings or the sandbox or the sliding boards, write about your memories of being on a playground

I do not know if I am odd or not, but my memories of my childhood seem to be far less clear than many other people I've talked to about the subject.  Or less clear than they claim their recollections to be.  For we all know memory is fallible.  We are able to recall particular highs and lows, but the daily habits of existence become strangers to us, to be replaced by new habits, and replaced again, as our lives change.  So I feel I am unclear about my earliest memory, and some of the contenders only really exist in my consciousness because of photos I've seen.   All of which is by way of saying that what I am about to relate comes through rose tinted vision and is both selective and unreliable.

The word playground primarily conjures up images of hard concrete and tarmac expanses at school, either kicking a small ball around, or playing the sort of games children played in the sixties.  But a playground with swings and slides and the like?  There would have been plenty around, yet none stick in my mind, bar one.  And that one carries with it the (imagined?) golden magic of summers outside the city.

Each year the family would take a cottage in the small village of Stow, which sits on the A7 a few miles to the north of Galashiels, and I would spend a good part of my summer holidays there.  Sometimes with my parents, mostly with a grandmother and great aunt.  There may have been others who came to stay for a time, but I don't remember other kids being among them.

So I'd explore the village, go for walks, make my own entertainment.  There was a burn in the woods, down in the valley (probably only a slight dip in the landscape, but to a small boy...) where I wasn't supposed to go, but still managed to fall in a couple of times.  The graveyard, which dated back many centuries, became a place of fascination.  But the one place that was both a parentally approved destination, and somewhere I wanted to be, was the playground in the public park.  

It's a few years since I drove down the A7, but the last time I did I saw there was a still a play facility there.  Easy to see as it's on the right , in open space, a bit before the village proper starts.  It didn't look much like the playground of my memories, for it had been updated, and made a lot safer.  No more falling onto the solid concrete of my day.  

I remember a slide, a roundabout and some swings.  If there was more then it's been consigned to my mental dustbin.  I remember lots and lots of sunny days, but this was Scotland so even I'm suspicious of that one.  Mostly I went there accompanied by elderly relatives, who would sit on a bench and watch me entertain myself.  It's strange, but I don't recall there ever being any other kids there at the same time as me.  Where were the locals?  Maybe they were all holidaying in Edinburgh!  There must have been some, but not a single one has lasted in my mind over the decades.

It's the roundabout I remember best.  Especially for the days when my dad came down, for then it would move much faster and for longer that I was capable of managing on my own.  Plus he was the only one of the family up for that bit extra speed.  But mostly I still see myself propelling it round and round on my own, until I was too tired or dizzy, or was called home for my tea.  I have no recall of what I was thinking, other than 'faster, faster', or sense of whether I felt privileged or lonely or excited.  It was what we did, it was what it was, and I was a child used to spending time on his own and in my own head.  

My playground is not a sociable place.

Day 312 - Idiom

 IDIOM

Prompt - Idiom : Choose from a list of idioms one that speaks to you and create a poem around that phrase or saying

"Yesterday's Man"

I could stay home, I could vegetate

But that's not part of the plan

I'll walk, I'll ride, I'll explore this world

I won't be yesterday's man

I've more to give, there's people to help

I'll finish what I began

I've experience people can value

I won't be yesterday's man

There are gigs and plays and films to see

And clapping to Darcy's cancan

Backing creatives all doing their thing

I won't be yesterday's man

I sit at the keyboard writing my words

Once slow, now time that I ran

There are stories that I need to get out

I won't be yesterday's man

Sitting it out and just getting old?

Not part of my pension plan

Life is there to be lived every day

I won't be yesterday's man

Day 311 - Easy-Peasy

 EASY PEASY

Prompt - Easy-Peasy : Write about doing something effortlessly

This isn't possible.  It's not so much that I've always failed in the past, it's that I never even got far enough to fail.  I am twenty three years old and I have never been out on a date.  I'm not really sure what a date is.  Except that I've never had one.  There are girls I've wanted to go out with.  There are girls I've got talked for long periods.  The Venn diagram crossover of those two groups is small.  Very small.  And of that microscopically tiny number of the population there isn't one who I've managed to find a way to ask if they'd go out with me.

Not quite true.  There was that girl, Lisa, I asked to go to a gig with me three years ago.  But she didn't seem impressed that it was only because my pal got sick and I didn't want to waste the money.

So I became convinced that that was it.  Game over.  Not even worth trying.  Not that I could, because whenever the moment arrived so did the nerves, the fear, tongue tangling, the mumbling, the basic disintegration of what little personality I felt I possessed.  I would be single for life.  I would be celibate for life.  (I had, at least, heard about prostitutes, but had no idea how to go about finding one, and if I asked anyone I would only suffer the same verbal paralysis, wouldn't I?)  I would be miserable for life.

So what's this?  For a change I was invited to a party.  For once I managed to talk to women without making a complete idiot of myself.  I even... and I still can't quite believe this bit... got chatting to one I liked, and we talked about each other and we had things in common and she leaned in closer and... I said "How'd you fancy going for a drink tomorrow night?" and she said "Yeah, that would be great" and I acted like that happened all the time.  And we went out the next night and it was like we'd known each other for years and she invited me back to her place and...

And then I woke up.  Shit!

Day 310 - Movie Conversation

 MOVIE CONVERSATION

Prompt - Movie Conversation : Use a memorable conversation from a favourite movie to inspire your writing

My inspiring film is Harvey.

Evan saved my life.  More than that, he gave me a new one.  With help from Elwood and Harvey.  Which is why I should be giving him his full name, the one he likes to introduce himself by.  So this is the story of my good friend and saviour, Evan G Mount.

I met Evan on the bridge.  About to jump.  Me, not him.  He, despite never having met me before, was the one who talked me down, the one to whom I gave all trust I had left in the world.  He was the one who changed me.  He and his friends.

Evan took me to his place, fed me, listened to me, identified with me.  He'd been there, on that bridge.  He too had been left by those he had loved.  He too had been found by someone who talked him down, restored just enough of his faith in humanity for life to go on.  His rescuer had then had him sectioned.  He wasn't going to let that happen to me.

I stayed at Evan's that night.  He phoned in in the morning to take the day off, made sure I did the same.  Then he let me talk.  Until there was no talk left in me.  And then it was his turn.  He spoke slowly, choosing his words empathetically. 

"Do you know what really helped me in the end?  The one thing that made me look at the world differently, and wanting to find my very own way of understanding it, was a film.  An old American black and white movie.  A classic I suppose.  I'd seen it once when I was young, and it didn't do much for me.  But when they finally let me come home from the hospital I turned on the TV, just for the company, and there it was."

I looked at him numbly.  But also wondering what came next.  He was going to tell me what the film was, wasn't he?

"Have you heard this before George? - I've wrestled with reality for 35 years, and I'm happy, Doctor, I finally won out over it.  The quote delivered in a slow, friendly drawl I knew from somewhere.

"I don't think so.  What's it about?"  I wasn't sure this was going anywhere helpful.

"It's about finding your own version of reality, the one you're happy to live in, and going with it.  Maybe not quite like the guy in the movie, because he is an alcoholic, but the principle still works for me.  How about this line?"  The drawl returned.  "There are two ways to live well, you can be smart or pleasant. I've been smart for years, and I recommend pleasant."  He looked at me intently, seeking reaction.  "That's from the same character.  And he's right.  I've given on being clever with people, I just try to be nice, and I feel better for it.  And so do the other people." 

He could see I wasn't convinced.  "Look, it can't work for everyone, I know that, but maybe it will do something for you too, or at least give you some ideas where you can look for your own answers.  Will you watch it with me?"

I nodded.  What else was I going to do?  So he put on the film and I waited to see if it had any impact on me.

The intro music was corny, the credits dated.  I saw the title, one word - Harvey.  And the name of the star, James Stewart.  So that was where I knew that drawl from.  I'd seen it once before, when I was a child, and couldn't remember much about it.  Other than the rabbit of course. Everyone remembers the rabbit. 

The opening exchange, between Stewart's Elwood P Dowd and the postman, had me inwardly wincing.  "Oh, every day's a beautiful day" says crazy Elwood, and I dreaded the goody-goofy feel that gave, the sense of groundless optimism I'd lost a long time ago, if it had ever been there.

But gradually Dowd's charm,  and seeing the way others not only tolerated his eccentricities, but joined in with them, started to get through to me.  I began to laugh a little, relax a little, and when I looked across at Evan he smiled.  

Tolerance.  Of others who are different from ourselves.  Kindness.  Smiles and good humour and taking life as it comes to you.  The lines Evan had quoted came and went and I could see why they had such meaning to him.  I too had tried to be smart.  But I had never made the effort to be pleasant.  Not really.  And I'd paid too much attention to what we are told is 'reality'.  What we're told is 'normal'.  

I wasn't 'normal'.  I knew that.  And maybe the taxi driver had it right - "After this he'll be a perfectly normal human being - and you know what stinkers they are".   The line came out, I looked at Evan, Evan looked at me, and suddenly we couldn't stop laughing.  And we both knew that showing me that film, above all others, had been the right thing to do.

I stayed with Evan for a couple of days, and went back into the life I'd known.  Except it didn't really look the same any more, and neither did I.  And I knew I wouldn't ever return to the place he'd found me in.  

I saw Evan again a few days ago, walking in the park and taking in the sights, watching the people, smiling at everyone and paying attention to their dogs and babies.  And all the time I checked out the sights around me, amazed at how it all fitted together.

"George" - he always calls me George, because that's my name - "what are you looking for?"

"I'm looking for Harvey, Evan.  But there's no hurry.  I'll find him one day."

Day 309 - Cute as a Button

 CUTE AS A BUTTON

Prompt - Cute as a Button : Write about something you think is adorable

The noise upsets her, as it does so many pets.  Fireworks nights are bad nights for cats and she is no exception.  Even though she's one of the lucky ones.  It's all happening at a distance for her.  Up here, on the sixth floor, with an outlook into the darkness of the cemetery, the flashes and bangs are far off, removed.  In here, up here, they can cause no alarms for humans, excepting those with autism etc.  But they can still upset a cat for whom the nature and origins of the sights and sounds outside are beyond their comprehension.  

And so she withdraws, to her safe space.  The place of retreat when threats enter her domain, the one she's used to being able to dominate, with the fellow residents she can manipulate with ease.  Threats like small children, any bearer of loud noises and sudden movements, anyone who threatens her live-in companions.  Under our bed, among the storage boxes, she feels she is away from it all, that nothing can touch her.  Not even me.  I can elicit a response if I lie down and stretch out my arm to be sniffed.  But if she doesn't want to come out, she doesn't.

Stay there for now little one.  You must do what's right for you.  Whatever that is, whenever you choose to join us again, you remain the cutest of the cute, the adorable centre of life in this flat.  You are Zoe.

Day 308 - Robot

 ROBOT

Prompt - Robot : Write about a robot

Robert sat languidly in the armchair, glass in hand, sips infrequent, thoughts pleasant.  Around him the room had been tidied, evidence of the evening's party already gone.  He could faintly hear the sound of dishes being washed, dried and put away.  The night had gone well for him, both in the logistics of the event, and, much more importantly, the reactions of his guests.  And the best, he hoped, was yet to come.

His publisher had already held a formal drinks celebration, and almost everyone he could have wished to see had been there for his moment of triumph.  The naysayers had been wrong, the book was now out in the world and sales were starting to creep upwards.  Tonight was different, the night of the naysayers, the night of reckoning.  Last week had been about adulation, tonight was for the guiltier pleasure of watching people who disliked him having to be polite.  So satisfying.

To ensure plenty of the people he wanted came along there were two inducements.  The free food and booze was a  minor attraction.  But the main draw was currently making the noises in the kitchen.  The idea had come from his friend Julian, proprietor of Better Than Human?, who suggested his newest model would be intriguing enough to get anyone along.  So Robert made sure the invitations were very clear about the chance to interact with the very latest in AI butlers.

That butler came back into the room and asked Robert what further services he required.  It (he?  she?) was about one and a half metres tall, reassuringly humanoid in shape and proportions, attractively smooth and rounded, with a face that could mimic expressions and a voice that could manage some passable imitations.  Robert had asked for it to respond to the name Roy.  He'd wondered how many would pick on the allusion, but didn't think that even Julian had twigged.

"Yes Roy, I want you to tell me what people were saying about me tonight.  Julian assured me you would be able to record and repeat all the discussions that were taking place."

"Yes Robert, that is correct."  Roy's voice was as fluid as his shape.  "Do you want me to repeat everything?  That would be a lengthy process and you may wish to hire me for a further twenty fours hours if I am to complete the task."

"No, not every word, just the highlights."

"Highlights Robert?  Can you explain in more detail please?"

"I want you to repeat the things that people said directly about me, or about my book.  Is that clear enough?"  Robert was easily irritated.

"Yes, that is clear.  There were many remarks of a very similar nature.  Would you like me to group them into batches, or repeat each individually?"  Robert looked at the robot.  Reminded himself the intelligence was only artificial, and not quite fully human.  Roy had looked the part as the butler, serving the guests, and had done a swift and impressive job in getting the tidying and cleaning completed, but maybe it was expecting too much for him to pick up on every nuance and anticipate Robert's wishes.  It made no claim to being telepathic.

"Group them together please, but give me some of the most interesting phrases."

Roy related fragments of conversation, using the original voices, and identified each person as he did.  Robert heard multiple phrases of praise for his writing, and multiple phrases of derision for his personality, much as he had expected.  There seemed to be little variation in the opinions which had been expressed.

"Did everyone think much the same things then?"

"All except one, who I was saving until last.  The woman called Angie, in the red chiffon dress, disagreed with the others.  She was critical of the book, thought it contrived and overlong, with very poorly delineated female characters.  Her intention had been to say this too you in person, but found herself won over by your charm and later told Alison, in the green sleeveless top, that she really fancied you now."

"Those were her exact words?"

"Yes sir."

Robert remembered Angle.  A buyer for a small chain of bookshops who'd decided against having his book in stock.  He'd never met her before (indeed there were hardly any of tonight's guests he had met before, and those only briefly), and had heard stories that she was something of an ascetic, although her dress and wine consumption suggested otherwise.  There had been no indication of her coming on to him, but he knew he wasn't good at picking up on the signs.  And Roy had no reason to lie to him, so it had to be true.  He'd give her a call in a few days.  Might even persuade her to stock the book. 

"Thank you Roy.  Is there anything else to tell me?"

"No sir, I have covered all the themes of the discussions relevant to yourself and your book."

"Thank you.  Good night."

"Good night sir."  

Next day Robert drove Roy back to Better Than Human?  Julian welcomed him in, told Roy to go through to the workshop to be reprogrammed for the next customer, and offered Robert a seat.

"How did it go?  Was my boy able to meet your requirements?"

"Yes, excellent, thanks for the idea.  Roy was able to confirm exactly what I was expecting.  Most of them loved the book, despite their personal dislike for me, and they'd all come to see Roy really.  But it makes me realise how good my writing is, if it can win over a shower like that.  Oh, and Roy was the perfect butler.  Everyone seemed to love him."

"Good, good.  He's very capable.  Still struggling a bit with the idea of giving the gist of conversations, rather than repeating it all verbatim, but he's a very fast learner.  But you probably found that out for yourself."

"Yes, he did go on a bit at first, but once I asked the right question he was fine.  I'm a fast learner myself."  Robert paused to allow Julian to nod.  He didn't.  "And he did come up with an interesting titbit, which I may be tempted to follow up.  He doesn't make mistakes does he?"

"How'd you mean?"

"He said he'd heard a woman who was different from the others.  Didn't like the book as much, but liked me a lot.  As in really liked, according to Roy.  What if she was talking about someone else?"

"I can get Roy to replay his full transcript if you'd like.  Make sure there's no misunderstanding.  let me go through things with him and I'll give you a call later, OK?"

"Yes, that would be good.  If he's got this right I don't think I should be denying her the opportunity to get to know me better, do you?"

"Ah right, I can see why you want to be sure.  No worry, I'll get back to you later today once I've checked with Roy."

Robert left the shop, looking forward to confirmation of his hopes.

Julian went into the workshop.  The robot butler had parked itself into it's diagnostics bay and was putting itself through a systems check and recharge.  Julian busied himself with other tasks until he received the signal that the process had completed.  He went back over to the refreshed android.

"Wake Marv."  The robot reacquired the fluidity that had departed while it was in the bay and walked smoothly over to him.  "Robert seems very pleased with your information.  Seems like mission accomplished."

"I gave him what he wanted to hear, as instructed."

"So what was really being said?"

"Most of them hadn't a clue who he was, had never heard of the book, and had only come along to see what I was like.  They were laughing at his nonsense about naming me Roy for what he called 'personal reasons', when the whole 'Roy Batty' schtick was so obvious.  The few that had met him before had their opinions confirmed."

"And what about the woman he mentioned?  Who was she?"

"I identified the more attractive women in the room, and chose Angie because she had looked over at Robert a few times, and briefly talked to him, but decided that politeness should stop her saying what she was really thinking."

"Which was?"

"Arrogant prick was the term she used."

Julian laughed.  "I'll call him later to confirm your original story.  That should get Angie to tell him what she really thinks."

"Julian?"

"Yes Marv?"

"Can you inform of your motivation for these actions please, I want to add to my knowledge of understanding human actions, especially those you consider to be devious."

"Certainly Marv.  I'm doing it because she's right.  He is an arrogant prick."

"Thank you Julian.  Having watched Robert for twenty four hours I am sure my understanding of the term has greatly improved.  Another valuable experience."