And all change here as well...

Please note folks that I will no longer be using this blog.

Thankyou for your visit today.

Please be tempted to the new all singing version!

Hope to see you there just now.

The stories that started here may, or may not, get moved to here

Best to you and yours, dave

History of Humankind

Lafreraman Myth

Myrena knew that she had to listen and mark the essay before tomorrow, so she settled into the voice controlled poly-media chair, gathered her knitting and activated the preloaded essay.
“My name is Angelina Duplessis and the subject of this dissertation is the Lafreraman Myth and its residual influence on New Female Order psycho-sexual expectations. Final draft dictated Day 213, Year 74 NFO, AD 2364, Old Style.

According to ENCYCLOPAEDIA HUMANITORIUS Published in Year 67 of NFO, (AD 2357, Old Style), the Lafreraman Myth is a legend that, and I quote,
‘has been contentiously promulgated in various unofficial histories over the last four decades. Examination of the surviving print and digital records from before The Cataclysm strongly suggest that the myth existed as an erotic fantasy of males from as early as the Benny Hill documentaries on television (see entry; Ancient Communication Systems, Electrical).
The first unambiguous publication of the New Female Order to mention the falsehood of the Last Free-Range Male Human Beings was in a novelette posted on the subversive and subsequently illegal Playgirl web chat room (see entry; Internet Communication, Pre-Prorogation)...”

Myrena paused the pencil-disc player, and her manual task, to dictate to the chair microphone, “Suspend; append onto original essay, quote, author discloses her personal opinion, a falsehood, far too early and without concurrent justification, unquote. Oh, and add to shopping list, 2 large bottles of cooking oil. Continue, please” She juggled her needles and wool.

“The crucial effect of The Cataclysm can be best understood from the same source, quote,
‘What is now refered to as The Cataclysm was not recognised as being a seminal period until some 15 years after the triggering event; a global outbreak of Masculine Testicular Virus, MTV.
The original infectious agent, Poleaxer, a hybrid of mumps and influenza, was synthesised by an anti-capitalism terrorist cell and released as a vapour on security forces protecting a major political conference in Prague, Federation of Europe, on 1 April AD 2069. It’s subsequent transmogrification into MTV was dependent on Poleaxer cross breeding with a Pico-virus within the co-host, pigeons.

MTV induced a mild febrile illness lasting 48-72 hours in both men and women; the permanent sterilization of the former becoming apparent within 2-3 years of the pandemic which swept the planet between AD 2070 and 2072. A massive reduction in the conception and birth rates was initially attributed to a wide range of causes; other environmental toxins, men’s tight underwear, global cooling and extravagant sexual practices for example.’

By AD 2085, the complete cessation of human breeding had produced world wide anarchy; riots, civil wars, huge numbers of suicides in both sexes, unemployment in child care organisations and gross reductions in manufacturing output. Only in geographically isolated communities with matriarchal dominance did social order persist, allowing vital early research into the essential Parthenogenesis to ensure continuation of the human race...”

Again Myrena annotated the essay, “this student is using far too much verbatim quotation from easily available resources, and her voice is bloody boring! Continue, if we have to, please?”

“...the unpredictable consequence of the first mass, world wide use, of thawed male sperm, derived from the sole surviving sperm bank in Sydney, Australasia Federation Zone, was the birth of some ten million male children and approximately twelve million females in the two years after AD 2095. However, it was not until nearly a quarter of a century later that it was confirmed that all the males were mentally deranged and virtually all the females were infertile.

Thus, by AD 2123, the known world population consisted of perhaps 100 million ageing males and females, born before AD 2068 and who had survived The Cataclysm, the youngest of whom was in their mid fifties. Also 10 million mad young men from whom nobody would breed, and just a dozen women believed to be capable of conceiving a pregnancy. The apparent certainty of elimination of all homo sapiens from planet earth prompted extreme attempts at the creation of human embryo’s. From artificial insemination by pigs and gorillas, to in vitro fertilisation using sperm cultured from the exhumed bodies of young men who died from violent causes in the months prior to Poleaxer being released; all without any success.

In AD2125, Gabrielle Olwyn Duplessis, the 69 year old Professor of Human Fertilization, Embryology and Obstetrics at Grimsey University, Iceland, perfected her technique of Carbon Rod Embryo Activation Through Isolated Ovarian Nuclei, using ova extracted from a volunteer, Janine Crump...”

“Stop!” called Myrena, “I need a large gin, and I’ve dropped a stitch.” Having organized her needs, she recommenced the essay, “Amend the original, quote, author is showing gross nepotism, and the Creation story is so well known as to need no elaboration, unquote. Please add tonic to shopping list. Continue,” she burped.

“Over the next 150 years, selective breeding from direct descendents of Janine Crump and the other eleven girls had created all-female colonies totalling 120 million, each woman giving birth every year for a decade from age 15. Planned emigration had repopulated the globe, with the exception of the mid-Atlantic Islands of the Azores. All contact had been lost with this former Portuguese dependency during the early stages of The Cataclysm, and it was generally assumed that the whole population of about 300,000 souls had been annihilated.

However, in AD 2275, the 17 women crew of an ocean going yacht were cast onto the island when their main mast split asunder. They discovered a paradise of physical warmth, verdant vegetation, abundant crops and seafood; and a society of roughly equal proportions of the sexes, with rampant heterosexual males available. Having freely indulged themselves of all that was on offer to them, all except two of the yachtswomen opted to remain. By carefully sailing the repaired vessel, Janine Crump The IX and her companion, Petruscia Granite, returned to their homeport to announce the discovery.

To their considerable disquiet, no media outlet would carry the story, which was suppressed on the orders of the Federation Of Europe Chief Executive. Janine and Petruscia were arrested and required to divulge all they knew about the social and domestic circumstances in the Azores. Without their knowledge, a large nuclear bomb was dropped on the Main Island to preserve the rest of womankind from the possible dire results of interacting with males again.

When they were released and discovered what had happened, Janine committed suicide, whilst Petruscia elected to take voluntary exile in Unites States of Americas. There, she co-founded the Tolerance Movement, which campaigned against the automatic destruction, by The United Nations of Women, of any new subculture which might be found, on earth or in the rest of the galaxy. So popular was this opinion that a major schism developed in the UNoW, culminating in the Battle of 2290, when the future policy was decided by a mass mud wrestling competition in Time Square, New York, USAs...”

“Pause”, pleaded Myrena, “when is this boring fart going to address the title of her essay?”

“In just 35.7 seconds,” replied the chair, “shall I fast forward to the juicy bits for you?”

“That would be delightful, thank-you!”

After a brief passage of electrical static, the voice of Angelina continued. “... I found the sole surviving copy of Petruscia Granite’s memoirs mis-filed in the UNoW library at the new regional head-quarters in Tromso, Norwegian State. In her hand-written account, Petruscia describes her exploration of the globe, looking for communities which were believed lost after The Cataclysm and which had not been affected by the MTV infection. After fruitless searching for nearly twenty years, Petruscia chanced upon the Maderian Islands, also in the Atlantic Ocean.

Now in her mid sixties, Petruscia was overwhelmed by the generosity of the local population, which was an equal mix of genders, with sexually active and sane males, in many ways reminiscent of the Azorean complex she had stumbled on some 35 years before. She documented her discovery, complete with moving pictures and audiotape recordings, before returning to Tromso. Vividly recalling the reception she and Janine Crump were subjected to when they previously disclosed their news, Petruscia Granite choose to quietly deposit the records for a future generation...”

“Halt! Wait! Hold a moment, whatever!” shouted Myrena, “repeat that last passage, please?”
She listened with increasing incredulity to the disembodied student’s voice claiming the impossible, that sexually potent men still inhabited planet earth.

Myrena frantically manipulated the digital calculator mounted in the arm of her chair, muttering to herself, “... Azores were nuked in AD 2275, fifteen years before New Female Order was established in AD 2290. Petruscia says she found Madman Island, whatever, around AD 2310, that’s Year 20, NFO. Prorogation started in Year 32 and was completed by Year 35, so call it AD 2325.

So, there is no way such a vital document could have been in a library vault somewhere for a decade and a half without being examined. And then survived the massive clearance of politically incorrect literature during prorogation. And further be undiscovered for another forty odd years until Angelina Duplessis stumbles across it, Nah. This is fiction of the worst type! “Chair. Annotate this essay as fail, to be re-written entirely by...”

“Before I do so, “ interrupted the chair’s control centre, “you may wish to view the appendices to this submission, in particular...”

The flat screen on the opposite wall sprang into three-dimensional coloured clarity, showing Angelina Duplessis walking on a sandy beech, under a clear blue, sun lit sky, holding hands with a tall, dark haired, olive skinned man. With whom she then had full carnal congress, whilst swinging in a hammock over the sea edge.

“The bitch!” screamed Myrena, “she’s doing it with a real, live male! It is true, not a myth!”

TONITE is THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

It was the night before Christmas, the lighting was low and Mary was all alone. The hospital standby generator had activated to compensate for the electrical power failure, brought about by frozen snow and slush outside. Inside, the psycho-geriatric ward was low down on the priority list for emergency supply, just one up on the mortuary, where most of the patients on that ward would end up quite soon.

The side-wards had just two low wattage bulbs offering a meagre orange glow next to the fire-alarm sharp pin-points of bright red. Mary lay on her back, gazing apparently meaninglessly at the vague shadows and reflections from the decorations over her bed head. She knew that she wasn’t at home and those kaleidoscopic colours meant something, but what?

Mary’s reverie was interrupted by two young, dark skinned people who seemed to be talking to each other about her. Her ears heard snatches of their conversation, ‘Mary… 76 years… severe self neglect… old stroke, recent fractured hip… very confused, found crawling in the street…’ Her brain understood, ‘Mum… speak to me… Dad’s in from work… he’s freezing cold… make some tea?’

One of the faceless men smiled at Mary and gently took her hand in his warm grasp, “Are you in any pain, Mary?”

Her voice replied, “Flopsie Mopsy, nasty smell.” Where did that come from? Mary wondered what a ridiculous thing to say when your leg hurts like buggery. She tried again, “throb, throb goes the engine, hide quick!” What?

The two staff moved away to the next bedside, just as Mary worked it all out. “Christmas; in the work house, me with no knickers on, head in a spin, where is the light switch?” Her disorientated attempt to sit up attracted one of the nurses back to grab her before she fell. He spoke in a soothing, calming voice, even though his hands were cold and strong as he turned Mary to face the cubicle window overlooking the nurses station.

Her gaze alternated between the unlit festive tree beside the sluice door, and the female staff nurse having a crafty fag as she was writing at the desk. Mary was bothered, should The Blessed Virgin be smoking in her condition? After what felt like some days, the nurse looked up, smiled at Mary, winked and blew her a kiss. The gesture triggered a remembrance from deep within Mary’s past, her first communion and the Bishop winked as he gave her the wine. Mary’s mother was furious at her for suggesting that this had happened, but she, Mary, knew what she had seen. The local priest was summoned to explain that his boss suffered from a twitching habit, and that his affliction was not an extra blessing from God to the recipient. But Mary still knew, and took great comfort and strength from the knowledge that she had been chosen by God, like Jesus’ mother, for a special role on earth.

This lovely thought kept her sane as her life subsequently unravelled into marriage, motherhood, munitions work in the war and mental hospital after the death of their eldest son. A brief stay, actually two years, most of which Mary genuinely did not recall, and then back to caring for grandchildren and her dying husband. Jo took a long time to surrender to the ravages of lung cancer from asbestosis, choking and coughing, gasping for breath as he gripped Mary’s hand so tightly that her knuckles cracked. Finding him cold and stiff beside her one morning, departed to a better place, was a great relief and grief.

Assuming the functions of widowhood, Mary struggled to retain her faith and expectation of special purpose against the debilitating drain of old age, poverty and disability. Her family called for the priest when the left half of Mary’s brain exploded in the stroke, but she rallied around, recovered and went home, again, to wait for her moment. Mary was saddened by the prospect of death, not the dying, but the things undone.

The Christmas tree was suddenly thrown into sharp, dark outline by a creamy white light. Two figures detached themselves from the silhouette and approached Mary’s bed. She instinctively knew the taller one, her husband; but who was the slighter person? As they drew closer, Mary could feel her heart beating rapidly in anticipation of being re-united with Jo. She reached out to hold his hand just as Jo turned to his companion and smiled. Mary’s heart burst with pleasure as she felt Jo’s flesh and realised who the other was; Father Christmas, dressed like Old Father Time, carrying a small cross instead of a scythe, which he held high above his head.

The shadow created fell directly onto Mary’s chest, piercing into her vitals and sending waves of relief and joy through her body and mind as she gripped ever more closely to Jo. He, Jo, helped her out of the bed and together they both walked back to the tree, and the light.

Mary left behind three nurses surrounding her bed, two holding her hands, the other one carrying a large torch. “She’s had a heart attack, shall I call for the crash team?”

“No, not for resusc apparently.”

“She looks so calm and contented, happy even.”

“You been at the wacky baccy again?”

“No, but what a way to go, eh?”

“Is it? Christmas morning, of all days.”

“I haven’t felt a pulse for five minutes now.”

“Nor me. Close the drapes, call for the baby doctor to certify her demise and then we can get on with cleaning up, OK?”

The electricity snapped back on, replacing gloom with night lights and rekindling the fairy lights on the tree. In the maternity suite the first Christmas babe was dragged screaming into life, and named....?


I hope that your festive season is all that you want it to be.

dave

INVOLUTION

Rhiannon walked into the community centre with ambivalent emotions. She thoroughly enjoyed running the Saturday afternoon social and activity group, The Granny Crèche. It made such a change to get back to practical caring after years of managing health authority budgets; what she trained to be a health visitor in the first place. Each week was different, both in those who came and what new problems they brought with them. With a combined age of well in excess of her year of birth, her 27 charges always had something happening.

She had known all that when she agreed to pilot the group and see what the demand would be. What nobody had warned her about was the obvious, the “happenings” were exclusively negative events. The occasional arrival of a new great-grandchild would be welcome; otherwise, it was deterioration, decay and death. But the group had developed its own atmosphere. Quietly accepting the disasters of the previous 7 days and concentrating on enjoying a couple of hours together, come what may. So, now well into their third year, pretty much everything that could happen had; but Rhiannon still expected the unexpected.

Assisting the other helpers set up the tables, chairs and refreshments distracted her so that before she knew what, the room was full of chattering old folk. You could hear their rattling long before you reached the building as most were to some degree deaf and used to bellowing at each other. And having not seen each other for a week, or longer, none wasted anytime in contributing to the din.

Even Audrey was going at it, eighteen and a half to the dozen. Rhiannon smiled as she recalled her brother’s warning when he first brought her along. Supposedly very shy and timid, Audrey had been a real trial for the team, huddling in the corner, not joining in, mute. That was until Larry had gone over and hollered directly to her face; a smile as communication was made. One thing lead to another, a few discrete words with her carer, a hearing aid supplied and Audrey blossomed. There had been no stopping her, especially in the reminiscence sessions; her local knowledge bringing old photographs of the town and surroundings to vivid life.

But, in the last few weeks, the edge had gone from Audrey, her spontaneity had dulled and Rhiannon feared the worst, dementia. She would have to speak with the brother, if he wasn’t too drunk when he called to collect her.

Choosing not to anticipate that encounter, Rhiannon spent a few moments observing Larry as he shuffled around in his wheelchair. By rights, and common sense, he should have been banned from the group, for ever, the very first time he came! Larry was a ladies man, and expected all of the fairer sex to be mesmerised by his charm. He considered it quite acceptable to pinch bottoms, grope cleavages and fondle knees, if not higher, whether or not informed consent had been granted by his victim. And Larry was generous with his attention. NO had to be accompanied by a slap around the face to really mean no. He had barely been in the building an hour on that first occasion and Rhiannon had five very upset customers to placate!

Larry’s nephew, with whom he lived, had promised to speak sternly to his uncle about his behaviour, and tell him to behave himself, but to little avail. Larry had been contrite, promised to reform, but carried on regardless. As she got to know him, usually from conversations after she had scolded him, Rhiannon had grown to quite like the randy old goat. He really did not mean anything sexual by his actions, he was just desperate for female physical contact. Any type, whatever the consequences.

With her limited knowledge of psychology, she could relate that to his upbringing in an orphanage. Subsequent military service, where he learned to drink booze by the gallon, led to pancreatitis and diabetes, which then led to vascular disease, gangrene and both legs being amputated before he was in sixty. Larry was his own worst enemy, because authority had let him down. Accordingly, he ignored authority by testing it to its limits. Maybe that was all psychobabble, but Rhiannon was prepared to tolerate Larry far more than others. Just such a pity that the nephew and his wife were such DINKUMS; double income, no kids, miserable sods. Every week they moaned about something when they dropped Larry off, and yet more when they collected him. Rhiannon had a great desire to give them both a bollocking about the meaning of life, but had to keep her thoughts to herself.

Guessing that she just had time for a cold drink before starting the ever popular bingo, Rhiannon walked to the kitchen, passing Dorothy and Clive as he fed her a biscuit. Although they were devoted to each other, they made a heart rending spectacle. Well into their eighties, mentally sharp but both very frail, Clive was really struggling to hold the chocolate digestive that his beloved Dorothy was gumming away at. He seemed to ignore the sticky residue that was dribbling down his sleeve as he cared for his wife.

Stuart, their son, was, to Rhiannon, a genuine hero. Almost ready to retire himself, and not in the best of health following heart by-pass surgery, he was adamant that the three of them could still cope together at home. Rhiannon had the gravest doubts about that, but still the threesome kept it all going. Or did they?

Emptying her tumbler of refreshing fruit cordial, Rhiannon could not but see the bruise on Dorothy’s temple. This was the fourth consecutive week that one or the other of them had visible signs of trauma. She knew that old skin was easily damaged, but this frequently? She had tried talking to them both, but Clive had an answer or explanation for every graze and cut. Rhiannon knew that she had to corroborate their stories with the son, perhaps that was why she had been more nervous today.

The bingo session, or housey-housey as Audrey insisted on calling it, was its usual loud performance, and finished in time for the carer’s arrival at 3.30 pm. The room emptied rapidly, leaving just Clive and Dorothy waiting for Stuart, who had never been this late before. Eventually, with all the other helpers gone, only Rhiannon was left to lock up. Neither Clive or Dorothy seemed concerned by the non-arrival of their son, they sat by the CD player, listening to big band music.

By 4.15 pm, Rhiannon was getting very concerned; by 4.30 pm she knew she had to act. A telephone call to the police elicited a vague and mysterious response, and promise of immediate assistance. An inspector arrived within 10 minutes, accompanied by two female officers who separated Clive and Dorothy to speak with them. The senior officer ushered Rhiannon into the kitchen and closed the door behind them.

“You are not going to believe this, and I’m not sure that I do, but here goes. About two hours ago we were called to a brawl at the shopping arcade; nothing unusual in that. As we were sorting it all out, one of my officers was accosted by a tiddly older man who wanted to confess something to her. Still not that odd, but getting interesting. We took him back to the station for a coffee and a chat. Well, Stuart, your couple’s son, confessed to physically and emotionally abusing them, and stealing their benefit money to buy heroin. Seems he’s been an addict since the heart surgery last year and things have just got out of control. I’ve had him checked by the police surgeon and he seems to be well enough to be speaking the truth. He couldn’t remember where he had left his parents and we’ve been searching all over, until your phone call.”

“Good God above,” exclaimed Rhiannon, “and I thought I’d heard most things by now. Where will they go, what’s going to happen?”

“I need to take them to the station to give statements first, if that’s OK, then we’ll arrange for the out of hours social worker to get involved. Best we can do I’m afraid.”

The sudden sound of laughter drew Rhiannon back into the larger room, where Dorothy was wearing one of the constable’s hats and shrieking with glee.

“What do you think that you look like?” said Rhiannon.

Clive turned towards her and the inspector, and smiled, “She looks like the angel she is and she won’t have to tolerate that fucking deviant son of ours anymore, OK?”



I hope that you have enjoyed this short series of stories

I will be internet publishing a second novel in November 2007.

RETIREMENT

“Mavis, do we have to go into the town centre today? I’m too tired, need to have a rest; try and catch some energy, you know?”

“Yes, we do have to go, Baz. They’re expecting me to do an hour at the shop this afternoon, and you agreed to have a wander on your own. Right!”

“But I feel worn out, no-how, it might be too much for me?”

“Balderdash, Baz. Stop moaning and get out of the car, I haven’t got the patience for one of your whinges just now.”

“I am not whinging! For pity sake, after all I’ve been through!”

“We’ve been through, you mean. I know you had the bowel cancer, the operations and all the chemo and radium treatment, but it was no cake ride for me, either.”

“You said that you didn’t mind looking after me!”

“I did not mind looking after you. You couldn’t help that. But since then, my God your attitude has been hopeless.”

“Oh,” said Baz, with an overdramatic sigh, ”It’s my attitude again. All I hear about these days is my attitude being wrong, at least according to you!”

Mavis tuned to face her husband, with anger radiating from her whole being.
“That is just not so, is it? The surgeon told you, and the stoma nurse, and the oncology sister, and the works welfare officer, everyone in fact.” She paused to regain her composure, “And, yes, me. Because I’m stuck with you, all day and everyday, 24/7 or whatever they call it now?”

“Stuck is it?”

Her anger resurged to her face, and Mavis lost control. “Yes, absolutely bloody stuck. You have turned into the most bored, boring, cantankerous, miserable, demanding, frightened man. I hate how you have become!”

Stung by his wife’s accurate assessments, Baz retaliated, and instantly regretted doing so. “Them’s is big words for a shopkeeper’s daughter. Learned them at that story writing club was it?”

Mavis went rigid in her seat, then swung her left hand into a firm slap on Baz’s face. “How dare you mock me! Enough, I’m off to the shop. I’ll be back at the car for 3.30pm. If your not here then bloody well walk home, you bastard.”

Baz failed to stop a tear forming as his precious wife of 35 years stormed across the car park and out of sight. He had most definitely gone way beyond the mark this time. But he felt so wretched and hopeless and useless, and had done for months; what on earth could be done to cheer him up. Shuffling deeper into despair, and the passenger seat, Baz ruminated on his miserable lot in life.

To, think, it all started with what seemed to be a practical joke by one of his workmates, pissing air, like a soda fountain; pnuematuria to give it the medical label. It happened three or four times before Baz mentioned it to Mavis, and then only in passing, so to speak, during an evening meal. She had told the story to their eldest child, a nurse, who failed to see the funny side and nagged her father to go to the doctor. One thing led to another, telescopes down his willy, and up his back passage, all while he was awake, before the lady surgeon broke the news.

Baz had a cancerous polyp in his lower bowel that he penetrated into his bladder allowing intestinal gasses to escape in the urine. That was the good information, a cause found. The bad news concerned the treatment; removal of the diseased guts, a temporary stoma bag to catch his faeces from an outlet near his belly button, weeks of nauseating cancer killing drug injections and radiotherapy. Then, after six months, if the repeat investigations were satisfactory, the guts would be reconnected so that the world could again fall out of his bottom

In lots of ways, this horrendous sounding discovery was just one of those things. Growing old meant the body failing to function; but unlike with the heavy machinery that he knew so much about, spare parts could not be found on a shelf. The doctors and nurses who looked after him were great, they explained everything in a way that his technological mind could understand.

The totally unexpected stumbling point was a rare side-effect of the chemotherapy; Baz contracted a chest infection from his beloved racing pigeons. He knew such things occurred as some old chaps in the fanciers fraternity went down with it. What he could still not accept was the consequence; Baz had to stop keeping, breeding and racing his birds. A sputum cup full of the tiny bugs wrecked his life. All Baz’s retirement plans had centred on the garden lofts, as in reality had most of his adult life, certainly since the kids had emigrated to the South-East for a so called better life.

Baz was distracted from his moping by a gaggle of seagulls fighting over a pizza crust in the middle of the car park. Their raucous shrieks were painfully similar to the din he and Mavis had created in their row. Embarrassed by the recall, Baz decided that he had to patch things up with his wife; he would meet her from the Cancer Research Charity shop, look pathetic, win her over.


****************************************************************************************

Mavis had stormed through the streets, towards the shop which fronted on to one of the new arcade entrances, seething with rage and frustration. Baz had absolutely no right to poke fun at her literary achievements! Mavis had tried very hard to achieve a constructive lifestyle after leaving work; before he retired to lavish even more hours on those bloody overgrown starlings.

They had always planned for Mavis to finish salaried employment before Baz. She being three years older and with all her national insurance stamps fully paid up, there was no financial reason to carry on. Her employer had a responsible attitude to retirement and offered free advice and guidance courses, which Mavis had made the maximum use of. For her, leaving the work force coincided with the emptiness of the home now that the children were settled elsewhere. She day dreamed of converting the equity locked up in their house value into hard cash, to fund holidays, a new residence in the sunshine, perhaps Madeira or Spain?

But the demand of His Majesty’s Pigeons caused that dream to whither away. Baz would not consider any other future for himself, and she was lumbered with him. He wasn’t a bad husband; just solid and predictable. Boringly and stolidly fixed in his way, incapable of viewing things from a different perspective. Reminiscent of a traffic cone; wherever he was, you couldn’t miss him or the obstruction he created just by being.

As she went to open the glass door into the charity shop, Mavis saw her reflection. Unaware that she had been crying intermittently throughout her pacing, the sight of her smeared make-up and puffy eyes prompted further tears to run freely. Stella, the duty manager, one of the older and more sensible volunteers who had personal experience of the viscitudes of human existence, rushed to her aid. Squeezed into the tiny staff room behind the counter, with a cup of strong tea, Stella kept one eye on the customers and both ears attentive to Mavis’s outpourings.

“I know it’s a struggle to cope after cancer, Stella, we see plenty enough of that here. But, he just will not make any effort. He just lounges about, moaning and whinging. I am at my wits end with him!”

“Does he still go on about the pigeons?”

“He goes on about anything, given half a chance; Victor Meldrew the second. Yes, those bloody birds do get regularly lamented, and his old job, and our sex life, and the price of a loaf of bread!”

“Is he happy about anything, then?”

“Making my life intolerable. It seems as if he goes out of his way to be nasty. And that was the final straw, him poking fun at my writing’s.”

“Mavis you did say, ‘seems as if’?”

“What? Well, yes, I suppose it is ‘seems’; he isn’t naturally vicious, just pathetic. I’m clean out of ideas on what more I can do, he will not do anything!”


Stella was called to the till, which allowed Mavis to finish her tea and readjust her make-up before going back into the shop.

“Mavis, can you help with some unpacking in the corner, another donation, house clearance more like. It need sorting and checking, you know the routine?”

“Oh, yes. Check all the pockets for money and that winning lottery ticket. If only!”

****************************************************************************************



Baz was swept along in the crocodile of window shoppers and did not take in much of what he glanced at. Until he reached the electrical discount store where a group of teenager lads obstructed the flow. They were oblivious to everything apart from a soccer match showing on a wide screen TV in the display area. Baz paused, aggrieved at being delayed, and was about to make a complaint to the security guard across the mall, when a disruption occurred.

Some of the youths turned and started shouting at a couple staring into the jewellers window across the way. He couldn’t make out what was said, but for sure, it wasn’t complimentary. The objects of their abuse ignored the commotion and exchanged a kiss so full of passion and promise that Baz could feel its heat from thirty feet away.

He turned the other way, unable to watch; the young woman looked exactly like Mavis used to when they first started courting. That remembrance brought a waterfall of others; near enough the whole of his life did flash before his eyes, to the scene in the car park just minutes before.

Mavis was, as ever, spot on in her critique. He knew that his attitude had become intolerable, he had to get a life, a new one, and pretty damn quick. Like the besotted couple he had been watching, he and Mavis needed each other very badly. Holding his head higher, Baz rejoined the human race along the covered walk ways until he reached a country pursuits store. The window display had tents, rucksacks, sleeping bags; all the paraphernalia they could persuade you to buy. And a collection of headwear, including a most appealing deer stalker hat.

Baz did not need to check his reflection, he was fully aware of what was under the old baseball cap perched on his head. His hair had re-grown after the cancer treatment, but in various thicknesses, lengths and colours. It looked peculiar and did attract sniggers from other people on the few occasions that he bothered to go out and about in public. But, the tatty and faded covering that he wore was almost as bad. Yes, a new life needed a new hat; help to bring a bit of confidence back.

The transaction was quickly done, and the shop assistant willingly agreed to dispose of the relic. Baz stepped out towards where Mavis should be, hoping to catch her before she left. Mavis was still rummaging through dustbin bags full of clothing when he pushed the door, making the automatic door bell sound, and attracting and then riveting her attention.


“Baz? What do you think that you look like? “ she gasped.

“Not Sherlock Holmes, I hope. More like a sad old git who wants to get his life going again. Any suggestions? Bird watching, maybe? Even if I can‘t keep them any longer, I can still watch them, and for free!”

“Well, yes! Come here, you silly sod. Give me a kiss. Mmm. Right, let’s think. Birding? Yep, we have just taken delivery of a pair of binoculars, modern, lightweight, would they suit, sir?”

“Let me just try them first. I’ll nip outside with them, OK? I won’t shoplift, I promise!”

Mavis watched Baz standing outside, and winked to Stella. Perhaps retirement would be fun again.


dave

MATURITY

MATURITY

Colonel Jackward closed his eyes and tried not to grip the seatbelt too tightly as his wife reversed the car into the only available parking space. It was her car, and she had never, yet, had an accident for which she was to blame. But he knew that the end result of her manoeuvrings would be the vehicle left at an angle across the bay, untidily touching both white lines, an affront to his perfectionism. They had rowed about this point so often in the past that a mutually agreed sequence now sufficed; he closed his eyes and she told him when to get out and fetch the parking token from the nearest machine.

As he walked back with the small pink square of paper, Ted Jackward paused to admire his wife’s backside as she leant into the boot to remove her creations. Perhaps it was no longer quite as trim as when he first saw it across the Officers Mess bar in Catterick just 25 years ago, but she still wriggled it very provocatively and to his satisfaction. He smiled, and reached forward to gently slap one cheek, just as she stood up, banging her head on the tail flap.

“Ted, you made me jump, you miserable sod. I’ll have stuff in my hair now!”

“No, Philli, your hair is fine, as is your adorable bum.”

“I want to look my best at the shops when I deliver my jewellery orders. Beautiful Adornments for Beautiful Expressions. Babe jewellery. Not by a lopsided drudge.”

“You will never be a drudge, my dear. At least not to me.”

“And I’m never going to be a doting grandmother either, it would seem”

“Don’t start on that again, Philli. Our kids will get round to it in their own good time, and nothing we can do will alter that. Right?”

“I know, but I want Granpa Ted and Granma Philli to be able to enjoy their grandkids, before we loose our marbles and need Zimmer frames to get around!”

“We’ve a long time to live before that happens. Anyway, perhaps you’ll have to be Nana Philli?”

“What? Makes me sound like a Greek Island!”

“Quite. Small, hot and perfectly formed.”

“Flattery was always your strength, but thankyou.” Centrally locking her car, Philli grasped the three bags of goods for delivery, and tilted her head for a farewell kiss. “I shall be about an hour, no longer. What are you going to do, Ted?”

“A courtesy call on the recruiting team in the park. Pay the newspaper bill. Pickup a bottle or two from the Vintners. And meet a lovely lady for afternoon tea, say 3 o’clock at The Mews Café?”

“Fine. Don’t bore them at the display, Ted; it’s their show now. And since when has Bargain Booze been a vintners, for heavens sake?”

“Shush. The neighbours will all want to open an account. Have fun.”

Ted watched his wife sashay her way across the concrete parking plot, attracting second glances from most of the older men as she went. He, Ted, knew that his recently concluded Army Career had been enhanced and advanced by The Honourable Philliomena Whittleworth, the perfect officer’s lady. He still needed her support and encouragement, now that his second career as foreign political adviser to a network of exporting companies was taking off. So, he would not let her down in any way. Straightening his already stiffening back, Lieutenant Colonel Ted Jackward, MBE (Mil), Deputy Chairman of the local British Legion, set off at a fast pace to bid welcome to the recruiting team.

The brief walk through the side streets and across the riverside meadow allowed him to ponder Philli’s concern, would they ever become proud in-laws and grandparents, possibly not in that order? Davina, a dashing clone-like model of her mother was 24 next birthday, and happily body hunting her intended, the director of one of the companies who had recently commissioned Ted. His parents were old style landed gentry, well comfortably well off sheep farmers, and they obviously recognised good breeding potential in Davina. Mark was playing hard to get, which frustrated both sets of intending in-laws, but merely prompted Davina to spin a tighter web around him than she had already constructed and about which Mark was apparently ignorant.

But, was he? When he needed a female escort to entertain foreign business contacts to a countrified weekend, Davina had been his first choice. Tonight was the big set piece dinner for ten, roast lamb of course, with organic vegetables and accompanying cello music by a soloist from the town college; said to have a bright future. Mark would be an ideal husband for Davina, and she knew it, which is why she bided her time. Had they been intimate yet? No business of anybody else, and no doubt Mark knew about fertilization, contraception and all that messy stuff. Bothered by the probable conclusion of his meandering ruminations, Ted switched to pondering about his son.

Douglas, now 22 years old as of last week, was a chip off the old block; well the old block as Ted was before he fractured his back falling off the command AFV at the Annual Inspection in Germany. His tank driver had swerved to avoid a large dog that had dashed across the parade ground, heading towards their starboard caterpillar track. A no-win option, kill the General’s mutt or tip the boss on his arse. Unfortunately for all, as the official enquiry had confirmed, Ted’s bottom landed after his back had impaled on one of the solid metal marker points embedded in the ground. The squelching noise as he vertebra fractured, without transecting his spinal cord, still woke Ted from the occasional nightmares about that day three years ago.

Before then, Ted had been very fit and active, as Douglas was in his chosen postgraduate studies of Industrial Archaeology. A good first degree in History had helped him to gain a place on this surprisingly oversubscribed course, made popular by Time Team off the television, according to Douglas. For the past 3 weeks, the students had been exploring and excavating what was thought to be a post-Roman blacksmith’s premises in North Yorkshire. Douglas had already sent some muddy looking pictures by e-mail, of heaven knows what, but all including a particular young lady.

Philli assumed this to be the Olivia, whose name had frequently formed part of their son’s conversation on his last home visit. She wasn’t the classic beauty, as best could be judged from the photos, but then a field dig probably wasn’t the easiest place for impeccable grooming. Would Olivia turn out to be his daughter-in-law? Philli had expectations, Ted wasn’t so sure; and Douglas was his own man, never one to acquiesce to others without damn good reason.

As he approached the crowd gathered around the Army display stand, Ted decided to leave his wife to her own worries, whilst he enjoyed a brief return to his old life.

“Good afternoon Colonel,” saluted the young officer in front of him, “Nice to see you again, sir?”

“Hello, Lieutenant. Welcome. How’s business today, any takers yet?” They shook hands.

“A few possible genuine interests, but not many. Mostly old timers bringing the grandkids for a walk in the sunshine. Pleasant reminiscences and lots of improbable War Stories. But, it’s not raining and the helicopter display should be entertaining. The boys,” he gestured to the soldiers behind him,” have got a surprise in store for their Corporal. He’s going to be winched up, tied onto a stretcher, for a horizontal upside down tour of his home town from 500 feet beneath the chopper!”

“I trust the bastards will pay to clean up the puke afterwards?”

“No problem, sir! The local firemen will be here, just in case, and they are itching to use their hosepipes for a good purpose. Will you stay to witness the fun?”

“Er, no. This old timer will leave you to your high jinks. Many thanks for turning out, today. Enjoy!”


****************************************************************************************

Mrs. Colonel Jackward knew full well about the hopeful ogling that followed her around, and deliberately used the impact to manipulate situations to her advantage. Except, that as plain Philli, sole proprietor of Babe Jewellery, it was mostly female shopkeepers that she was attempting to influence, most of whom were very confident in their sexuality, and immune to the obvious. Not so her first customer, the ingratiatingly polite Mr. Tanardis, entrepreneur and dealer in discount fashions, whom she had persuaded to stock a few of her creations. He had been easy to distract and entrap into a contract.

So why was Davina still making the running to Mark? Her charms were obvious, sometimes too much so in drop cleavage frocks, but wedding bells were silent. She had her mother’s devious nature and a partially trapped victim; why the delay?

Now that she and Ted had a proper home to call their own, courtesy of the accident compensation package, Philli wanted to have the extended family around her as much as possible. Partly to make up for all the years they had been packed off to boarding school, which was the only way to give them any sort of stable education. Partly to assuage her own guilt at being a bad parent; the unreasonable guilt that all mothers feel for missing their kids growing up. Partly, but only partially recognised by Philli, to fill the empty nest now that the children had their own lives, quite separate from and mostly alien to the parents.

Removing her hand from Mr. Tanardis’s hairy knuckled paw, whilst clutching tightly to his cheque for goods sold on her behalf, Philli bade farewell to her first customer and walked into the shopping centre to meet with the other two. Window watching seemed to be the order of the day for the crowds milling the concourse, allowing Philli more time to ponder as she slowly progressed to her destinations.

In reality, Davina and Mark would become a couple, above or below the brush as they elected. They would have children, Philli’s much desired grand-children, it was just a matter of time. But, what about Douglas? Ted had been to ill after the accident to be told that Douglas wanted to come out of the closet and declare his homosexuality. Fortunately, the infatuation, for his lecturer, had passed away, to Philli’s relief and her son’s temporary embarrassment. His new young lady, Olivia, looked formidable in the photos, but Douglas talked fondly and repeatedly about her. They actually knew little about her, despite diligent interrogation. Davina knew more but was keeping sibling secrecy.

Philli had to wait for the crowds to thin so she could cross the inner courtyard to the craft market. To her great delight she observed two women leaving, both wearing earrings that she had designed and fashioned. Two customers! Suddenly her worries about the future were eclipsed by the present delight of being a fulfilled artist, and one who was about to be paid for her efforts.

Having received the due money and plaudits from her customers, Philli perused the other stalls with a critical eye, checking for inspiration amongst the competition. She was so pre-occupied that the ringing of her mobile phone made her jump.

“Hello, darling, how is the weekend going?”

“Mostly wonderful, Mum. I need a quick bit of advice, can you talk?”

“Yep, your Dad’s not here. What’s the problem, Davina? Must be unusual for you to need my assistance?”

“Well, it is, actually. Mark’s guests are engaging and not too demanding, except for this Indian gentleman. He keeps squeezing me when he gets within range. Arms like an octopus, and a very firm grip; all over, boobs, bum, the lot. Some of the bruises will show tonight at the dinner. What do I do? Don’t want to upset any business arrangements, but this is beyond the limit. You must have had to cope with the odd groping general in your time. What should I do?”

“Ummph! Generals are familiar with the concept of a dignified retreat, redeployment and all that. The worst are bloody foreign politicos. I remember some French Mayor…”

“Save it for your memoirs, Mother. I need advice now, please?”

“Right. Yes. Sorry about that. What does this jerk do, what function does he have, if any?”

“Some sort of middle man, banker I think. Certainly not the head honcho, he’s fine.”

“OK. And what does Mark say about the bruises, if he’s seen them yet?”

“I put it down to him chasing me around the four poster bed, and…”

“Enough of the information, daughter. So, option one is do nothing. You’ve done that, no result. Option two, next time he does it, politely but firmly warn him off. No screaming, just be blunt. Three, if that doesn’t work, knee him once very hard in the balls. Aim to sterilize the old goat, no half measures. Fourthly, if he still tries it on, get Mark’s mum to have quiet word, emphasizing the protection of virtuous female house guests and so on. If all the above fails, get the farm’s docking shears and chase the bugger out of the county! How does all that sound?”

“Thanks, mum. So its phase 3 next, what a palaver. I’ve got to go now, help with the dinner, prove my stuff to mother-in-law to be, I hope!”

“At a girl, Davina. Hear from you soon, bye!”

Philli disconnected the call with a satisfied sigh. She could still be useful to her daughter; maturity did bring advantages over youth, but not so many, perhaps?

When she entered the tea shoppe, already their favourite place in town for the traditional English afternoon ritual, Phlli had no difficulty locating Ted. He was half standing, half sitting, at an empty table, supporting his body weight by one arm whilst waving the other hand around, staring intently at whatever was in that palm.

“Ted. What do you think that you look like? Has your back given way again? Sit down, here, come on, take the weight of it. Quickly, before you get stuck like that!”

“No, Philli, it’s not my back. It’s this new ruddy mobile phone that you decided I needed…!”

“As if…

“Anyway, I’d just sat down when it made that warbling sound that means a text message has arrived. I’ve left my reading glasses at home and made a mess of the buttons trying to read the tiny letters. All I can see now is a bluish black swirl. Here, you try and sort it out!”

Philli took the proffered instrument and deftly manipulated the keyboard. “It’s from Douglas. He says that the digs being abandoned for a few days because they need some more specialist equipment. He and Olivia are coming to stay from tomorrow, if that’s convenient, as they have something to share with us. There’s a picture attachment. Looks to me like a lolly pop stick, you had it on extreme zoom… hang on… Oh my gosh! Ted, we are going to be grandparents, soon. This is our son and his partner proudly showing off a positive pregnancy test strip. And she’s wearing an engagement ring! Oh, Ted, it’s happening…”

“But I thought he was gay, not interested in that sort of thing. You said so! Outside the hospital room one evening, when you thought I was asleep. You and Douglas were talking. You did!”

“No, darling, of course not. You must have been hallucinating from all the painkillers they were doping you with. Douglas never said anything like that, I promise.”

Under the table, Philli crossed her fingers, and her legs, for good fortune. Maturity also meant knowing when to not say anything!

dave