Day 100 - Normal

 NORMAL

Prompt - Normal : What does normal mean to you?  Is it good or bad to be normal?

A dictionary definition of normal say it's "conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected".  But who defines 'usual?  Or what's 'expected'.  I don't think you can use normal as an objective term, because everybody's idea of 'normal' is different.  It is, primarily, an objective evaluation, related to your own life experiences.

Of course it's possible to say that something is the the norm in a strictly mathematical sense, and from that say with some confidence that something is 'normal'.  But that's not how real life works.  There's been a lot of discussion lately about "the new normal", referring to what our society will look like, what our lives will look like, in the aftermath of trying to cope with the covid pandemic.  Everyone knows that things won't go back to how they were before, but trying to predict how that shapes the future is purely speculative - which won't stop us all doing it.

What we do know is that 'normal' changes, and is changing all the time.  What was normal to us in childhood may not be in later life.  What is normal in childhood is your own life.  I've seen people who were beaten or sexually abused when they were children say that as far as they knew at the time that was normal, that was what happened in everyone's home.  Have things changed with social media, where making direct comparisons is an easier thing to do?  I suspect not, as so much is still hidden within families, and some secrets still feel too shameful to discuss openly.  Because shame is normalised too.

But the same rules apply in more mundane matters.  As a child I'd often have Weetabix for my tea.  Did anyone else do the same?  I have no idea, but to me it was my normal.  What is normal in one life is alien in others.  I find it hard to imagine accepting the idea of servants as 'normal'.  But I suppose if it's something you're brought up with you wouldn't know any different, any better.  People learn to accept their own unhappiness as normal - often marriages wouldn't survive without being able to do so.  

As for wanting to be 'normal', what does that even mean?  It's really a way of trying to fit in to the perceived expectations of others.  If you're an introvert who doesn't want to be noticed, for fear of the embarrassment it causes you, then trying to be the same as others feels important.  In work it can be a way of seeming competent, or reliable, and suitable for promotion.  But how much damage does this urge to conformity do to people, and how much does the world lose through limiting self-expression?  In that respect our current society is so much healthier than it was, say, a century ago.  Look at photos of that time and there is so much conformity in styles of dress, and social mores.  We are able to express ourselves in more diverse ways now, and there's often an 'anything goes' vibe about being out in public.  Even better it has become possible for same sex couples to walk hand in hand along the street, something that would have been almost impossible when I was growing up, for the possible consequences of violence, or at the very least verbal abuse, being directed at the couple.  

None of which has really taken me anywhere in terms of trying to argue a position.  Except for one disgracefully trite thought - you should always try to be your own normal, not the one others expect of you.  

Day 99 - Seasonal

 SEASONAL

Prompt - Seasonal : Write about your favourite season.

Favourite?  Do I have a favourite?  There's a lot to be said for them all.  Their pleasures are so varied, both climatically and in terms of what cultural activities are on offer.  (Albeit less so over the past twelve months, where the changing weather has acquired a more prominent role in marking the passing of the days...)  But if I ws being pushed to choose I'd probably go for Winter.

Of course Spring offers the chance to get out more, the sense of rebirth that comes with daffodils and blossom and new foliage, a time to get the walking boots out and pile on a bit of mileage.  In previous years it would also have signalled the start of the city's festival season, starting with Tradfest.  But Spring feels tentative, a period of transition rather than having a real identity.

Summer means more time outside, more and more to do.  All those festivals would usually be there, and may be again next year (or perhaps even in reduced form in 2021?), with so much new film, music, comedy and drama to go see.  But the city is also full of tourists who get in the way and make progress so slow.  

Autumn signals the start of the rugby season (and, in happier times, that would once have been hockey season) so it's a period of optimism.  The big festivals are over, but there would still be plenty of gigs etc to attend.  But it's another 'nothing' season, as the colours of the trees change and fade, the streets start to become quieter, the nights start to 'draw in', and the warmer clothes can start to be considered.

Winter is the solid base of our times.  Hopefully there will be snow - I love walking in snow.  The weather becomes both friend and foe, a constantly changing, and sometimes treacherous, companion that needs to be listened to, and the mixing and matching of clothing that goes along with that.  I like knowing I'm going to get to wear more layers, have the cold weather coats and scarves and gloves and hats out again, more choices to make, more fun in those choices.  The year ends, the year begins.  A time of looking back, and of looking forward.  Of what's been done, and what's to be done.  A sense of sweeping clean, of promises and hopes.  People complain about Winter, because it's cold and wet and dark.  But that feels more like home to me.  That's my Scotland.  The one with hope for the future in it.

Day 98 - Smile

 SMILE

Prompt - Smile : Write a poem about the things that make you smile.

The cat coming down to sit on my lap

The warmth of a marital hug

Watching the crows while I sit at my desk

A drink from my favourite mug

Wearing the kilt on a non-windy day

Hiking boots stuck on my feet

Walking for miles in the warm Scottish sun

(And the rain and the wind and the sleet)

A soak in the bath when I’m back feeling tired

Relaxing there with a good book

Reading at any time of the day

Going into the kitchen to cook

The taste of roasted brussel sprouts

A pizza with those sprouts and stilton

Trying to create some exciting new tastes

From recipes I’ve previously built on

One of my sports teams winning a game

Or being in a crowd at a match

Memories of cheering on Edinburgh Caps

When MIR was my home patch

Lockdown chats with friends on the screen

The postie bringing surprises 

Every item he gives feels like a gift

No matter their shapes or their sizes

Live music and comics and drama and art

Discovering a new favourite band

The euphoria I get from listening to Lau

Stu and Garry improv at The Stand

Every poll with Yes still well ahead

Showing the way to a much better nation

A chance to create a happier place

On a genuine socialist foundation

Reading for knowledge and insight and pleasure

The stories that guide us through life

Where facts only bring the confusions of truth

Fiction can cut like a knife

But there’s one failsafe route to arrive at a grin

Like a shaft of light come from above

It’s the joy of knowing you’ve been the cause

A smile from someone you love

Day 97 - Whispers

 WHISPERS

Prompt - Whispers : Write about someone who has to whisper a secret to someone else.

Eight days in ICU before they moved me to a room of my own.  My first visitor was Detective Sergeant Jessica "just call me Jess" Felton.  Six feet tall, long black ponytail, bone crushing handshake, smileless face.  She quizzed me about the events that had put me in there, or tried to, for I could recall little.  I'd been out for a business meeting over a meal in Emmanuelle, I'd left, and I'd woken up in hospital.  That was it.  I'd need my diary to remember who I was meeting. 

 She left me with instructions to get in touch if I thought I could do any better and a loud grunt of frustration.  Charmed, I'm sure.

I had a sleepless night, staring at the dimly luminescent ceiling.  And suddenly there she was in my head.  Emily McGregor.  Sat opposite me at the table, picking delicately at her trout.  We'd both wanted to do a deal, but I couldn't have accepted her terms.  I'd have gone bust in six months.  She accepted that and we chatted away over dessert.  Then she had to go all of a sudden and she was up and her coat was on and she headed for the way out.  

I could see her on her way out, swooshing through the diners then stopping at a table near the door, two guys in suits sat drinking coffee.  She bent down and whispered into the ear of the one with his back to me, then left.  They guys paid their bill, followed her out.  I went out about five minutes later, walked towards the underground station.  And found myself being grabbed, dragged, pain like I'd never felt before and... walking up to. tubes and needles and fuss.

She'd whispered to the guy by the door.  I rang the bell for the night nurse.  Asked if she could leave a note for someone to call DS Felton in the morning.  I would be able to do better.

Day 96 - Fairy Tales

 FAIRY TALES

Prompt - Fairy Tales : Rewrite a fairy tale.  Give it a new ending or make it modern or write it as a poem.

"Martin!"  Martin's head appeared round the side of a shelving unit.  "Get your mop.  Aisle sixteen.  Now!"  The Floor Manager walked back out before he got an answer.  Martin was already busy, unloading a pallet onto the warehouse shelves, and the Warehouse Manager would be furious with him if he stopped.  And the Floor Manager would be furious with him if he didn't.  But Martin was used to people getting angry with, knew he was annoying.  He thought about asking someone what he should do, but there was nobody he could see, and the aisle spillage might be dangerous to customers, so he should go and do that.  And he did.

He was right.  There was glass and slippy liquids all over the floor and there could have been a nasty accident, maybe even for a child.  Martin was pleased with his choice.  But he received no thanks from anyone out front, just told three times to hurry up and get it all cleared.  And he got the bollocking he expected when he got back to his pallet.  But he still thought he'd done the right thing.

Fifteen seconds after the Warehouse Manager's tirade ended the tannoy sounded.

"Martin Keele to the manager's office immediately."  Martin looked at his gloomy boss, who glowered even more darkly and turned his back, strode off.  He took that to mean 'yes, OK', so he headed up to see the shop manager.  He'd never even been in there before, never had the call, so his mind fizzed over with possible explanations, but he didn't think it was another bollocking.  The big boss would hardly know who he was, and would think him too unimportant to waste time shouting at - there were plenty of others able to do it for him.

"Aah, Martin, come in, come in.   Take a seat."  A seat?  Martin readied himself for further surprises.  "You know that SupaSava runs a monthly competition for staff with a different prizes?"  Martin nodded, he'd heard about it in his basic training, and knew somebody who knew somebody in another shop who knew somebody who'd actually won it once, and got tickets for a play.  "Well it turns out that May's winner is here.  As in people from this shop."

The shop manager paused, looked closely at his most junior member of staff.  Martin didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.  

"Do you like the cinema Martin?"

"Oh yeah Mr Smart, I go every week."  He wondered if he'd won a couple of film tickets, which would be so much better than having to go to a stuffy old play.  The manager stifled an uncertain cough.

"Well we've been given ten tickets to the premiere of Caught in the Headlights at Leicester Square on the twelfth, next Wednesday.  I've been asked to choose six of the people to go, and head office have told me the other four names, presumably chosen at random from a a staff list.  And you are, em, you are one of those four.  Now you don't have to go if you don't want to, because you'll be representing the store, indeed the company, so it might seem like a lot of pressure to you.  Anyway you might already be busy next week.  Are you?" he ended hopefully.

But Martin was already visualising the red carpet, and who'd be on it.  He knew about Caught in the Headlights, knew it starred Keara Blakely, and knew she'd be going to Leicester Square.  Martin was a bit of a fan of Ms Blakely.

"No sir, not busy at all sir, and I don't think I'd feel any pressure and it would be great to go and I really like, like really like, Keara Blakely.  So yes, I'll go, I'll go if that's what they want me to do, happy to go sir.  Very happy."  Martin beamed appropriately, look a couple of centimetres taller.  

"OK then.  OK."  The manager paused again.  "I'll see to it you get your tickets and all the arrangements and, er, have a nice time Martin."

"Thank you Mr Smart"

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And when the details arrived it turned out there was a bit more to it than just a film ticket.  First Martin would have to go Tanmores, gentleman's outfitters, for his black tie outfit.  He'd never worn a dinner jacket before, let alone a bow tie.  When he saw himself in the mirror he remained wordless for thirty seconds, baffled at the transformation.  He didn't look at all like that in his anorak.  The shop assistant was relieved when Martin finally uttered a few words, worried that he'd done something to upset his customer.  Then he saw the grin, the sparkle in the eyes, and could share the happiness.

A couple of stretch limos took Martin and his co-workers to the film theatre.  Not that the others paid much attention to him, embarrassed by his resemblance to a manically giggling penguin.  At the theatre they weren't going to be watching the red carpet.  They went in walking along it, just as expectant crowds of fans were beginning to gather, and shown in to large room with free drinks and buffet.  While his colleagues drank champagne Martin sought out the mini sausage rolls, before disappointedly settling for venison tartlets and quails eggs.  

They were taken in to the theatre, shown to seats in the second row, listened to the opening speeches, and Martin watched every move, followed every word, of Keara Blakely, star of the show.  He watched the film, he loved the film, thought it was the second best thing Keara had ever done, and he'd seen them all.  Martin was enjoying his evening.

Back to the big reception room, but this time with cast and crew mingling with the guests.  Martin took a glass of something to blend in, but didn't drink, didn't talk.  He watched.  He watched the actors, he watched the director and writer and producers and director of photography and the CGI woman and the makeup guy and most of the time he watched Keara.  He was happy watching.

"Martin."  No answer.  "Martin!"  A tug on his DJ sleeve made him listen.  It was Mr Marchant, the Produce Manager who'd made himself de facto leader of their dectet, dragging him off to gather with the others.  They'd been asked to meet a few people as a group, as the lucky prizewinners who'd come into this world as outsiders.  "Just leave the talking to me" said Marchant.  A few grumbles in response.

First came the producers, then the director and some of the techies, and finally the actors.  Marchant did most of the talking, looked sharply at Christine when she tried to engage the director, coughed loudly when Peter Simkins asked the CGI woman a tech question.  Finally the lead actors, Else Kruger, Alan Cresswell, and Keara Blakely herself.  

"We all loved the film and thought you gave your finest performances to date." Else and Alan shone their teeth and said their thanks, dying slightly inside at the blandness of these people. Keara was about to add something when Martin spoke out.

"I do agree they were all great performances, and that's definitely the best I've seen from you Alan. But I think your Gabrielle in The Backstreets of Genoa is still your most powerful role," he said, nodding at Else, "and Keara, I still prefer you in Grime Street, that was a stunning piece of acting, especially the warehouse scene, but I'm sure you'll surpass it one day. Headlights' writing doesn't really provide you with the chance to reveal those depths of emotion, does it?"

Marchant jumped in, horrified at Martin's presumption. "I'm sure Ms Blakely doesn't want to be bothered with your daft views, so maybe we'll let her get back to some of the important people who

But Keara had years of experience ignoring men who thought they could tell her what to do. "Not at all Mr... Thingummy. It's good to hear from someone who doesn't just tell me what they imagine I want to hear. You've no idea how tedious it is hearing same banalities over and over," as she gave him the look that had turned back an army in Erica Johnson, "and nobody's more important than a real film fan," turning back to Martin. "So is Grime Street your favourite of mine?"

"No, that's your best performance, but Randall as the baddie felt miscast, and there were a couple of plot holes that spoiled the flow of the storyline. The Dreaming Sea is my favourite. Not just strong acting, but one of the most perfect soundtracks, and some stunning cinematography, especially the undersea stuff. I know your role was comparatively minor, but your character's revelations on the island were such a critical pivot in shifting our sympathies from Farrell to Krechov."

"You're right, and it was a joy to be directed by Jean Stillwell, I hope I get to work with her again one day."

And that was that. The other two actors drifted away. The SupaSava group drifted away, even Marchant realising that he wasn't going to be able to override Keara Blakely. Martin chatted happily, so absorbed in the film world that it never occurred to him that if you'd told him beforehand that he'd be chatting with his favourite actor for over an hour he'd have been terrified. Keara chatted happily, relieved to find a young man who loved movies, talked movies, knew about movies, and didn't stare at her with the eyes of a sick puppy.

"I think I need a drink. D'you want one?"

"I'm fine thanks, but..."

"OK. Stay there. Don't move. I'll be back in five." And Keara was off into the sparkling crowd, leaving Martin to realise what he'd been doing for the seventy minutes. It had been as easy for him as it was hard to believe.

"Jeez, you're still here Martin. Come on, we've got to go now, the cars are waiting and marchant's fuming, saying he'll leave you behind if you're not there quick." Peter grabbed Martin by the arm and hustled him across the floor and up the broad red-carpeted stairs to the main entrance. Keara returned to no Martin, saw him being manhandled out, plonked her dink into the hands of the nearest penguin, and ran after them. As she reached the foot of the stairs she looked up and saw Martin stagger, grab at his ear, and disappear like a child being pulled in by a particularly clumsy octopus. Something tiny object flashed in the light, fell to the carpet.

By the time she reached the top they were gone, and she reluctantly made her way back into the reception. A metallic glimmer on the second step down caught her eye, and she bent to pick it up. A stud earring, shaped like a tiny wave of surf. She'd seen it before.

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Caught in the Headlights proved to be big box office. After the Leicester Square launch Keara Blakely had one night at home and then four months doing the rounds. The Canadian premiere, the Australian premiere, the US premiere. Festivals, celebrations, public appearances, thirty eight red carpets (she counted every one). Flashlights, spotlights, crowds, politicians, directors, journalists, one to ones, one to manys, interviews, charity dinners, TV and radio and bloggers and vloggers. Flight after flight, hotel after hotel. It felt good to come home.

Home to relax. She was exhausted. Happy, yes. Thrilled by how well the film, and her own performance, had been received.    But tired of the fawning, and entirely fake, adulation, of the smiling and chatting with people she didn't know and would never see again, of the interviewers who understood so little about filming, of the desperate desire she saw lasered at her from so many eyes.  She wanted honesty, and some understanding.  Friends and family played their part, but none had any real love for cinema.  Her secretary, Simon, was efficient and effective, but reticent to speak his mind, and even if her did would it have been worth hearing?  She missed... something.

She'd been home a couple of days, slutting her way through the hours, and looking for the key to the drawer in the old kitchen table where she kept her 'for my eyes only' stuff. It turned up in the bowl in her study, along with a tiny wave shaped stud. It took her back to Leicester Square, one of the most absorbing conversations she'd had in years, and a man being rushed out of the building as if he was about to turn into a pumpkin or something. She never did learn his name, but hadn't he been part of some work group who'd won a prize?

One call and she had the name SupaSava, and the location of the shop the party had come from. She could get someone to sort it out for her, but a daft idea was grasping it's way into her brain, like a particularly determined octopus.

The next morning she was on the road and heading for a town she'd never been to before, looking for a supermarket she'd never shopped in before. Parked up, went in, asked if she could speak to the manager. Smart didn't recognise her immediately, but went into full fawning mode when he realised. At least it made him helpful.

"I'm looking for one of the men who came to the movie premiere back in April. Didn't get his name, but I have something I think is his, and I'd like to meet him again. It's not often I get to meet so knowledgeable and interesting a fan."

"Oh certainly, certainly, let me just bring up the list of names. What age would you say he was?"

"About twenty five maybe? Twenty six? Something like that."

OK, I have four here who'd fit, but I think we can rule out a couple of them. Let me call up the others." Smart got the call out for Ben Crighton and Gerry Crimmin, and they duly obeyed their way to his office. Keara shook her head. She'd didn't recall either of them. What about the other two?

"That would have to be Peter then. Knowledgeable and interesting aren't the adjectives that would normally spring to mind, but perhaps he has hidden depths I've yet to see" Smart said with forced jocularity.

"And what about the fourth man? Couldn't have hidden depths as well?"

"Martin? Oh, I really don't think so, I really don't. What you see is what you get with Martin."

Peter Simpkins came into the office.

"Oh it's you." Smart's face mixed surprise with relief at Keara's words. And fell sour again when she said "You're the one who dragged him up the stairs, aren't you? Took him away from me when we really just getting going. Is he around?"

Smart cut Peter off before he had a chance to reply. "I don't think Martin is in today, but I really don't think he's the one you're looking for."  

Keara went up to Peter, looked directly at him and asked "Have you seen Martin today?"  He opened his mouth, looked at Smart, closed his mouth, opened it again and still no sound emerged.  Peter looked like he was wishing he wasn't there.

"I'll take that as yes.  Would you call him please Mr Smart" the 'Mister' given full thespian significance, "or should I go out and have a look, maybe ask around?"  The manager did as he was told.

Martin went up to the office, as puzzled at receiving the order as he had been those months before.  And surprised to find that sitting in front the big boss was his favourite actor. Keare got up and came towards him. 

"Hello Martin, it's good to see you again , it's a shame some people made it so difficult."  Smart looked at the screen on his desk.  "I think I've got something of yours."  And she handed him the tiny wave.

Martin looked at the shiny stud in his hand and smiled warmly at the person who'd come all this way to had it over.  "I wondered where I'd lost it.  I got it to remind me of..."

"...The Dreaming Sea" they said together, and laughed.

"What time do you finish work today?"

"Six."

"Would you be able to have dinner with me after that?  There's something I'd like to ask you.  And we never got to finish off our conversation at the premiere properly."

"Yeah, sure, that would be, em, really good.  There was still so much I wanted to say and ask and, you know..."  He'd seen Smart looking at him.  

"Right, I'll be back here then.  If I'm not there by the door look out for a blue Audi in the car park.  See you then."  She turned.  "Thank you Mister Smart, it's been good to find someone so knowledgeable and interesting in your shop."  She grinned at the confused Martin and left the office.  Smart barked "Get out.", and Martin quickly followed.

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Martin asked if he could go up to the manager's office the following morning.  Where he presented Smart with his notice.  "I think with the leave I'm due that means I finish on the sixteenth?  Will somebody check that for me?  I hope so, because Keara's expecting me to start my new job on the nineteenth, and I've got to get myself moved to London by then."

"HR will be in touch.  What happened Martin?"

"I got a better offer sir.  A much much better offer.  I think my fairy godmother must have been looking out for me or something."  

Martin never saw Smart again.  

Day 95 - Adjectives

 ADJECTIVES 

Prompt - Adjectives : Make a list of the first 5 adjectives that pop into your head.  Use these 5 words in your story, poem or journal entry.

Who gives these pelvic thrusters power

To push their golden myths of glory?

To throw forgotten promises into the night?

To put the innocent to fright?

What makes the thrust upon so grateful?

Lives dedicated to the ghosts of Chauvin

Truths washed on the shore of shifting sands 

In artificial bound up lands

Let the women save us from them

Let the women have their power

Let us think small, never grand

Now is our line in the sand

I accidentally listed six adjectives : Dedicated, artificial, golden, grateful, pelvic, forgotten

 

Day 94 - Swinging and Sliding

 SWINGING AND SLIDING

Prompt - Swinging & Sliding : Write something inspired by a playground or treehouse

"See you tomorrow, gotta go."

"I thought you went that way home?"

"Er, no, well yes, but I've found a new shortcut path through the woods.  See ya."  She'd become a proficient liar.

Susan headed off into the trees, leaving her school friends behind again.  Inviting anyone home wasn't really an option for her.  Home was... well, it was always home, and so often different.  And she new this was to be a Move Day, so her father could again be closer to his work.  So her first challenge would be finding it.  She walked on deeper into the trees, looking around, looking up, always up.

Her father was a forester.  A tree surgeon, arborist, arboriculturist, bûcheron, baumpflegerin, eco warrior.  He was all of those things and none of them, for he was really a tree magician.  While mother was a herbalist.  And an apothecary, therapist, holistic healer, enchanter, chamane, kräuterkenner.  A shaman.  Both went by whatever title suited the moment, suited the needs of the trees.  They were forest spirits.  But they still wanted their daughter to have a decent education, have choices in life.  Outlier spirits.

It took her forty five minutes, but there it was, exactly the same as always and totally different to before.  The basic size and shape of the treehouse was always as it was, except that the walls, and interior, elasticated itself in and around the branches of its new host, a perfect symbiosis.  In return for providing a platform for their accomodation, her parents always left their new ariel partner in better health than when they arrived.

The ladder unrolled for her as she walked up and she climbed into her new old residence, the steps of rope curling up behind her.  She knew from experience it was best to stand for a few moments, turning to see what the new layout might offer, trying to figure out where her room was.  The interior was still four times the size of the external dimensions (another reason why she could never have friends round...), but the doors off the trapdoor space could lead anywhere, the layout adjusted to the thick bark covered limbs that snaked through every room, became part of the decor, the furniture, the artistry of the place.  Susan chose a door.

""Hello darling, found us again."  Her mother was bent over her workbench, concocting.  She didn't look up.  "Your room's by the twisted branch with the knot that looks like Noddy Holder.  I'll create a meal when your father gets home."  Susan was used to being dismissed so readily, knew that all three of them would talk about their days over the evening meal.  She found Noddy, and her room, worked out which cupboard was where, and settled on her bed to do homework on the laptop.  A part of her still marvelled that a shape shifting house with no electricity should have the most reliable internet connection of all her friends group.  Something else she had to lie about.

She had a life like nobody she knew, and often wondered what it would be like to be ordinary, what people called 'normal'.  Living in a tree house that could instantly change location WAS normal to her.  Should she resent this bizarre upbringing, or cherish it?  Her parents refused to confine her to the paths that theirs had taken them down, and every generation that had gone before.  She didn't have to be a magician, she had to want to be.  There were so many other options out there.  But... she'd make up her mind, one day.  For now it was enough to be special.

Day 93 - Potion

 POTION

Prompt - Potion : Write about a magic potion.  What is it made of?  What does it do?  What is the antidote?

Turns out these olden times alchemists knew a thing or two after all. They never learned how  to turn base metals into gold. But one of them, one name long since forgotten, had found the secret of making the basest of humans appear golden, to make them shine to one pair of eyes. 

In 1593 the Castilian doctor and alchemist Xavier Genista Alvarez has been working on plague cures for more than two decades.  His records suggest he'd done more harm than good in that time, with scores of deaths of his experimental subjects.  But, like the dedicated scientist he was, Alvarez didn't let a few minor setbacks discourage him.  He died in 1601, of what sounded suspiciously like plagueish symptoms, with little to show for all his years of compound mixing and guttural chants.  He was little mourned, soon forgotten.  Until a Perthshire research student, digging deep into the archives of the University of Valladolid, uncovered his records for the period when he turned to some of the new herbs and plants from the South American colonies which had come into his laboratory.  His name was Steven Allison.

Allison spotted the importance of a couple of lines Alvarez had written that everyone else seemed to have missed.  The good doctor hadn't found the cure he was looking for, but he did find one for ugliness.  When he fed one of his old serving women with his most recent concoction he had soon found himself filled with irresistible lust for the wrinkled widow, and persuaded her to come to his bed where he did everything in his power to satisfy her sexually. The attraction only wore off once the woman had fallen asleep.  With a big smile on her face no doubt.  Embarrassed at what had happened, but driven by his scientific duty, he had made a note of the results, but in terms that needed careful interpretation.  Allison felt sure he had seen through the coded nature of the old Spanish prose, and wanted to try out the formula.

While his discovery was ground breaking in scholarly terms, he had a more personal reason for being excited by his discovery, and decided this was something he might hold back from his professor until he was more certain of his ground.  Steven was short.  Steven was plump, with rolls of at set in motion by his waddling gait.  Steven's head had suffered slight damage at birth, leaving his neck at an angle, one eye slightly above the other.  Nobody had even found Steven a pretty sight.  Steven, at twenty six, was as far removed from losing his virginity as he had been at six.  Steven had his reason.

Three weeks later he was back in Glasgow, and set about trying to satisfy his curiosity.  His first challenge being to assemble the requisite ingredients.  That took time, for they were not common items.  But one my one he added to his store.  Roasted and ground sweet pepper seed was an easy one to start with.  Lemon juice he could get any time.  Smoked saffron was straightforward.  But crushed cedron, paico leaves and peyote took him months to find on the internet.  And the final agent was listed as aguardiente - water of life.  But exactly which spirit Alvarez had used, and how critical it was to get the right one, was not indicated.  Experimentation was required.

Allison gradually got hold of the necessities, and patiently set about trying to mix them and see what the results might be.  But who to try it out on?  There was nobody he could share his secret with, nobody he dared face ridicule from.  He settled on Mrs Reason, his seventy two year old neighbour across the landing.  Although they passed one another frequently and she always said hello, might even have a brief exchange about the weather or the cleanliness of the tenement stairs, she'd never allowed him to be on first name terms.  If the magic were to work on her it would be a definite indication of the potency, and she'd be too ashamed to ever tell anyone what happened.  Wouldn't she?  

It took twenty seven different variations, spread over four months, before something happened.  Something?  It was an earthquake, a volcanic eruption, the discovery of the century.  He'd made up the capsule and sat to wait until she came home.  Three minutes after her door closed he'd gone across and rung her bell.  Was about to ask if she had any coffee to spare when he quickly found he'd really rung her bell, and set off all the alarms.  

"Steven" she breathed, and pulled him to her, slammed the door and started to open his jeans.  before he could say a word she'd creaked to her knees and taken his penis into her mouth.  For a second he wondered why he'd been so stupid, to let this woman near old enough to be his gran, until he swiftly realised that Mrs Reason - now Maureen -  really did know what she was doing... 

He was there for three and a half hours, until she finally slept for the exhaustion of her activities.  And Steven crept back to his flat, dazed by this old lady assault on his now defunct chastity.  His magic potion worked.  And if it worked on Maureen...

He now wondered what her reaction would be when they next met.  He held himself back expectantly, but Mrs Reason was her usual self, until he called her Maureen.  He got an earful for that one.  She hadn't remembered a thing.

It wasn't easy to work out the best way to use his new found 'ability' in a public setting, not that easy to get himself  alone with the women he desired, but he gradually figured out a strategy and became an unrecalled night of passion for more and more women, of all ages, including some beautesl who he wouldn't even have been capable of talking to before.  He had sex with more women than he'd dreamed off, and none of them remembered a thing.  If he went back to any them without his magic capsule on board they'd dismiss him, ignore him, laugh at him.  He soon learned that nobody would believe he had ever been to bed with a single one of them (even Maureen...), and he wasn't going to sink so low as to take photographic evidence.  

It had all become too much, these brief, near overpowering, sexual encounters lacked any sense of affection, lacked any sense that he was wanted by anyone.  So now he was pondering sharing his discovery with his professor, relinquishing the secret.  Too much of a good thing, he thought.

Rachel, his younger sister came to visit, brought along her friend Shona.  His sibling shared his short statured plumpness, and had a welcoming rosy cheeked face.  Her pal was a flat featured copy.  The chat started off friendly enough, but then Rachel gave him the look, the one that told him he was in for an interrogation.  She asked about the stories of him being seen with all these different women, of going off with them draped all over him like koala bears, of every one of them denying, vehemently, that they'd ever been near him.  What was going on?  Much as she loved him, she knew the chances of even one of the names she'd heard about finding him attractive were way way less than  Douglas Ross' chances of being First Minister.  He tried to evade the question, change the subject, make out he'd no idea what she was talking about, gabble nonsense if frustrated embarrassment.  

"Why would they not find him attractive?"  Shona suddenly demanded.  "I think he's cute."

Rachel stared at her friend unbelievingly.  Steven stared at her unbelievingly.  He hadn't had a bit of Xavier's magic for six days now, so there couldn't be any lingering after effects.  Anyway, this sounded more like real affection than lust, he thought.  And realised that, other than from his family, he didn't really know what real affection was.

But it was real enough.  Steven and Shona became a thing, and ended up moving in together.  Steven was having sex with a woman without using magic, without her forgetting and denying it all, and with something he hadn't experienced before - love.

He never did reveal the discovery to the faculty.  Some things are best left to their place in history.

Day 92 - Bug Catcher

 BUG CATCHER

Prompt - Bug Catcher : Write about insects

"Hi, welcome to Bugs.  Either of you been with us before?"  The skimpy looking waiter bubbled myopically at us, keen for his multi legged enthusiasms to rub off on his customers.  

"I've been a few times, but first time for her" David said, nodding at me.  

"OK".  The longest, most drawn out, most exhaled OK I'd ever heard.  "Would you like me to talk you through the menu or would you prefer to be left to it?"  

I shook my head enough for David to notice and he said we'd be fine looking at it ourselves, and give us a good ten minutes please.  

"Righty ho guys.  And can I be getting you any drinks for now, so you can do some boozing while you're perusing?"  David looked at me quickly, willing me not to say a word.  I looked down at my menu and tried not to laugh.  

"No thanks, we'll order it all at once when you come back."

"Okey dokey guys, just give me a wave when you're ready."  And he whizzed off to verbally torture another table.

"Don't look at me like that.  They aren't all that bad, and believe me the food is good.  You'll love it Sarah."

"Will I?  Bubble boy's not really endearing me to the place so far.  He should be the one coming with a health warning."  David looked concerned, already worried his mission to convert me was endangered.  "Sorry.  But you knew the risks bringing a cynic along."  I gave him my cutest smile by way of compensation.

The menu was... interesting.  There were a few veggie/vegan options, but the majority of choices followed the path indicated by the restaurant's name.  Insect based meals.  Even the drinks featured 'honey infusions', 'beetle juice extract' (WTF?), or simply the worst insect based puns they could come up with (anyone for a Vodka Mothtini?).  

The names of the dishes weren't much better, but at least there were patronising explanations to ensure that you'd know exactly which tiny organisms had been crushed up for our delight.  At least I hoped they'd been crushed up...

David saw my expression change, and change again, bafflement giving way to annoyance, with a tinge of detestation.  

"I think I'll just have the tofu salad.  Or do they make sure a few ants come with that?"

"Come on Sarah, you said you'd give it a go.  I know Mr Wow-factor didn't help get things off to a good start, but you really will be surprised how good this stuff is.  Good value too, look at those prices."  I forced a smile.  "Trust me, eh?  First thing I ever had hear was the Locust Burger, and that would be a good place for you to start.  How about it?  Their fires are pretty decent anyway."

I sighed extravagantly.  Why should I make this easy for him?  But one look at the that wee pleading face and I felt I had to do what he wanted.   "OK, OK, I'll give it a go, but..."  I left the implied threat hanging.  If this was shit he'd know all about it.  For days to come.

We settled on our orders, with me going for the delights of a Honey Beerhive to accompany my plague dish.  Bubble boy couldn't have been happier.  He'd have exploded otherwise.

Were David and I still on (non sarcastic) speaking terms when we left Bugs?  Yes we were.  Had I enjoyed my meal?  Erm, well... despite my initial sensation of eating something that was going to take over my insides, I confess I did.  I really did.  And I even agreed to return.  On one condition.  If we get that waiter again David will need to keep me away from sharp objects.  He was more disgusting that the real bugs.

Day 91 - Family Heirloom

 FAMILY HEIRLOOM

Prompt - Family Heirloom : Write about an object that's been passed through the generations in your family

"Room, play Beatles Abbey Road"

 "Shuh Duh" followed by Lennon's strained tones came together from the walls and Gregis sat to his screens and the dreaded aeronautics homework.  

He wasn't making much headway on the basic principles of lift, but his brain knew all about that shiny hammer of Mr Maxwell.  And preventing further progress here was his grandmother coming into the room with her endless chatter.  But a diversion as a diversion....

"Oh I wish it would!"

"Nan?"

"The sun.  I wish it would come out, like Georgie says.  It's been raining for so many days now."  She sang along in a melodic alto that always surprised him, seemed so at odds with the small woman it floated from.  Joined in the handclaps too, but suddenly threw in an extra loud one that jarred against her oneness with the music.

"What was that?"

"What?"

"That extra big clap you trew in?  It didn't seem to have much to do with the song."

"Oh, but it does boy, it does.  It's where the crackle goes.  It's the missing link to the past, it's the sound of my youth, and mothers and her mother.  It's real music.  I sometimes think your mother isn't really mine, the way she rejects it."

He looked sceptical, being subjected to the ramblings of an old woman was something he'd got used to and generally ignored.  But this, and he didn't know why he thought it, this felt different.  And, right enough, there was usually some grain of sense or truth in Nan's words, if you worked hard enough.  

"Is this going anywhere Nan?  What's Mum done wrong?"

"Wrong?  No, nothing wrong.  Not really.  Except by breaking the tradition.  By being so desperately 'modern' in everything.  For having not feel for her heritage."  She looked at him quizzically, teasingly.  "Why did you choose the Beatles today Gregis?"

"Um, I just, um, like them I guess.  Heard this one at Donal's place, his mum's really into this ancient stuff and it kind of, you know, talked to me..."  His voice tailed away, his sense of stupidity growing.

Nan clapped her hands again.  "Perfect.  Just perfect.  You are one of us.  Maybe the gene just skipped a generation.  And a gender.  Have you ever wanted to be female Gregis?"

"Err, no, not really.  No, no, not at all, not really."

"Oh well, it was probably too much to hope for.  But that shouldn't stop us.  Next time you're at my house I'll show you what I mean.  Oh, and best not mention it to your mother..." 

And with that she left.  Gregis got no further with lift.

------------------------------------------

His curiosity raised, he got round to Nan's place as soon as possible.  Two days had passed and he still hadn't come up with a single plausible explanation for that conversation.  Crackle?   That was a noise from physics experiments.

"Ah, Gregis, I didn't think you'd take long to come and see me.  Intrigued, eh?  Or just trying to humour a crazy old woman?"

Gregis blushed, not sure which answer was the correct one.  She took him into the main room.

"Room, lights fifty five" she commanded, and the lighting came on softly, just enough to see by.  "Room, deck shelf out, speakers out."  Sections of the facing wall opened up and three 25mm shelves slid out.  To left and right the shelves supported large boxes with a black mesh material covering their fronts.  In the middle sat a curious device, an antique of some sort, with actual physical knobs and buttons.  It was a low black box, sat on small rubber, with a rectangular see through canopy on top.  Through which he could see a circular plinth with dulled pin sticking up in the centre, a curiously bent metal arm to the right, and more of those little hand controls. WFT?

"Room, record storage out, highlight Abbey Road."  From the bottom of the wall six large drawers slid out, each filled with... old bits of cardboard?  Gregis had no idea what was going on, but why was he being shown all this junk from the past?  

Above one of the drawers a narrow beam shone.  Nan went over and pulled out one of the old bits of cardboard, held it up for him to see.  On one side there was a lot of writing, much of of it in what looked like list format.  On the other a picture.  Four guys in weird outfits, with even weirder hair, walking single file across a black and white striped bit of old road.  He looked askance at his gently smiling relative.  

From the cardboard she slid a circular bit of plastic, on which he could vaguely see concentric lines.  She pulled up the see-through cover on the box and placed the round plastic ever so carefully on the plinth, the central pin sticking through a hole in the middle.  She pressed a couple of buttons, adjusted a knob, then lifted the bent arm and lowered it very very slowly on to the outside of the now spinning piece of plastic.  He was still mystified until...

Shuh Duh, Shuh Duh, rattling percussion, deep bass.  #Here come old flat top,

He come grooving up slowly, He....#

They smiled at each other.  They listened.  The crackle came.  And some understanding.

It took patience, but Nan gradually explained what was happening, what the device was (a 'record deck', what the bits of plastic were (LPs, or records, or albums, of discs, or 33s, or simply vinyl, they had so many names for these things in the old days), how the sound was produced, how precious these items were now, how rare they'd become.  She let him turn the record over, to play the 'B side', made him take his time, savour the sensations of doing it all by hand.  Sense the value it created in being joined to the original creation.  

"And Mum never liked this?"

"Hated it.  Wouldn't have it in her home.  Backward she always said.  Like being a primitive.  Couldn't understand why you'd want to do something slowly by hand that was available in a few syllables.  She never got it at all.  I can see you do though.  want to try another album.  Plenty here to choose from."

He nodded.  "Where does all this come from?  Why haven't I ever heard about this stuff?  How old is that Abbey Road music?"

She laughed, a rejuvenating giggle, and adopted a conspiratorial stance, came close.  "It first belong to my great great grandmother, back in the early days of the last century.  The LPs are mostly even older than that.  But they've been loved, cared for, and every little scratch and crackle is precious now, it's part of the music to me.  This equipment, and the collection, has been passed down through every generation since.  Until your mother decided to break with it.  So maybe you'll..."  She didn't get to finish.

"Yes.  Please.  Yes, definitely. Yes."

Although she was a good 20cm shorter than him her hug felt all enveloping, as welcoming a hug as he could recall.  

"Of course it will have to wait until you have a place of your own, where your mum can't interfere.  And it might be best if we kept this little chat between ourselves, eh?  But until then you're welcome to come here as often as you like and maybe I can guide you through what the collection holds?  Is that a deal?"

Nod, grin, nod, grin, exuberant laugh.

"That's done then.  So now... how would you like to be introduced to Steely Dan?  I think Pretzel Logic would be a good place to start..."