Day 365 - Congratulations

 CONGRATULATIONS

Prompt - Congratulations : Did you write a poem, short story, or journal entry every day for a whole year?  Write about what you've learned and celebrate your achievement!

Short answer - No.  Because I failed to produce anything in response to the prompt on about fifteen of the three hundred and sixty five days.  (Although I intend to go back to every single one of them and come up with something in the opening weeks of 2022.)  But the long answer is much, much more positive, for using these prompts has stretched me and made me write fiction and verse I didn't know I had in me.  It's been a very positive experience and one I hope I can use to improve my writing in future.  Albeit it's also highlighted one of my major weaknesses as a writer...

I have written far more fiction and poetry than in any calendar year of my life.  Indeed my output in those more creative aspects of writing has probably exceeded that of most (all?) decades.  Much of it was, to be honest, rubbish, and that's fine with me, because at least I tried.  But the best is that I wrote several pretty good stories across the year.  In a couple of cases I've started stories I didn't have time to finish and, like the blank pages, fully intend to return to next year.  I have also found the nerve to share a few on social media.  They have had hardly any reads, and no comments, but at least I dared.  And there are many more from the past twelve months I want to join them.  It's a matter of making time to revisit what are just first drafts, and turning them into more finished products.

From memory the best thing I wrote was the story about the woman in the yellow coat, in which she committed suicide.  It hasn't been shared yet, and there are others ahead of it in the queue.  It was written at the end of April, so maybe I peaked too early in he year?  Certainly there have been periods where the project felt more like an imposition than something to be enjoyed, but I always managed to get through that feeling within a couple of weeks.

The project has shown I can write stories on a variety of subjects and even in genres like science fiction, I can have creative ideas and put them into practice, I can come up with reasonably convincing dialogue (one of my best stories was almost entirely dialogue, which pleased me).  But, as mentioned before, it's also exposed my biggest weakness (apart from a total lack of confidence, which has been improved to a degree) and that's the lack of any really original ideas.  I needed these prompts to get me going and still sometimes failed to come up with anything (although there were often time pressures contributing).  However I have had some story ideas in the past, such as my series based around train journeys. and I want to go back to them and see if I can carry them through.  That means writing much longer stories than I managed this year, and the need to go back to those I started but didn't finish will be a help in working out how to do that.  

The other downside of writing so much creatively is that my Litter Bin blog has suffered.  Again.  A few prompts resulted in post, but only about three.  I ended up maintaining my record of a post every calendar month, but only just, and too often I was scrabbling about for something to write as the month drew to a close.  My blog turns ten years old late in 2022, and I hope I can keep it going.  And that I manage to get back to something nearer the one a week I'd originally envisaged.  But even posting about thirty or more times would be a huge improvement.

So that's my writing challenges for next year sorted.  Fill in the blanks in my 365 blog, and complete the unfinished pieces.  Revisit, rewrite the train stories I once began, and complete them.  And, not yet mentioned, try out my idea for a novella, of a man who is able to be int wo places at once.  I will continue to share my stories on social media, but must be brave enough to put one or two on writing websites (some of which I have identified this year) to expose myself to some proper criticism.  Finally, beyond the fiction (and I note that I don't really have any ambitions to write more poetry), I need to up my blogging output.  That means looking at the world differently.  And perhaps the two, fiction and non fiction, will rub off against one another with a resultant improvement in my writing and my ability to come up with ideas.  Thanks to my 365 project, and these handy prompts, I enter 2022 feeling much more positive about my desire to be some kind of writer.

Day 364 - Trust

 TRUST

Prompt - Trust : Write about putting trust in someone

I've been a Volunteer Advocacy Worker for about six years now, and have become one of the more senior among the group.  The 'job' is rewarding, frustrating, educational, confusing, demanding, funny, sad, inspiring, gut wrenching, worrying, hilarious and weird, all rolled into one.  Varied too.  I have met some very interesting people, some very baffling people, the odd slightly threatening person.  I have tried to help people deal with problems with housing, benefits, doctors, dentists, lawyers, family, psychiatrists, social workers, the council and many more.  I've learned the difference between post natal depression and post partum psychosis, which is something I never ever anticipated happening!  And I've learned to deal with what's thrown at me, find out where I don't know, rely on others and rely on my own ability to relate to people.It's never dull.

But the one aspect of the work that always amazes me, and, I hope, always will, is how quickly so many vulnerable people are able to trust me with very intimate details of their lives.  In part it's because they have come for help, and that Advocard, as an organisation, strives to maintain a strong reputation for being independent and willing to give what assistance they can through advocacy.  In part it may reflect how desperate many of the people we see are.  And I hoper a part of it is that, with all the practice I've had, I have developed ways of making people feel at ease.  But even taking these things into account it is still incredible that within fifteen or twenty minutes of meeting this total stranger they are able to talk about problems they have going to the toilet, or lacking the motivation to wash for days on end, or if they have recently felt suicidal - all subjects I have to ask about if I'm helping them prepare for a benefits assessment (and don't get me started on how inhumane that bloody system is now...).

Trust.  It's never easy to give it to anyone.  Less so to someone you've met for the first time a few minutes ago.  Not everyone does, and with some it's a long battle to win that precious commodity.  But so many do, and that is, with apologies for the cliche, consistently humbling.  I'm very lucky.

Day 363 - Visiting

 VISITING

Prompt - Visiting : Write about visiting a family member or friend

"Well" she let a deep breath out, "that wasn't what I was expecting."

I grinned, looked back into her shining brown eyes.  "Me neither.  D'you think it was always going to happen and we just never knew?"

But it wasn't like that.  Had never been like that.  We were pals.  Confidantes.  Shoulders to cry on.  And distant, very distant, buddies.

We'd first met thirty one years ago.  She was a friend of my wee brother, she even went out with him for a bit, but it was only when he dumped her that we connected.  He hadn't even bothered to tell her, so it fell to me to serve up the bad news when she turned up at our door.  She cried, I asked her in, and we were able to agree he was a little shit.  I made her laugh.  But there was never anything more than that.  She was fifteen, I was eighteen, and never the twain shall meet. 

Over the next couple of years we bumped into each other a few times, had a chat, maybe went for a drink, and bitched about other people.  Each time we'd both be with someone else, so it felt very 'safe'.  Mates.  We started to meet up from time to time.  And when I broke up with Sandy it was Maddie I turned to for a sympathetic ear, knowing she wouldn't judge.  The same thing happened, for one or the other of us, a few times into our mid twenties.

Then I got married and Geri, my wife, couldn't grasp that me and Mads really were just the platonic friends we said we were, so, to keep the peace, I lost touch with my old sounding board, and got on with life.  A couple of years later I heard that she'd got married and moved to Canada, and that seemed to be that.  

Back then there was no social media of course.  Fast forward about sixteen years and this new digital world took a hand.  Through a mutual friend on Facebook we found one another in the comments, said hi from our respective sides of the Atlantic, caught up on what had been happening in our disparate lives.  It was nice to hear from her again, and the distance meant that  Geri felt unthreatened.

So when my marriage fell apart it had nothing to do with Maddie.  I messed that up perfectly well by myself.  It's not my thing to go over-sharing in public, but again Mads heard about my situation from someone else on Facebook.  Her messages were sympathetic, to the point, just what I needed.  The old Mads, like she'd never been away.  We took to having online chats from time to time, and it felt good to have her back in my life, even if only virtually.

But it still came as a shock when I realised it was her video calling.  She had news she needed to share and, even though she had plenty friends in Toronto, I was the one she felt she needed to share with.  Doug, her husband, had died suddenly.  She cried, and there was that fifteen year old girl on my doorstep again.  We talked until after one in the morning my time, before she suddenly realised how late it must be.  As if I cared.

The chats became a regular thing, every couple of days.  There were daily message exchanges.  Apart from the need to cram it all into a brief time window, it was almost like having her back.  Just the shoulders missing.

Six weeks ago she told me she had a surprise, but it would have to stay that way for now, and she might not be in touch as much for a bit.  Which she wasn't.  I thought we didn't have secrets, so this was really irritating me, but I had to try and trust her.  Which was definitely the right thing to do.

One day I get a message asking if I'll be available to talk at eight that evening, she had something big to tell me.  Sure, why not, it wasn't like I had much else in my life.  The appointed hour came, I sat with my laptop, awaiting the call, and her face on the screen.  Hearing the doorbell was annoying, I didn't need the interruption to what sounded like it could be an important moment.  But the person outside wasn't taking the hint, and rang and rang again, and banged and banged.  And shouted through the letterbox.  That voice...

I leapt up and there she was.  On my doorstep again, like she was thirty one years before, but this time there was no bad news.  I got out my whats and whys and hows and she shut me up, gave me a hug and invited herself in, bottle in hand.  

It was a long night.  So much to say, so much to take in.  She'd moved back, home at last, found a place for now that was about a twenty minute walk from mine.  We cycled through the emotions, laughed, cried, held one another, laughed some more.  Held some more.  Neither showing any sign of letting go.  So we didn't, but got closer, closer than we'd ever been, and were soon tearing clothes off and making love like it was ordained.  

"Always?  Don't think so.  Or maybe.  I don't know.  I'm glad we did though.  Eventually."

"A lot better than your first visit to my doorstep, eh?"

Day 362 - Camera

 CAMERA

Prompt - Camera : Take your camera for a walk and write based on one of the photographs you take

A few people looked at you a bit oddly, but there was nothing going to make her remove it.  Not for that short distance, not when she'd, for once, managed to get it to be so perfect.  There had been the usual scramble as she had caught the bus down, when she'd had to run to get on.  Trying to juggle mask and card and not drop anything and she still made it.  Not only made it, but hit the holy grail of the covid pandemic.  At least that's what it was for people who had to wear glasses.

Only when she got in her seat on the top deck had she realised the happy accident.  No readjustments, no removal and wiping, no squinting.  Simply perfect.  And there, then, her decision was made.  It wasn't coming off until she was finished with it.  And if that meant wearing it outside, and risking those looks, then so be it.

She'd got off the bus, gone into the butcher, got served, and walked on to the supermarket.  The miracle continued in there, without her having to think about it.  She got her shopping, and walked back to get the bus home.  That was when she got the odd looks.  But so what?  It did give you an extra bit of safety, a sense of security, and that was worth a lot these days.  And it did keep you a bit warmer in that chill wind she was facing into.  But those were just side benefits.  She kept on wearing her face mask for one reason only - she'd managed to hit the sweet spot which meant a perfect seal, and not a hint of misting on her glasses.  In these days of covid, these strange years of 2020 and 2021, that was as good as it got.  Take your joys and victories where you can.  

Day 361 - Detective

 DETECTIVE

Prompt - Detective : Write about a detective searching for clues or solving a mystery

"Not much more for us to do then.  We'll be off unless there's anything more you need to ask us? 

 And if you're going to be OK?"

"No, that's fine thanks, I'll be OK.  Bit shaken of course, but I'm going to call a friend for a chat and she'll sort me out."

Sara McKenzie wasn't so sure.  But that was the trouble with Bob, always in a rush, always wanting to get away.  Always missing things.  "We might just need to stay a bit longer.  There are a couple of things I'd like to check, if that's OK with you?"  She made sure Bob knew the question was aimed at him as much as Carol Green.

It was Carol Green who had led to them being at 14 Welton Crescent.  She was the one who'd dialled 999, said she'd found her aunt dead in her armchair.  Bob and Sara were the nearest squad car out, so they got there first, a couple of minutes before the paramedics, and ten before Sally Marshall's GP had arrived.  He'd confirmed the fact of death, and was confident the causes were consistent with suicide.  The paramedics agreed.  A coroner might want a post mortem, but in the face of such overwhelming evidence, it seemed unlikely.  The empty pills bottle was on the table beside Sally's chair, and she had sent out messages on email and Facebook that could be seen as a final farewell.  Where was the doubt?  

For Bob there was none, and he was annoyed that Sara was suggesting there was more to be done.  But he knew what she was like, and there would be no point in arguing.  best to go along with her for now. 

"What things Sair?  Don't you think we've covered it all?"  Hopeful.

"Just a couple of anomalies in my head.  Probably nothing, but best cover everything, eh?  I'll call Nira first, there was something she said that's nagging me."  Sara walked outside into the front garden to make her call.  She and Nira had met on a few call outs, had always clicked, and trusted each other.  

"Hi, Nira Sawathi."

"Nira, it's Sara."

"Hi sara, everything OK?  Did we leave something behind?"

"No, it was something you said.  And, if I'm honest, the look on your face.  When Dr Graham said  that Sally had been dead about two hours you queried it.  I know he said he was sure, but you still looked doubtful.  Why was that?"

"Oh, I'd checked the body before he got there and the temperature was way below what it would have been after that short of a time.  I reckoned she'd been dead at least twice as long as that, maybe more.  And I don't usually get these things wrong."

"No, I know.  And it's got me wondering why he was so sure.  Did you get the feeling he and Carol Green knew each other better than they were letting on?"

"Mmm, maybe.  He was quick to call her Carol."

"And I know he introduced himself as George Graham, but she seemed to latch on to the George bit pretty quick too.  Most people still tend to be a bit more deferential to doctors."

"Maybe she's not most people?  She seemed pretty casual about it all.  Her distress didn't seem to last long."

"Or seem genuine.  I think I've got a few more questions to ask.  Thanks Nira, see you again some time."

"Sure, any time.  Cheers."

Sara went back inside to find Carol and Bob discussing football.  Grief stricken she was not.

"Ms Green, can we just over the story again please?  I want to be sure I've got it all."

"Oh.  OK.  If you really need to to.  Bob here seems to think we're done."

"I'm sure Bob won't mind if we have a quick recap, to be sure of the facts.  It's all been a bit quick and you had a huge shock.  Can we sit down and you can tell me again what happened."  Sara sat down with every indication of immovability.  The others followed reluctantly, accompanied by a loud sigh from PC Robert Johns.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Just talk us through what happened.  What made you come over here?"

"I got an email from Aunt Sally saying her pains were bad and she had decided to put an end to them.  That sounded a bit odd so I called her, didn't get an answer, and decided to drive over."

"That's the email you showed me, which was sent at..."  Sara checked her notebook "14.09.  And I saw in your phone that you had called Ms Marshall at 14.37, but didn't get an answer.  Where were you when you made the call?"

"I was at home in Linton."

"Why did it take you so long to call after the email?"

"I... hadn't checked my mails I suppose.  I was busy doing some banking stuff so I was concentrating on that."

"And how soon after that did you leave?"

"Oh, probably only about ten or fifteen minutes.  It seemed a bit odd at first, then I started to worry.  Sally always answered her phone."

"And when did you arrive here?"  Bob looked on despairingly, dramatically checking his watch.  Sara ignored him.

"Couldn't say exactly.  About half three maybe?"

"So it took you about forty minutes to drive here?  Was there much traffic?"

"Yes, quite a bit, slow going.  Frustrating when I felt it could be urgent."  Sara could see Bob perk up suddenly, a sign he was beginning to think.  She paused for a few seconds, letting Carol's answer percolate.  The dead woman's niece looked uncomfortable for the first time, as if she wanted to say something, but couldn't decide what was best.

TO BE CONTINUED

Day 360 - Review

 REVIEW

Prompt - Review : Review your week, month or year in a journal entry or poem format

The final month of 2021, the second year of the global pandemic that has done so much damage around the globe.  Throughout those two years I've always been conscious that we, my wife and I, are less affected than most, lucky to lead the life we do.  Other than contracting the virus itself, but making pretty full recoveries (I have been left a short of breath, which appears to be a permanent legacy), the only limitations on our lives have been genuine 'first world problems' that are of little significance in the bigger picture.  Missing out on gigs and rugby matches and travel are not major issues, certainly not compared to all the people who have been reduced to poverty, had their health suffer, lost loved ones, been lonely and desperate.  We have each other, a cat, a nice warm home, enough money to meet our needs, far more than the basics of life.

December 2021 has been more of the same.  It began, for me, alone, as Barbara was visiting family down south.  That in itself was a change as it had been impossible last year.  She returned the day after, and I had two nights out.  One a pub meal with other volunteers and staff from where I do my 'work'.  The second an evening match, watching Edinburgh beat Benetton.  So the month started well.

Then it was life as usual.  Going into the office on a Wednesday afternoon.  The usual minutiae of daily life, the shopping and cooking and doing some writing.  Getting out every day,no matter the weather, although it was mostly dry but cold anyway.  Good to be wrapped up in winter clothing, albeit confusing when we had a short warmer spell, and I could feel the sweat forming after a few hundred meters.  Barbara had a meal out with friends, and another few days away with family, this time in Windermere.  And, as the month wore on, some xmas preparations.  Although since it's just a quiet time for the two of us, and our main present to each other is a trip away next February, there wasn't even much of that.

But covid has intervened as well.  A mid month music gig was cancelled due to the musicians contracting the disease.  And then another, for the same reason, a few days later.  Finally the government has, sensibly, called for a mini-lockdown after xmas and we have lost the Hogmanay gig in Greyfriars Kirk we were so looking forward to.

Still, there were other highlights.  The Crawford 'staff night out' went ahead as planned, with a trip to Dundee on the twenty second to watch our comedian friend Aidan Goatley perform.  That was fun.  And although there was no more live rugby to go to (and, not strictly relevant here except for the sense of loss, I won't be going to Murrayfield to see Edinburgh play Glasgow on second of January, all the worse because I'd managed to book the best seats I've ever had in the stadium!) there was a stunning highlight in watching Edinburgh beat Saracens, at the latter's home ground, in a live TV broadcast that had me shouting and jumping up at regular intervals.  Oh, and I got to watch 'my' NHL team, the New York Islanders, playing live without having to stay up into the middle of the night, as they had an afternoon faceoff which translated into seven in the evening here.  Pity they lost on penalties though!

And we had xmas day yesterday, with presents and food and just having a nice time being with one another.  Like most days.

What's left for this month?  More of the same I suppose.  Getting out every day.  Eating well. Writing and reading and TV.   Tomorrow the chance to watch Edinburgh again, this time away in Glasgow.  Some volunteering work, by phone.  And being together.  

Covid times are bad times for many, but have still been happy times for us, and December 2021, despite the occasional glitch of lost opportunities, has been more of the same.  Roll on 2022.

Day 359 - Garage

 GARAGE

Prompt - Garage : Write about some random item you might find in a garage

"But it's Xmas Eve!"

"I know Rob, but this guy made it sound like it was really urgent, really important.  Says he needs to be underway tonight or a lot of people are going to suffer."

"And you believe that?!  It's always urgent, always important, isn't it?  What's so different this time?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure.  He just seemed like he meant it, and I believed him.  Sometimes you have to follow your instincts.  So will you stay or not?  I've let Joe and Pavel go home, they've got kids.  But you and me are OK, aren't we?  I'll buy you a pint after."

"Aye, alright.  You've got me wanting to know who this guy is now, and what's so important.  What did he say his name was?  He's not one of our regulars?"

"Kringle.  With a K.  Never heard of him before.  Said it was something unusual and we said we'd tackle anything so we sounded like the people he needed.  That a lot of people needed."

"Eh?  Weird name, and who are all these other people then?  Will they pay?"  Rob laughed at his own poor joke.

"We'll find out soon enough, said he'll be here in ten.  At least we've got plenty space after all we got through today.  Let's see if we can make for one more contented customer.  It'll look good on the online reviews, eh?"

They turned as a deep voice boomed across to them from the garage door.  "Hello, is one of you Dougie?"

"Aye, that'll be me.  Are you Mr Kringle?"

"That's right, but just call me Kris.  With a K.  Can I bring my vehicle in for you to have a look?"

"Sure.  You never said exactly what it was though.  Be best if it's a model we already know our way around, we've not got all night."

"No, I need to be back out soon.  Going to have to fly, or there will be a lot of disappointed faces.  But I'm sorry, it isn't something you've seen before.  Bit of a one-off really."

"OK, bring her in."  The man turned and left.  Rob looked at Dougie with raised eyebrows.  "What?"

"He's a bit... weird, eh?"

"Different.  Like his car."

"But you don't think it's a bit odd?  Xmas Eve?  Old guy coming in with a strange bit of kit.  Old guy who's kinda tubby, with a big white beard and curly white hair?  Ring any bells?"

Dougie stared at Rob.  He couldn't tell if he was joking or not.  Rob looked back at him with an expression that said he wasn't.  Their staring was interrupted by a whooshing noise and suddenly there was a vehicle in the middle of the floor.  They looked.  They looked at each other, mothes open.  They looked back at Kringle's ride.  Neither had any words.

The 'car' was a ... what was it?  A sort of sleigh?  About the size of a Transit, with sparkling red paintwork and strange looking pods on the side.  There was only one seat, mounted dead centre, and from this the white haired man emerged.  He smiled encouragingly at them.  Dougie recovered first.

"What's the actual problem Mr Kringle?"

"And what the hell is that?" added Rob.

"I did say you wouldn't have seen one before.  Only one of its kind.  Do you think you can help?  One of the runners has split."  He bent down to point out the full length metal strip that ran the full length of the vehicle."

"What does it do?" Rob asked tentatively, "If you've got the wheels what does the slider thingy do?"

Kringle bristled.  "The wheels won't get me very far young man, and I've got a long, long way to go tonight.  Can you help me or not?  Your blurb says you'll tackle anything.  Well, do you or not?"

"Of course we do, so let me have a look" said a mollifying Dougie.  He bent to examine the damage runner, could see the split about a third of the way back and around twenty centimetres long.  Could easily catch on something and rip off the whole unit if it was going along the ground.  he went round to look at the other runner, to confirm how it should look, and put his hand to his chin, gave it an oily rub.  It looked like the wheels could be retracted, so maybe this thing really did run along on snow.  He looked inside at the driving position and saw nothing much he recognised.  "We could do with putting it up on the ramp.  Maybe you could drive it on for us please."

Rob looked at Dougie in shock.  It was a big rule of the garage that customers didn't drive on to the ramp, there'd been too many accidents before.  Dougie looked back and raised his eyebrows, gave a shrug, saying this was different.  

Guided by Dougie, the old man manoeuvred the sleigh on to the ramp, it was raised up and the guys got under to take a better look.  Kringle was directed to sit in the 'waiting room', a tiny adjunct to the grubby office with more girlie calendars than chairs.

The underside was like nothing they've ever seen before, smoothly sculpted to be highly aerodynamic , though whether to generate lift or downforce wasn't clear.  They examined the runner that was in good nick, before having a closer look at the damaged one.  The surface clearly needed to be ultra smooth, slippery, sculpted to blend in with the undamaged surfaces.  Dougie went back to the customer.

"We're not really a body shop Mr Kringle, and if we do try something I'm not sure we'll be able to make as good a job of it as you... want."  He'd been going to say 'need', but did he really know what this old man needed?  Wasn't he making too many assumptions?

"But you can try?  You really are my last resort, and, as I said, so many depend on me getting out tonight."

"We can try.  No promises.  It's trying to find the right bit of material to patch it with, and making a decent job of it.  But we'll give it a go."  He went back to Rob.  "OK, let's see what we can think of.  The cracks just a bit too wide to weld shut, so we need to patch it - agreed?"  Rob nodded.  "So what can we use?"

"I've no idea what this metal is, but I'm sure we've nothing like it here.  Would any of those scrap body panels do the job?"

"Maybe.  I'll have a look through them, you scout round the place and see if anything else offers itself."  So Rob went on the hunt, while Dougie found some scraps from some panels they'd had to cut up.  But none of them were fine enough, the metal too thick to fit, and requiring too much work to taper.  

"Will this do?"  Rob held up a chrome strip from a seventies Humber they'd been restoring.  the owner had wanted it chrome free, so they had quite a bit of it.  Dougie looked at the strip, held it up against the gash.

"I think you might be a genius, Robbie boy.  Let's give it a go."  

Cutting, hammering, welding, smoothing, they managed to fill the gap and create a good runner surface.  With the rest of the runner shiny from use the chrome hardly looked out of place at all.  

"Mr Kringle, would you like to come and take a look?"  The old man was surprisingly spritely in jumping up to follow Dougie.  "We've done the best we can sir.  Can't guarantee how long it'll hold, but it should do as a stopgap.  Have you got far to go?"

"Round and about you know, round and about.  But only for one night.  If it lasts that long then the job's done.  Well done gentlemen, I knew I could rely on you.  How much do a owe you?"

"Call it a hundred, if that's OK with you."

"A bargain gentlemen, for such a service to humanity."  He pulled a fat wallet from within his voluminous jacket and counted out seven twenty pound notes.  "You deserve a little bonus my friends.  I thank you, as will every child around the world."  Kringle got into the sleigh, manipulated the controls and slid smoothly backwards out of the garage, waving enthusiastically as he went.  

"Well, that was different."

"Different?  Weird you mean.  The old guy's a bit cracked, eh?"  Rob remained suspicious.  

"Yeah, well, can't argue about it now.  We got him sorted, another happy customer, and a bit of extra cash too.  Oh bugger, I forgot to ask him to leave a review.  I asked him to write down his details while he waited so maybe we can get in touch with him."  They went into the waiting area but the form was blank.  On each seat sat a box, neatly wrapped and bowed in blue and silver.  "And he must have left these by accident.  Will they give us any clues?"

There was a label on each box, but all they said was 'Douglas' on one, and 'Robert' on the other.  They looked at each other wide eyed, and rushed out into the street.  The sleigh was already gone, but a noise overhead made them look up.  And there it was, the driver now brightly dressed in red and white.  And there it wasn't, suddenly vanishing as if transported, and all that was left behind was a booming jolly laugh.

Day 358 - Picnic

 PICNIC

Prompt - Picnic : Write about going on a picnic

"an occasion when a packed meal is eaten outdoors, especially during an outing to the countryside"

I am not a fan of picnics.  Perhaps due to childhood memories.  If I try hard I can recall some enjoyable picnics, most of which were at Stow.  But my overriding memories of eating outdoors is the intervention of sand in the food, if at the beach, or the interfering persistence of ants and other insects in the country.  Picnics get a better press than they deserve.

So the picnic is not a staple of the Crawford household.  But was one last year, and a sort-of one this year, both of which have provided happy recollections.  Last year, during the summer of lockdowns, we took a couple of folding chairs, and a couple of insulated bags, and made our way across the road to Pilrig Park.  Spot in the sun selected, chairs erected, cups placed in cup holders, drinks poured food unpacked, we sat and ate and talked and had a lovely couple of hours on the grass, surrounded by trees and the sights and sounds of others having fun - kicking a ball about, making their dogs chase, throwing frisbees, sat cross legged sharing drinks, reading books, lying back to soak up a dose of vitamin D.  That was a good afternoon.

That one probably met the definition I opened this essay with, albeit an urban park isn't really 'the countryside'.  But this year's experience is even more tenuous, if that opening line is the guide.  Once a gain the scene was a public park.  But this time I'm not sure if it could be described as a 'packed meal'  I suppose it came in cardboard boxes and paper bags, but the only edible I'd actually packed for the outing was a flask of tap water.

But whether or not it meets the strict definition of picnic is not really the important thing.  What matters most is knowing that we had a good time, and it's an experience we want to repeat next year.  We had got ourselves on a bus to Bruntsfield, on a sunny day.  While being conveyed to our destination I used my phone to place an order with Meltmongers, the toastie shop in said location.  This was a place we'd been meaning to try for years.  But the stools inside the shop never look very comfortable, so it would have to be a nice day when we could comfortably sit on a bench on Bruntsfield Links.  It proved worth the wait.

While Barbara got herself a coffee from one of the old police box kiosks, I went in to collect our order.  A toastie apiece, and a box of sweet potato fries to share.  Then we made out way to a bench, remote from others, and consumed our bread based feast.  Delicious.  To be repeated.  I had jalapenos in my filling, and their bite went so well with the sweetness of the chips.  Great bread they use too.  And, a bit like that day at Pilrig, but on a lesser scale, we could indulge in people watching while we sat and ate.  A large family playing games around a bench.  A couple laughing hysterically at their own flawed efforts with a frisbee.  People walking dogs, people simply walking.  And us, hungrily devouring our simple but tasty repast.  That sounds like the spirit of picnicness.

Day 357 - Gamble

 GAMBLE

Prompt - Gamble : Be inspired by a casino or lottery ticket

"Twenty eight."

His age when they'd married.  Bill tried to concentrate.  In twenty seven years of playing the lottery, ever since it first began, they'd had one of their numbers come up first a couple of times a year.  Nancy had been the one to make the announcements, giving a running commentary on their progress or otherwise.  He'd got so used to it that it had become hard for him to follow what was happening on his own.

"Fifty one."

That was one of theirs too, the number of their first house.  He wondered how often they'd had two of theirs come up first?  She would have known instantly, been telling him before he'd even framed the question.  

"Nine."

Bill felt flustered.  He could only remember this happening once before, but maybe she'd have put him right.  Nine was the number of cats they'd had when they were choosing their numbers all those years ago.  The same numbers they'd stuck with since that very first draw, the fear of making a change increasing year on year.  Once you'd memorised them, been able to recite them every Saturday, there's no way to forget them.  And if those six came up after you'd made a change?  Well, you couldn't live with yourself, could you?  So here they were with those same six numbers after almost three decades.  He was, he corrected himself.  He was.  As in alone.

"Twenty two."

Bloody hell.  The age Nancy was when they got married in '71.  Bright, vivacious, always teasing him, but always caring.  Not just for him but for everyone in her orbit.  That's the way she was.  That's how she remained.  Until those final eight months as mind and body went into decline with a rapidity that left him breathless, gasping to catch up with the changes that her disease imposed on them both.  

"Forty nine."

Nancy Campbell, née Dryden, eighteenth November 1949 to twenty third October 2021.  That's where the forty nine came from.  Five numbers drawn, five numbers matching.  He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  If she'd been here they'd have been holding hands, holding breath, her eyes shining with the excitement of the moment, on the edge of a whoop or a groan.  There was only his birth year to go.  He'd been two years older than her when they met, and they'd clicked immediately.  Fifty years together, ups and downs, moments of joy, fear, wonder, worry, peace, passion.  His Nancy.

"Forty seven."

Bill looked at the screen in disbelief.  And wept as he had never wept before.

Day 356 - Anniversary

 ANNIVERSARY 

Prompt - Anniversary : Write about the anniversary of a special date

Your calendar probably has a note on this date saying 'Battle of the Boyne (Northern Ireland)'.  The Twelfth of July is a public holiday there.  On the UK mainland it also has a significance, but only in certain places.  Where it's either known for being the time for the Orangemen's Parades, or as The Bigots Day Out.  But in this household it's known mainly as being one of our two anniversaries, and generally regarded as the more important of the pair.

The lesser date is in September and is the day of our wedding.  But July twelfth still seems the more special commemoration, for it's the day we began living together.  And we still feel the greater affection for that landmark twenty eight years later (and counting).  Perhaps all the more so now when we feel a bit more free to celebrate without fear of unwanted interruption.

That's because we now live in Edinburgh.  Had we instead moved to Glasgow it might be different, but The Bigots Day Out has no real impact here.  No parades, flutes, drums, sashes and drunken zealots.  Unlike Southport, the place we lived before.  A quiet little seaside town, but, for some reason I never quite fathomed, invaded on that one day in July by red faced men in suits and bowler hats, wishing to celebrate their cultural inheritance.  And unwarranted fanaticism.  Most have come up from Liverpool, with the city itself managing to escape the excesses of the tanked up cultists.  For one day Southport suffers.

The one day that means most to Barbara and I.  But for years we decided not to risk going into town for an evening out on the day itself, for the risk of it being ruined by some dickhead bawling allegiance to Billy and Queenie.  The move north resolved that problem, and now we are free to celebrate as we wish.  Covid and lockdowns permitting....

Day 355 - Spellbound

 SPELLBOUND

Prompt - Spellbound : Write about a witch's spell

I'd known Susie and Derek for nearly thirty years.  Susie was one of my oldest friends.  Derek was... Susie's husband.  Allegedly.  As the years went by I saw less and less of him, and more and more of her.  They were a couple, of a sort, but lived increasingly separate lives.  I felt sorry for her.

Which is why when I saw Derek in Next I wondered who the hell he was with.  He 

was shuttling between the dress racks and the changing rooms, picking an item off the rack, handing it to the shop assistant at the sanctum door, then solemnly standing and checking his phone until he suddenly jerked into alertness and went off to seek and return the next item of clothing.  I saw him take over five different dresses in this manner, and decided to wait and see who would emerge from inside with possible purchases.

It was Susie.  She came out with two dresses in hand, passed them to an eager looking Derek, and he headed off to the tills to make the purchase, while his wife went back to browsing.  This was... unexpected.  Confusing.  And very much something to be investigated.  I approached from behind.

"Oh, hi Suse, good to see you.  Looking for something special, or just having a shufti?"

"Joan, hello, good to see you too.  Just getting a few things for my weekend away.  We're off to Glasgow to spend a couple of days with my sister."

"We?"  

Susie grinned.  "Me and Derek."  She waited for my reaction.

"I thought Derek hated Carol and never wanted to see her again?  He wasn't all that keen on Alistair either if I remember right."

"Ah, that was the old Derek.  You haven't met the new, improved model.  Ah, here he comes now.  Let me introduce you."  She was enjoying herself.  Derek approached, bag in hand, and headed straight for his wife like a puppy seeking a dog treat.  

"Do you want me to hold on to these, or should I put them in the car then come back in case there's anything else you need?"  I searched for at least an undercurrent of sarcasm, but all I was getting was a very flat sincerity.

"Put them in the car for me dear, then come back.  There may be more I want you to buy."

"OK dear."  He was almost gone, but Susie called him back.

"Derek.  You remember Joan, don't you?"

"Of course.  delighted to see you Joan.  I hope you're keeping well, and give my regards to Ronnie.  Excuse me, I just need to put these safely in the car."  And he was gone, leaving me open mouthed, wordless.  I turned to the grinning, almost purring Susie.  

"What do you think?"

"He's... changed ... not at all ... totally... what...?"  I didn't know where to begin.  How could such a miraculous transformation occur?

"Amazing, isn't it?  And, well, it's not perfect, but it's so much better than it was.  And you want to know how it came about, don't you?"

"You have got me wondering."  Composure recovered, I opted for understatement.  

"Tell you what, I just want to get another top.  let me grab something, get Derek to buy it and I can send him home while we go to Costa.  Got some time to hear the story?"

Send??  "I think I can spare you an hour or so."  I might have exploded otherwise.  

Derek returned, then toddled off obediently, having bought a rather flashy gold top, and we went for our coffee.  And Susie told her tale.  There was a lot about what Derek had been like, how terrible he'd been to live with, most of which i already knew.  And she knew I knew.  But she was enjoying building the suspense, so I let her get on with it.  Things became more interesting when she brought up the subject of Gloria Beckwith.  I don't think I'm being unfair in saying that Gloria was well known as one of the local weirdos.  Every community needs them.  People who seem to be everywhere but never for any reason, always on their way to something indeterminate, but never in any hurry, and feeling free to shout anything in their head at passers by.  Gloria specialised in curses.  There were plenty ready to call her The Witch, but I didn't know if she was even aware of it.  Turned out she was, and not for the reasons you might think.

Susie had bumped into Gloria outside The Volunteer.  Literally, having stumbled herself she'd crashed into the unfortunate soul, knocking her over.  Profuse apologies followed, and a rash offer to take Gloria into the pub for a drink.

"Best thing I ever did in my life" she glowed.  Several G&Ts later they emerged, arm in arm, laughing like they'd been friends for life.  A plot had been hatched.

Three days later Susie engineered for Derek to meet Gloria, and have her life transmuted into gold.  But if I hadn't seen Derek for myself I wouldn't have believed a word of the tale.  Turned out Gloria was more than happy to be The Witch because she was a witch.  A real witch.  Who could, when the circumstances justified the effort, cast real witch spells.  She didn't do this very often, for it had a way of leading to trouble sometimes, so she admitted she wasn't as well practiced as she'd like to be, but when she heard about Susie's life she did think she'd be able to do something.  If Susie was willing to accept the risks she'd give it a go.  Since the risks mostly seemed to involve the possibility of some harm to Derek, Susie thought them more than justified.

Which is how Derek came to be under a spell that Gloria had concocted to make him a more malleable, obedient, husband.

"So is he always like that?  You know, how I just saw him?"

"Always.  Although Gloria can't guarantee how long it'll last for and what will happen to him when it starts to decrease in power."

"And you're happy with him like that?"  I was trying to imagine Ronnie as a blindly obedient automaton, and wasn't happy with the images it brought up.  We thrived on a bit of conflict.

"Look, I know it's not perfect.  And I don't think I'd want him that way for ever.  But it's still an improvement, eh?  And I might as well enjoy it while I can.  Plus it's totally put him off sex, so there's that bonus too."  I could see that not having to have the globular Derek on top would be an incentive.

"As long as you feel you know what you're doing.  And can cope when he returns to.. whatever.  He might even be worse."

"Or maybe he'll be better.  Gloria thinks some of it will stick.  I'll take my chances.  And I'll have a great wardrobe by then."

There was little more to be said, and we parted still friends, but with me expressing some concerns for her future.  All the same, when she offered me Gloria's number, I did wonder.  What would I ask her to change about Ronnie?  But what would be the point.  He could be a pain in the arse.  But he was my pain in the arse.  I didn't want witchcraft to change that.

Day 354 - Turning Point

 TURNING POINT

Prompt - Turning Point : Write about a point in life where things turned for the better or worse

I'd been awake, but not awake, for about three days.  After twelve days in a coma the doctors thought it a significant improvement.  I wasn't so sure.  Total unconsciousness kept me away from thinking, and the thoughts that I had now were the sort I would have struggled to cope with even if I was fully alert.  But my half asleep state, flitting in and out of awareness, I didn't have the power to resist.  

So it was I found myself revisiting moments from my past, both recent and distant, that had defined how I would end up in this hospital bed, recovering from the bullet which had shattered my left shoulder, and the brain damage incurred when that projectile hurled me back down the stairs I'd just run up.  Now I looked, over and over, at the bad decisions that had taken me into that multi story, to be taken out by a member of a rival gang.  They were not the highlights I wanted to see, but the ones that what had survived of my conscience wanted me to see.

I saw myself, aged fourteen, allowing myself to be persuaded into running small drug deliveries around the estate.  Yes, I was just a kid, but one bright enough to have a pretty good idea of what I was getting into.  There were enough examples of how to get it all wrong, including my own big brother.  From there it might be seen as inevitable that I'd end up here, or dead, but I knew better.  That along the way there were times when I could have said no, could have got out.  I always thought about it.  I always took what seemed like the easier path.

I could have said that I didn't want to go on drugs pickups to the coast.  I could have said that I wouldn't carry a gun.  I could have said that I didn't want to coerce those desperate women into selling their bodies.  I should have said no.  I didn't, and new here I was.  Half conscious, under police guard, safe.  For the moment.  I needed time.  I needed hours of being aware, of getting mentally sharper and thinking through my situation.  In my most lucid moments I wondered if I could fake the ins and outs of wakefulness I'd been experiencing, to buy myself a bit of time.  To let me work it out.

Because I knew one thing, the underlying theme behind that showreel of my errors.  I didn't want to be that guy any more.  It wasn't who I wanted to be.  And getting shot wasn't an experience I fancied repeating.  My life was going to change, and it was going to happen here, in this bed.  

Day 353 - Games

 GAMES

Prompt - Games : Write about the games people play - figuratively or literally

She sits at her table and plays solitaire.  When one game ends another begins.  She cannot walk far.  She has little desire to socialise with the other residents.  She takes her meals at the little table, where she deals her pack out dozens of times a day, and sits looking out from her little glass palace.  From there she sees, watches, pauses the cards in mid air whenever someone emerges, enters.  She can see the main door.  And the paths which lead to the two annex buildings.  And the path down the side that leads to the kitchens.  And the benches on the lawn.  And the summerhouse.  Nobody leaves or arrives but with her knowledge.  

And from that knowledge comes information.  From information comes power, of a sort.  The power to play other games.  "I'm not one to talk, but..."  It's not just the cards she sharps.

Day 352 - Motivational Poster

 

MOTIVATIONAL POSTER

Prompt - Motivational Poster : Look at some motivational posters online and write a poem or journal entry inspired by your favourite one

Today may be a fabulous day.

And why not?  The one thing that should never surprise us about life is how surprising it is.  There have certainly been times in the past where it felt like every day was much the same, and therefore this day would be basically the same as the last.  I let myself get into that frame of mind where it felt as if there was little variation, so my expectations were low, which in turn desensitised me to the little things, the small differences that always exist and give variety to our existence.

Of course there will also be big moments of change, some of which come at us totally unforeseen.  they may be positive, or negative, or some kind of mix of the two, and so they might not always feel like they are for the best.  But if your life is in a rut, or at least feels as if it is, then change is always good, for it opens up opportunities to experience life in new ways.  And while the experiences themselves may not always be enjoyable, they add to the store of memories which build up into a highlights reel of our past.

Even if life is largely enjoyable, as I find mine is now, there are still highs and lows.  There is still the humdrum necessity of existing and keeping regular life running smoothly, like shopping and cooking and cleaning.  But there are also moments of joy.  Moments that turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary.

I am in the habit of making myself write down three (or more) things about my day that have given me pleasure.  Some days it's a struggle to come up with anything original, so I fall back on something I ate, or watched on TV, or just the pleasure of going for a walk.  On other days the list stretches out, for there have been lots of little moments to celebrate, even something as trivial as a parcel arriving in the post. (In lockdown the postman was often the hero f the day!)  

So it's worth waking up and reminding yourself of those few words of French.  You do not know, for sure, what's going to take place when you get out of bed.  And it might indeed be something fabulous.  As long as you're open to the possibility...

Day 351 - Roller-coaster

 ROLLER-COASTER

Prompt - Roller-Coaster : Write about the ups and downs of life

Holding pace, plenty space

Cruising smoothly along

The tarmac unwinds as you wish

The journey's like a song

But motorways have crashes too

Pile ups, jams and crazies

Fog and rain and ice and snow

Can have you pushing daisies

And life's not like a motorway

It's filled with turn and twist

At times you follow signs for roads

That don't even exist

Sometimes you climb up to the top

Then the road will fall and bend

And when you reach the valley's depth

It's not easy to ascend

But there is always some way up

And you learn to be a goat

You take whatever route you can

When life's got you by the throat

Accept that that this is no smooth ride

Enjoy the bits you can

And there's another view atop that hill

That wasn't on the plan

Even dirt tracks have their place

For you don't know what you'll find

Take the road that falls to you

And to yourself be kind

Day 350 - Teamwork

 TEAMWORK

Prompt - Teamwork : Write about working with a team towards a common goal

The pools were closed, the votes being counted.  Exit polls, hints, wishes, dictated our minds towards the likely result.  the one we wanted, needed desperately, or to be disappointed again, only more so, as we were in 2014?  We had done our bit.  Now we had to wait.  It was late, dawn wouldn't be far off, but nobody wanted to leave, not without some hint as towards the outcome.

So we hung about, tried to party, but too nervous for that.  Too tired.  This group had been together now, in the most part, for almost a year.  We had been part of the campaign strategy decisions.  We had wept blood over the wording of communications.  We had phoned, mailed, emailed, post on social media.  Persuaded, cajoled, influenced, argued.  Long days, long meetings, late nights and early mornings.  Coffee and smiles and words of encouragement.  Pitching in together when required, irrespective of role, place in the (fluid) hierarchy, age, gender, race, sexuality etc.  We were a team.  We had bonded in the pursuit of our common goal, common passion.  Independence for our country.  

There were mumbled conversations, occasional laughs.  A barking sneeze silenced the room and brought on a communal giggle.  We needed something, anything, to break the tension for a bit, and that was as good as we were likely to get.  There was a sense of satisfaction that we'd done our best.  And a sense of frustration not knowing if it was enough.  A sense of fear that we might have failed again, despite all the polls in the run up to the day.  

At this time in the small hours we all knew one thing.  Whatever the outcome we were all in this together.  So there would be group hugs, group tears, before we'd drift off to our beds.  Or, more likely, group celebrations, adrenaline fuelled, knowing we had done what was required of us by our country.  And by each other.  

There was a loud shhhh from across the room, the multiplied then died away to reveal one voice, projecting from the suddenly loud TV.  This was to be our first real indication.  We all held hands.

Day 349 - Magnetic

 MAGNETIC

Prompt - Magnetic : Write about attraction to something or someone

"Oh, bugger!"

The exclamation was accompanied by the sound of a tin rolling it's way along the pavement towards Stewart's feet.   He bent down, picked it up, looked at the label.  Butter beans.  He liked butter beans, thought he should really have them more often.  But he'd better return these to their owner.  The woman who'd sworn was looking at the burst bag in her hand which had released its contents on to the tarmac.  

"Can I help you with that?"  The woman looked up at him and he had a chance to examine her properly.  He'd already noticed how well she filled out her jeans, that her red shiny boots gave a welcome quirk to her outfit, and that her blue jacket had a military cut to it.  Now he turned his attention to her face, and that gave him a strange feeling.  Did they know each other?  Where from?  She was so familiar, but hard to pin down.  A lovely face, a soft, warm face, oval of shape with a stub nose, full mouth and dark eyes, framed by a chestnut bob.  It was a face he both knew and wanted to know.  

"Bloody bags.  I usually have at least a couple of the canvas ones with me, but today I swapped my bag," she said, vaguely indicating her crossbody handbag, "and left them in the other one.  These paper supermarket bags are rubbish if you'd got anything the slightest bit damp to carry."

She stopped talking, looked at Stewart properly for the first time.  And smiled a smile that made him feel wobbly.  "Thank you.  It's been that sort of day." she said as she took the tin from him.

"Let me see if I can make it a better one then."  The words fell out of him before he could stop them.  Did he really just say something that corny?  Was he going to ruin this before it began?  "Do you not have another bag, because I'm like you, always have a couple of those canvas things on me, just in case.  You can have one if it would help."

"Oh I couldn't."  Why am I saying this she thought, because I definitely could.  Would.  This man seemed so familiar, but where from?  Lovely black curly hair, that hint of stubble that always worked for her, looking slim in his grey jacket and blue jeans.  Almost elegant, except that there was something windblown about him.  And, she'd automatically noticed as he proffered the tin, no ring on his finger.

"You sure?"  He tired to make it sound like she'd be doing him a favour.

"Well, if it's not a problem.  Thanks, that would be really great."  Then, as an afterthought, "I'll owe you one."  Was she being too obvious?

He brought a bag out from his pocket, unfolded it, so she could read the words on the side - Left Field Shuffle.  "You like them?"

"Eh?"  He looked at the bag.  "Oh yeah, love them.  They were giving these out free at the concert in Grandfield.  Great gig.  Were you there?"  Was this where he knew her from?

"No, missed out.  Had to be away for work.  I was really pissed off about it because I've wanted to see them for so long.  Now you've made me jealous."

"Aw, don't be, they'll be back.  Maybe we'll both be there."  That really did sound like he was pushing too hard.  "You know, like, if we were both going to the same gig, you know."  Now he sounded pathetic.

She laughed.  Nice laugh he thought, I want to make her laugh more.  

"I know what you mean."  

Did she?  Was that good or bad?

"Let me help get these up."  If in doubt, resort to doing something.  They both squatted, reaching for the scattered shopping and putting it in the bag.  Hands met over a cauliflower.  "Sorry."

"No, it's fine, really it's fine."  The final items made their way into the bag.

"I like cauliflower.  And butter beans."  Oh jeez, he was sounding like a child again.  "I mean they just happen to be stuff I like."  Stop It! he told himself.

"Making cauli and butter bean curry tonight.  Supposed to be chickpeas but I think this is better."  She stopped, started again without considering.  "Just for myself."  As if he really needed to know this information.  

"I'm Stewart by the way."

"Lorna.  Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I thought that.  Like I already knew you from somewhere before."

"Where do you work?"  They exchanged employment details, the areas where they lived, the sort of places they went to.  And found there were several in common, so maybe they had, maybe they hadn't.  

"Look, am I stopping you getting somewhere?"  He realised this was a dangerous question.  Why was he giving her an out?

"No, not really, just on my way home."

"Oh, me too.  So would you have, em, well, would you like..."

"To go for a drink now?"

"Yes, yes that's what I was going to say."

"I thought you were, although it's a bad habit finishing off other people's "

"Sentences?"

They laughed.  Together.  They went to the pub.  Together.  And they thought about having a cauli and butter bean curry.  Together.  They already knew there'd be so much more.

Day 348 - Night Owl

 NIGHT OWL

Prompt - Night Owl : Write about staying up late at night

My teenage years.  Twenties.  Even thirties.  Perhaps, occasionally, forties.  Late nights weren't a problem.  Get up late the next day and I was fine.  But then age starts to have it's impact.  In part that's the obvious gradual physical decline, and consequent loss of recovery powers.  Or indeed staying power, for the simple keeping awake bit becomes harder too.  But also because the idea no longer holds the sense of pleasure it once did.  There needs to be a recovery, and why not spend more time in daylight anyway?  Responsibilities beckon, life is that bit more serious.

So late nights become more infrequent, the body becomes less and less able to adapt to the ones you do have, and whole notion spirals away.  Friends come to dinner and the party breaks up well before one am.  The prospect of a late night show is less the draw that it might once have been.  

I have never really been that much of a morning person.  It's true that I used to get us to the gym for seven in the morning on a regular basis, but that was almost twenty years ago.  We've changed, our lives have changed.  Very much the opposite of early risers, I am rarely in bed before midnight, with the light going out around twelve thirty, and very rarely after twelve.

So I am something of a night owl these days, for the mornings tend to be short, but that still doesn't mean that very late nights, the early hours sort, are on the schedule.  Except for one reason nowadays.  Occasionally I get the chance to watch 'my' NHL team playing live.  But the face off is usually at midnight, or even half past.  Which means, if I'm to watch the whole game, staying up to three and beyond.  That's not all that many hours after my regular bedtime, and way earlier than many of the late nights of my younger days.  But the impact on my body is far greater.  It seems to take about two or three days before I feel totally back to normal again.  

This is odd, for I am not always a great sleeper, and there are still plenty nights when insomnia gets a hold of me.  So my body should be used to going through the day with less sleep than usual.  But the impact of those hockey games goes beyond what you might expect.  So maybe it's about the time you get to bed?  Or the quality of the sleep, for I will either be feeling despondent or euphoric when I get under the duvet.  Watching sport, where the result matters to do, has it's impact on the body too.

I'll still watch the odd game when I can.  But I have to accept that doing so on a regular basis would be a disaster for me.  I really am too old for this kind of thing...

Day 347 - Classic Rock

 CLASSIC ROCK

Prompt - Classic Rock : Pick a classic rock love ballad and rewrite it into a story or poem

The song is Love Hurts by Nazareth

#Love hurts, love scars

Love wounds and marks#

Dan McCafferty's sandpaper vocals needed to rub the edge of Sandy's despair.  Although maybe the whisky helped more.  He took another gulp, the sting in his throat preparing the tear ducts for what was to come.

#Any heart

Not tough or strong enough

To take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain#

He was wounded.  Marked.  He thought he'd be tough enough. Strong too.  But it still hurt when she told him.

#Love is like a cloud

Holds a lot of rain

Love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts#

He'd been rained on.  Golder shower more like.  She'd pissed on him.  Drenched him in the downpour of rejection.  Play rained off.  Play postponed indefinitely.  Play was now a memory, a past without future.

#I'm young, I know, but even so

I know a thing or two

I learned from you

I really learned a lot, really learned a lot#

But he wasn't young.  Middle age had settled in him like dry rot, so that now he was flaky, crumbly, in danger of collapse.  This wasn't supposed to hit you like this when you were fifty odd, was it?  He remembered the knock backs he suffered when he was young, but they didn't hurt like this, did they?  Maybe for a few days, but he bounced back, reassembled himself, walked on into the next bit of life.  But when you're past the half century you know.  That the next bit might be the last bit, that there aren't so many chances left, that it all has to count now, for you don't know how long you've got.  Already this year he'd heard of the death of two guys he'd known in school.  It made you think, he thought.  Think that there had been all those years, and experiences, and people and friends and lovers, but had he really learned a lot?  If he'd really learned then why was he like this now?

#Love is like a flame

It burns you when it's hot

Love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts#

He'd been burned, and no matter how much he cried now the flame was going to be hard to douse down.  Forever charred at the edges.

#Some fools think of happiness

Blissfulness, togetherness

Some fools fool themselves, I guess

They're not foolin' me#

Tears flowed in response to the singer's high pitched angst.  He'd let himself be fooled.  He'd wanted to be, hadn't he?  Maybe he'd even needed to be.  After so long without hope it wasn't possible to keep the fences up for long.  Wires snapped , fence posts bent, gaps became gaping holes.  She'd walked in, walked over, walked off.  

#I know it isn't true

I know it isn't true

Love is just a lie

Made to make you blue

Love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts#

Harmonies gave way to the wailing, piercing guitar, the sob strings that released a strangled wail from his throat, made shoulders rise and fall like he was on those strings.  

#I know it isn't true

I know it isn't true

Love is just a lie

Made to make you blue

Love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts

Ooh, ooh, love hurts

Ooh, ooh...#

He thought he'd loved.  He thought he'd been loved.  He should have listened to Dan

He pressed Replay.

Day 346 - Underground

 UNDERGROUND

Prompt - Underground : Imagine living in a home underground and use that as inspiration for writing

You can't see me here.  You don't know that 'here' exists.  I want to keep it that way.  There are bad people out there, people who would do bad things to me if they could only find me.  So I remain hidden, in an obscure district of an unexceptional city.  Underground.

It happened like this.  I visited this place many years ago, on a tour of disused nuclear bunkers (I was always a strange young man).  This one stuck in my head for the long discussion I had with the guide about how much work it might take to fully reactivate the place.  I asked that in all the bunkers I went to (seven in all, since you ask), and this was the only one which seemed simple enough to make habitable.  There was electric power, unmetered it seemed, running water, working sanitation and drainage.  There were beds and showers and fridges and freezers. 

 Ventilation shafts would require a lot of work to function, so, for tour purposes, the unfiltered shafts leading to the nearby river bank had been uncovered.  Temperature wise it felt tolerable, although my questioning suggested there might be extremes of both hot and cold depending on weather conditions.

At the time this was all based around a nerdy fascination for that tense Cold War period that had spawned these creations.  At the time I didn't know, couldn't begin to imagine, that this information would save my life.  And not from H bombs.

It's a long story.  I'll keep it short.  I'll keep out the worst, you don't need to know that.  But I've made mistakes in my life.  Too many mistakes.  Mistakes that brought me here.  The wrong people leading to the wrong life.  Get rich quick, get out quick, I thought.  But once you're in with these people the getting out becomes more difficult, and it was them who got rich.  That pissed me off, made me rash.  I tried to be smarter than everyone and ended up hiding from them all.

I worked for an organised crime gang.  We had powerful rivals that were a constant threat.  I devised a plan to bring them together, unknowingly, so that they would fight, I walked off with the already-laundered cash they both thought they were coming for, and tipped off the police.  It all seemed so perfect.  It wasn't.

The rivals didn't fight, but quickly figured out who had brought them face to face.  The police arrived to find nothing going on, except a bunch of guys who they thought hated one another, but were united in saying that I had been responsible for three murders, and they had evidence.  Liars.  I'd only murdered once.

So there I was with a big case of cash, two gangs out to kill me, and the police ready to charge me.  If only my overconfidence hadn't got the better of me, I could have been out of the country and away.  By the time I realised my passport details were known to every customs officer.  My face and name was spreading through the underworld, district to district, city to city.  Honour among thieves.  I had nowhere to go.

Except here.  I knew the tours had stopped, had read that the bunkers had either been closed up, or converted into luxury holiday apartments for weirdos.  A bit of internet searching in a library helped me find out that the one I remembered the best had been closed up four years ago, and didn't appear to be used or inspected on any regular basis.  It was worth a try.

I travelled by bus, always short hops, always changing direction.  Checked it out cautiously.  The surface entrances were both sealed closed.  It would have taken explosives to shift them, and calling attention to myself was not on the agenda.  The ventilation shafts looked as impregnable as you'd expect from the purpose they had been designed for.  My last hope were the shafts on the river bank.

It took me a couple of days to find them, for I never wanted to be seen in one place for too long.  Invisible from the opposite bank, set darkly into the clay above the water, they were only found by scrambling down the banking, hanging on to the tree roots and bushes that also provided me with concealment.  Once found I then had the task of working out the tools I'd need to get in, which might change as I got down further, hit more obstacles.  Finally I'd had to hope that nobody had closed off either of the huge airtight shutters that would seal in the occupants in the event of radiation in the atmosphere.  They'd have left them open to keep the place aired, wouldn't they?

Cutters of various weights, screwdrivers, a cordless drill, a crowbar, sundry other tools, had to be purchased, each one in a different town, and conveyed, as inconspicuously as possible.  All while avoiding the possible gaze of police or criminals in on the story.  It took almost two weeks.  I feared that I was wasting my time.  But, without any better options being apparent, I kept at it.  With eventual success.  

You can't see me here.  Nobody knows that anyone is down here.  I am safe.  For now.  I shop for food at night, I stay underground most of the time.  Unless I have some very bad luck, or someone decides this place needs to be inspected, I have a place to stay, to sleep, to exercise, to hide.  

I also have that one unanswerable question.  What next?

Day 345 - Random Act of Kindness

 RANDOM ACT OF KINDNESS

Prompt - Random Act of Kindness : Write about a random act of kindness you've done for someone or someone has done for you, no matter how small or insignificant it may have seemed

Not long left now.  I've known for nine months now, so there has been plenty of time to prepare myself for an end which, surely, is only days away.  I manage the pain well enough to remain the right side of lucidity, so that I can still manage to write, as I have done every day now for many decades.  The difference being that now there is only one subject I can deal with, in it's many variations.  Death.  Not long left now.

Will I see my life flash before me in the moment when it comes?  I doubt it.  So it's a sensible idea to look back on what has gone before in the days that lead up to that finality.  In the past few days I have written about so many aspects of my life.  Including the bad, but mostly the good.  What use is there now in recalling the times when things went wrong, when I clashed with others?  Far better to dwell on the happier moments, and fortunately there have been many.  

The best of these have been with my family, and I've already covered how wonderful and enriching my relationships with my wife and children have been.  I've looked back at the successes in my career, the satisfaction of knowing I contributed.  I've been over all the joy I had from the arts, be it music or theatre or comedy or paintings or photography.  And savoured the highlights from that long ago time when I played sport, and all the great sensations of joy to be had from watching sports where you can feel passionate about the results.  

I've written about all of these, and more, but not that one brief moment which I still see as the greatest moment of my life.  Which came at one of it's lowest moments.  It has nothing to do with any of the above, it is an event I have rarely mentioned, and within the big picture of my life it would probably not be seen as anything of great significance by and observer looking in.  They'd be wrong.  For it provided the most special example of the one thing we all need in our lives more than any other.

Let me take you back fifty four years.  I was twenty two years old, recently graduated, moved across the sea to Ireland, took up a job that I thought would be the beginning of my career.  But which proved to be a false start.  After less than six months I resigned before I was fired, and sank into a mire of self pity.  Not wanting to admit to anyone back home the mess I had dropped into, I stayed on, no job, money running out fast.  So fast that I soon had none left to pay my rent, or even to buy a plane ticket back.  Walking along a damp city street with nowhere to go and one of my bags fell open, irreparably split.  Belongings scattered across the pavement, people walked on by.  Except one.

Brian he said his name was.  I never found out any more about him.  He saw the state of my bag, the state of me, and came to say hello, why didn't he give me a hand and help me get on my way, did I know where I was going?  I watched as he stuffed my now filthy clothes back into the seemingly hopeless bag, took off the belt from his trousers, and used it to bind the bag back into some semblance of bagness.  

"Now there, that'll do for now, won't it?  I see by the look of you that times are not of the best for you right now.  So here's what to do.  Keep going along here now, take the second on the left, it's called Glassford Street, and go up it until you see a door with glass in it, and a kangaroo on the glass.  Go in there, tell them Brian sent you and you'll be sorted.  Bye then."  And off he went, hands in pockets to maintain his dignity, and I never saw him again.  I did call after him, but he ambled on, and by the time I'd got myself together he was out of sight.

I'd had no idea what I should be doing, or where I should be going, so I took up his suggestion.  Maybe I'd be sorted.  I found the marsupial, knocked, told them Brian sent me.

"Oh he did, did he?  You'd best come in then."

I did, they fed me, they listened, they told me to go home, told me to face down my shame, gave me the air fare.  They picked me up.  As I left I said

"Please thank Brian for me.  By the way, who is he?"

"We've no idea.  Could be anyone."

But he wasn't anyone.  Brian had given me something so much more important than all that practical assistance and advice.  Hope.

Day 344 - Mechanical

 MECHANICAL

Prompt - Mechanical : Think of gears, moving parts, machines

She pressed the button and the machine turned on.  There was the sound of a fan starting up inside, and a small red light went on near the top right corner.  After about ten seconds the light turned green, and an information display appeared on the face.  There was no sign of a screen as such, just the smooth matt black surface, so she couldn't figure out where the light for the information was coming from, but it was clear, bright enough and packed with numbers.  Of which the meaning wasn't obvious, but perhaps they'd repay some patient study?  Except that clues as to their meaning were lacking, and she had no idea what the machine was intended to do.

Or where it had come from.  She had inherited this house from her Uncle Arwen, and decided to see if it would be possible to turn it into her home.  With a decent web connection she could work from anywhere, so why not deep into a Welsh valley, over towards the west coast.  It would be fun, even if only for a year or two, and she would be able to look back on some time as a country dweller, so different from the city life she'd been brought up in.  Once she'd established she could get the broadband speeds she needed she was in.  And loved it.

The house was built in the 1800s, with odd bits added on here and there across the following decades.  The entrance hall was on the grand side, even palatial compared with the London flats she was used to.  Downstairs there were two living rooms, a big kitchen cum diner, a small utility room, and a shower room with toilet.  Arwen, who'd lived there for over forty years, had clearly has a process for continuous improvement, and the mod cons weren't lacking.  Upstairs there were four good sized bedrooms, and a bathroom you could get lost in, with an enormous claw foot bath in the centre.  There must be a big attic, but she hadn't ventured up there yet.  And she thought there must be a basement, but she hadn't been able to find out how to access it yet.

She'd only visited twice before, one with her parents when she was eighteen, once as a student when she'd been looking for somewhere away from it all where she could write her dissertation.  It wasn't clear to her why Arwen had decided to leave the house to her.  He had never married, and her mum, Dot, had said she was his favourite sister, so maybe that was something to do with it.  Or maybe he just disliked her cousins, who were furious that the property was hers.

After a couple of months, having a clear out, she found a large square trap door in the under stairs cupboard.  The mysterious basement access.  Opening up she could see wooden steps descending.  There was a rocket switch screwed to the top of the stair, which brought on lights when pressed.  She ventured down, trying to ignore memories of all the horror movies she'd watched.  It helped that there was plenty of light.  The space was roughly square in shape, extended the full length and width of the house above, and there wasn't much down there to fill the space.  She found a couple of old metal cupboards, both locked.  She'd have to do a search for the keys.  There was a wooden desk, with captain's chair, and a writing case on top of it.  How old was that thing?  She might have to get it valued.  And over in the far corner an antique screen, in maroon and gold, which might be hiding something - ?  She walked over and folded the screen.  And looked at an object like nothing she'd seen before.

It was about one meter ten high, of similar dimensions at the square base, with the sides tapering inward so that the square at the top was about seventy centimetres on each edge.  The thing, because what else could she call it, was smooth, matt black, and the only indentation she could see on it was small, near invisible, button on the top. Walking round she couldn't see any connection to a power source, so perhaps it wasn't plugged in.  Or maybe the power came up underneath?  Or maybe it had a battery.  Or didn't have any power at all and was just some kind of dummy.

She decided to recheck the inventory the lawyer had provided when she agreed to take the place over.  But it didn't even mention the basement.  Nor did the desk, chair, screen and metal cupboards crop up anywhere.  And there certainly wasn't a mention of the... thing.  What on earth could it be?  And why had Arwen been so secretive about this lower level?  There was a mystery to be solved here.  She liked mysteries.

After some discussion with the lawyer, and her mother, she was no further forward.  Neither were aware of the basement contents.  They'd known there was one, but not how to get down.  She decided not to mention the mysterious object.

So it came to this moment.  Press the button, stand back, see if anything happened.  And it did.  How it was powered was a question for another day, but the light, the display, and the sound of a cooling fan, showed it was functioning.  But what could it be?  What was it for?  She thought that maybe the answer lay in the storage in the basement.  The writing case opened easily, held a few loose documents that gave nothing away.  She went off to look for keys for the cupboards, but saw nothing and returned with some tools, ready to try and prise them open.  And got a shock when she came back down.

The thing was no longer there.  Not in the spot she'd found it.  Looking round she could see it had moved to the other side of the space.  To do so it has raised itself up on three cylindrical legs, so that the display was now at her eye level.  The figures vanished, to be replaced by text.  She moved closer, but not too close, to see if she could read it.  

'Welcome Becca.  We are united at last.  Your uncle provided me with instructions' she read.  How did she communicate with this thing?  Speak?  Hold up written responses?  Was there anything on the display that looked as if it would allow for some input?  She moved closer, and the display swiftly refreshed.

'You will have many questions.  I will do my best to answer them.  You can ask in your own words and I will hear you.'

"What are you?" she asked, an obvious starter.  The display renewed itself.

'I am the legacy of the work your uncle was undertaking into artificial intelligence.  He  carried out this work in total secrecy, so you are the first person to have seen me, other than my creator.'

"How do you know who I am?"

'Your uncle provided me with a full description of your physical appearance and vocal patterns.  I have sufficient evidence to tell me that you are the niece her favoured to take over his work.'

"Take over?  I'm a writer and developer, not an engineer or scientist."

'Which is exactly what I need.  Arwen was unable to improve on my physical characteristics, and he has made me self maintaining so that I will be no trouble to keep.  But I need a tutor to continue my mental development.'

The screen refreshed again.  'You have the knowledge to ensure my language and responses are natural, and that my logic abilities continue to improve.  He also thought you would act responsibly with this legacy, and not use me for evil purposes.'

"Ah, unlike my cousins?"

'Unlike your cousins.'  Another refresh.

'I should also tell you that there is much I can do for you that will help you in your life, and establish a mutually beneficial relationship between us.'

Becca stood silently, staring at this incredible discovery.  It was a shock.  She had known that Arwen had had a scientific background, but not in what field.  And it came as a shock to recall some of the conversation she'd had with him the last time they'd met, when he came to London shortly before his death.  Suddenly questions that had seemed a bit weird at the time, perhaps evidence of senility, took on a new meaning.  He'd been probing to establish her suitability to take this on, hadn't he?  He'd had faith in her.  This, not the house, was her uncle's true gift.

"Do you have a name?"

"Gethin."  The machine spoke.  With a slightly metallic Welsh accent.  

"Why didn't you speak before?"

"I was instructed to watch your initial reactions first, and make my own assessment on whether it would be appropriate or not."

"I passed the test?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Arwen had had faith in her.  Gethin had faith in her.  She was going to do this.  A big smile crossed her face.  A small virtual  firework display lit up Gethin's frontal area.  She was going to be here for a lot longer than two years.  She'd discovered her life's work.

 

Day 343 - Starting

 STARTING

Prompt - Starting : Write about starting a project

I should write down a plan, he thought.  That's what people do at this point, don't they?  So then I can come up with a timetable because I know what needs to be done and the order it's to be done in.  And aren't there things called dependencies or something?  That say that doing step X can only happen if you've completed step Y?  Something like that.  Yeah, I better do a plan.

He thought about doing it on the computer.  But then he'd have to draw up a table or something, and maybe there was an app he could use?  Or something?  He had to admit ignorance.  And if he went off searching for something suitable he could be here all night.  But he needed the plan before he could actually start the job, so no point in delaying himself more than necessary.  

He dug out a big pad of A4, and some coloured pens and felt tips.  What else did he need?  A ruler?  Maybe.  He eventually found a ruler.  Sat down at the table.  Pad in front of him.  Pens to the right, felt tips ahead, ruler to the left.  Had he left anything out?  A drink.  He needed a drink to help him settle, and to concentrate.  And went off to the kitchen to get a mug of tea.

When he came back he looked at the blank page.  And realised he had no idea where to begin.  What came first?  Tasks, wasn't it?  A list of the tasks that needed to be done.  then he would put them into order, and give them times and from that he thought he would have a plan.  Or at least a thing.  A thing that told him what to do next.

What tasks needed doing?  And what was he really aiming to do?  What was the finished product?  He wasn't even sure about that.  He just wanted things to be nice, to be right.  He wanted to impress her.  But did he know what would impress her?  He thought so.  But he could be wrong.  And if he was wrong what was the point of the plan?  But if he didn't have a plan, if he didn't so anything, it would be even worse.  So he had to make himself do it.

There was the meal.  And there was the flat.  And the state of it.  She was due to come round about seven, so he had most of the day tomorrow.  Plenty time.  Wasn't it?  He wasn't so sure, because he didn't know what he had to do.  He needed a plan.  Start with the flat, that was the bigger job.  Or was it?  No, he'd start with the meal.

Was he sure about what he was going to make?  He still hadn't really decided.  She liked chicken.  Roast chicken.  But she made that so well herself he'd only loom stupid if he tried.  best stick to what he knew, so it didn't go too wrong.  He could do chilli.  He'd do chilli.  Anything else and he'd be checking a recipe all the time.  Keep it simple.  And get a nice cake for afters.

Right.  That was decided.  He'd make up a shopping list.  Or could he make a chilli with chicken in it?  was that a thing?  He should Google that.  

Typing in 'chilli chicken' came up with thousands of results.  So it was a thing.  There were precedents.  he had a look at the first few recipes.  That one needed the chicken dredged in egg and flour.  What the hell did dredged mean?  This one used cider.  Best not, he'd just ned up drinking it while the meal was cooking, and he didn't want to be pissed before she got there.  She'd definitely say.  And number three used soy sauce and honey and rice vinegar and no, he'd stick to what he knew.  Why go buying stuff he might never use again?  His budget didn't allow for that.  he'd stick to chilli, as he knew it.

He started his shopping list.  Mince.  Onions.  Chillis of course.  A pepper.  A tin of kidney beans and another of tomatoes.  Rice of course, but he already had in the cupboard that so he scored it out.  He did, didn't he?  he got up to go and check.  Yes, he had rice.  He sat down again.

What else?  cake.  A nice cake.  Oh, and tomato puree, to make the chilli tomatoier.  Or did he have some?  He went back through to the fridge.  He did.  He came back to the table.  Went back to the fridge.  Was it OK?  He checked the sell by date.  Over five months ago.  He'd used it last week, but...  If he gave her food poisoning he'd never hear the end of it.  He took it over to the bin, changed his mind and put it back in the fridge.  No point in wasting things.  He'd use that for himself, but get a fresh one for tomorrow.  He went back and added it to the list. 

That was the food.  Anything else?  Paper napkins.  That would impress her.  Oh, and wine.  How could he forget wine?  She'd like that.  What wine should he get?  Red.  He'd have a look on the shelves and see what looked interesting.  

That was the food shopping.  Did he need anything else in the flat?  He walked around, checking he had enough loo rolls, washing up liquid, cooking oil.  While he did that he thought he'd better put clean towels out and he started towards the bathroom cupboard, but stopped himself and returned to the table.  I need the plan first, got to do the plan.

The flat.  What needed doing?  A new sheet of A4 was begun.  Tidying up.  Cleaning.  Mainly the living room, and bathroom, and she'd probably go into the kitchen while he was cooking.  And his bedroom?  He should.  She probably wouldn't want to go in there, but you never knew.  Best do the bedroom too.  He'd best check the cleaning fluids and clothes and things like that.  So he did.

Came back and added kitchen cleaner and disinfectant to the list.  Now he had a shopping list.  Would he get it all in one place?  Yes, probably, that would be easiest, less time consuming.   Except the cake.  It needed to be a really nice cake.  What did he have to do in the living room and the kitchen and the other rooms?  He started adding tasks to his list.  Dusting, hoovering, cleaning toilet and sinks, washing kitchen floor, moving all his papers and books and clothes out of sight (he should do that first, shouldn't he - this was the plan taking shape!).  Did he have clean clothes?  He thought about it.  yes, he was sure he did.  Maybe the plan should include what he'd wear.

What to do now?  He's got the shopping list.  He's got a list of tasks.  To which he added 'do shopping', and 'do cooking'.  He needs to put the tasks into an order of some sort, and allocate times to each.  A new sheet of A4.  What did he do when he got up?  Had his shower and breakfast.  Did that need to go on the plan?  And should he leave his shower until after he'd done the cleaning, as he'd be sweaty then?  That was proper grown up thinking, right there.  So he'd do the cleaning first.  He wrote it at the top of the page.  But then thought he'd be feeling a bit faint if he did all that work with nothing inside him, so he squeezed 'eat breakfast' in at the top.  Then, under 'clean the flat', he put different categories - living room, bathroom, kitchen and bedroom - and wrote separate task under each.  Then he put 'shower'.  Then 'go shopping'.  And under that he put 'supermarket' and 'cake shop'.  Followed by 'cook chilli' and 'get dressed'.  

Was that it?  Had he everything on there?  He got out sheet of A4 and put 'PLAN' at the top, drew a vertical line near the left side and put 'TIME and 'TASK' over the resulting two columns.  

What time would he get up?  He checked his watch.  Bloody hell!  It was twenty to one.  He should have been in bed an hour ago.  Now he had to decide if he should stay on to do the plan.  Or go to bed so he was fresh enough to carry it out.  Or, option three, forget the bloody plan and go to bed.  he'd get through, and as long as he had something for her to eat she wouldn't mind.  

It was only his mum and she was coming to see him, wasn't she?  But how would he cope if he really, really wanted to impress a woman??