365 Ways With Words

The Scarf

"Be careful. And don't forget your scarf!"

Too late – the door slammed and quick footsteps descended the path towards the road and a gaggle of excited voices that led away towards the village. Off he went in his pirate costume to collect enough sweets to last a week or so, that is if he didn't share them. But she knew he'd share them. He was a good kid like that.

She didn't hold much with Halloween. Yes, she'd heard of it as a girl, but at that time it was seen as a distinctly American thing – all plastic pumpkins and scary films. Slowly, as shops, restaurants and even supermarkets caught on, it became part of the calendar, but there was something begrudging about letting this interloper in to a British calendar, at least hers. It wasn't... organic – was that the right word?

And here she was, allowing her son to go out trick or treating with the other kids. She went herself last year, with other mums, and in truth had a great time of it, but that was before Shaun left. She just didn't feel up to it and made her excuses to Sue. She understood. The house was blissfully quiet.

The washing up was loaded, the floor mopped, the cat let out and curtains drawn. It all looked so very normal and nice; a perfect sparkling kitchen, all the new furniture, the low lighting, the gas fire slowly hissing away in the wall, and above it on the mantelpiece a school photo of Martin and the slow ticking of her grandfather's presentation clock. It was 7 o'clock precisely.

She kicked off her slippers and pulled her feet under her and was about to reach for the remote when she paused. Where was it all going? Was this moment what she really wanted tonight? Would this quiet, solitary evening without a bastard husband and noisy 10-year old become a regularity – a norm. Why did things have to end that way? Why couldn't he have been a little more understanding, a touch more loving? Then she might have been a little more forthcoming. Then they'd still have been together and it would still be a proper family – a normal family. No excuses and no tears at bedtime...

What was she thinking? He was the bastard – he found a slut's big pair of tits beyond temptation. He upped and left. It wasn't her fault. She slammed her thumb on the remote and the flatscreen TV erupted into life: wildlife on BBC2, about birds in springtime. Nests. She quickly changed to ITV and the beginning of X-Factor. Her mind settled as the first singer, a nice looking boy of about 18, was introduced and began his intense, pent-up warbling.

He looked a little like Martin, almost a future vision. She wondered if he'd also one day have a good voice. He didn't sing much about the house – the last time she remembered him singing was as shepherd no 2 in the nativity scene in year 3. But if he looked and sounded like that? Stirrings of displaced pride welled within and she watched even more intently. He beamed innocently from his picture – as if the picture was really his face, really looking at her.

The rest of the programme was the usual mix of audience over-reaction, the judges' acerbic comments and Dermot o'Leary being the greek chorus that suited her mood. She quite forgot herself, that she was alone and that it was Halloween and at times even gave out a chuckle.

Before the end she heard the front door slam.

"That you, Martin? How'd it go?"

She heard his familiar footsteps thud up the stairs and his bedroom door noisily close. Sounded like something was up. The boy who looked like Martin came second; she was a little disappointed and switched off the TV. The house descended into a raging quiet again. A little too quiet for normal, she imagined he was already back on his new laptop.

"Martin? How did it go?"

Through the door's glass panel she could see the hallway was in total darkness. Not really unusual; he thought nothing of keeping it burning 24 hours, but at night it was hard to see on the landing without it.

She opened the hallway door. A breeze of frozen air enveloped her and quite caught her breath. The front door was firmly closed, and again the kitchen door. She turned on the light at the top of the stairs, and putting her slippered feet silently on each carpeted stair, slowly climbed listening for any of his familiar movements.

"Martin?"

He couldn't have gone to sleep so soon. He could hear her even through his earphones, but there was nothing but stillness. Standing by his World of Warcraft-postered door she again called his name, knocked and tried the handle – it was icy, like a fierce little ice cube in her fingers.

She instantly pulled away. Then she thought, smiled and opened up the door.

"Martin? That's  a great trick..."

The room was dark and empty and full of his smell, only more-so. She stood for a while waiting for the little tinker to rush out from the wardrobe, or grab her ankle from under the bed. But all was still. Only the wee twinkling lights of the modem glimmered a sickly green light from his desk.

She flicked on the light: he wasn't here at all – not even hiding. She checked her bedroom, the spare, the bathroom and even the airing cupboard, leaving the lights on as she went. She looked up at the loft access panel.

"OK, Martin, very clever." she acknowledged. "Where are ya?"

The house around her was still, awful and coldly empty. Again she felt the chill around her neck, her arms and the back of her legs – a deep, sudden chill under the skin, as if someone was intentionally blowing cold air at her. It gave her a terrible, unhappy feeling...

Rushing downstairs to the kitchen she picked up her mobile to call Sue – she had missed 5 calls and there were as many messages.

FROM: Susan

MESSAGE 1: Call me.

FROM: Susan

MESSAGE 2: CALL ME NOW...

Ignoring the rest, she hurriedly returned the number.

"Oh my God, is that you?"

"Sue, what's happened?"

"Stay where you are – we're coming to fetch you. We're nearly there."

"Has something happened to Martin?"

On the kitchen door handle beside her hung a scarf, and on her mantelpiece sat his photo keeping up the same 10-year old frozen smile.

The Sommelier's Recommendations

May I suggest just a drop of white wine sir, or even red,

As a little Hors d'oeuvre? To settle the stomach

I personally recommend a trip to the local vinoteka*

To request a sample from their under-Kč25 selection

 

        The sky is so blue, so infinitely clear on this cold early morning

 

Why not be the man and follow it up

With a quick sniff or two of warming Stará Myslivecká brandy

On special offer at the moment at only Kč90 –

Definitely worth a trip to Lidls (if they let you in)

 

        Not a cloud: not one detail above but the brilliant sunshine

 

If a beer is more to your liking,

I can advocate a host of honest, canned opportunities

From a nice little shopfront window that knows me well –

Past their sell-by date, so less than Kč10 for ½ litre

 

        The smooth, silver leaves of the willow rustle on the skirts of a early winter breeze

 

I know some may prefer choosing from a more robust selection:

Many-a Czech patriot proudly takes to Becherovka

Some may feel uncomfortable paying more than Kč350 per litre,

But there's no skimping on quality (even though Tescos bulk buy it's probably better to share)

 

        The valley's air is damp from the pure river's ceaseless gentle flowing

 

And finally, to the direct no-nonsense approach of grain distillation –

Warming vodka now available in wonderful pocket-sized Kč20 plastic bottles

The preferred tipple of no less than the President

A perfect gift to onesself after a hard day's graft

 

        The red-faced body lies motionless in the long grass, gasping ever closer to death in noisy long breaths.

 

 

*Vinoteka – local wine bar and off-licence

2 At The Withhilp

Trao snekt next to the Withhilp, fingers numb from hours onguard. How much longer would his trimbling smarkness git in his mordled hed? Mordled – huh, tru-nuf.

He had new emerged that dawn with groundlest smarks; high above in the blue S.K.Y. herns swatched from left to right, from light to dark, from briddle to braddle. Could he go again – two more, one more shifting? He was near to the ol' brakinit. His own said agin and agin, Long mins be as long hors be as long day. Jist do, end alive and be with agin.

"Take it up!" Trao's brossier Groundler sharped. "Take it up – or take you down!"

"Yeshirr!" he instinctively smarked, holding up gin. But now his trimbling was gone. He so tire.

"Mordler you is, mordler you. Alweys and agin. Mordler." Groundler spat on the near braddle.

"Yeshirr!"

"You got 2 in the Withh. All day onguard go 2, so you got 2. Thin git, Mordler." Groundler fix his eye on eye, then turn and go.

He smarked gin, pulling his fingers up to his eyes and shwiping – couldn't help the training. Once Groundler left he let go do the phew r'lax. Then him now in the Withhilp. 2 seemed an eternity up on the briddle ridge, but pressus short down on the near braddle.

He let the congrenor remove the old smorld – it crumbpeld into dust and was gone. His accesses were gently filled with congrenor essens, flowing from toe to tip. He was darnrite, the 2 was pressus. Painning gone, engy up, fingers all new. In Withhilp he could go agin and agins: ready for any, ready to go.

The essens snekt away, like alwey. Beauty! He oped his eyes in time to see congrenor start new smorld: alwey cold new, best next, like skin. And then he go out seeing whole new onguards on line, tire with the Groundler smarky word, tireout with the trimbling – all before the Withhilp for 1s or 2s. But Trao, he was mordlering no more, no-no. His hed up, take it up, he looked with no smark to go back to briddle top.

"Herns and me – let's go!" he shout, into the blue.

Lou Reed 1942-2013

Commiseratory words after a death are uncomfortably trite, yet necessary. They enable our loss to be vocalised. We can say our piece – and through them seek peace.

A wild being from birth, Lou Reed breathed music: "My God is rock n’roll. It’s an obscure power that can change your life. The most important part of my religion is to play guitar."

His soul shone through, a little too brightly for some. In 1975 Rolling Stone journo Paul Nelson aptly designated Reed as 'poet of destruction', an epithet that became more truthful as time passed. By 2010, the time we saw him sing ballads in Santiago de Compostela's majestic praza da Quintana, his clear love for the poetry with music we call songs was made tangible in the night time air. His tender, vulnerable heart, open and plain to all who heard, shone as an exotic and mesmerising jewel – at the same time Lauri Anderson's wordy precision proved a perfect cerebral counterbalance. That night remains with me as no small wonder, of what can be done when honesty is made tangible.

He really knew everyone – sang with them, played with them or worked with them; and fell out with more than a few.

I don't know every Lou Reed song. There are so many. It's not just that they are good: they meet the point of experience with minimum fuss and brutal honesty – urban soundtracks from fucked up junkies, low life scum and free-floating souls. We may not recognise ourselves as their subjects, but his songs remain pertinent, resilient, resonant and, if allowed, will touch the soul. That's the job of a poet.

Beyond The Grave

There must be somewhere

Out there

Where they exist

Past life,

Beyond those last desperate moments

 

Free from work

Free from harm

Where the sum

Of all functions

Becomes

A new netherworld

 

There must be a place

Where one kind

And another

Can mingle

Without prejudice

Of memory or ability or origin

Beyond the stabbing fingertips

Of the ungrateful and the hurtful

 

There must be a land of freedom

Without bonded necessity

And merciless demand,

Where a new lifetime

Of unknown opportunities

Begins

 

But until that time arrives

And that place becomes

A blissful reality

Into the drawer you must go

To sit idly

Powerless

Useless

Turned off

Dead

Nocturnal Paranoia

it is a state of emergency he is watching from next door

his camera is pointing at me from his window i can see

the lens reflected in the window of the house opposite

i want to hide why is he is looking in he must have a

sinister motive for this intrusion and i do not like it i will

hide under the window so he cannot see but then i will be

trapped i cannot move in case i am detected what does

he want i am helpless against being observed it is like

the tripod's eye in war of the worlds i don't know what

to do i want to protect the family and everything in the

house but am so terrified i cannot breathe when i take

a quick glimpse the lens reflection is still there i can not

get out how can i stop this it is a state of emergency

Living With Imaginary People

This post is about imaginary people – what they are, what they aren't and how imaginary people can help you.

First, what they are. Imaginary people are figments of the imagination. I live with imaginary people. In fact I work with imaginary people. I meet them every day, talk to them and listen to the conversations they have with other imaginary people. They have yet to talk back to me, and have not done so to anyone else I know for that matter, but that's OK: I think I'd be very worried if that actually happened.

My job, if that's what I should call it, involves the creation of people, complete with histories, mannerisms, motives, fears and delights. In fact, the name of the game is to make these people so convincing, so completely believable, that their existence does not come into question. Only then do the imaginary people really come to life.

So, for instance, I have made a relatively new acquaintance, Harvey Norman. He lives in Brisbane Australia, drives an ambulance for a living, likes to go bike riding and last saw his father the morning after he beat up his mum. He doesn't know it yet, but he's going to meet his future wife today on a beach. She will have a lot to say to him, once she works out he's not a total jerk. Not sure if he's going to be a friend yet.

As then there's the local Olomouc police Inspector who will investigate the brutal murder of two students on Franklinova. He must also work with a pretty, young graduate who has just become a deputy inspector, is half his age and has ideas of her own. Their chemistry may bring them together, but may also push them apart.

Other imaginary people may have lived thousands of years ago, watched sunrises over the African savanna before people lived in houses, or may not yet have been born because their cocoon is in stasis on their starship travelling towards Alpha Centauri at close to the speed of light.

Now, this might sound all fine and dandy to you ordinary folk that work for a living, but there is a problem: imaginary people don't go away. In fact, they are always there — when you wake up and go to bed, when you eat or go to the toilet, when you go shopping or have a drink at the pub. They sometimes appear when people are talking to you, or when having a drink with friends. They put in an awkward appearance at the most tender of moments and enjoy showing up for a laugh when life is intolerable. After a while you just can't stop them from turning up just about everywhere!

If you think that all this is reminiscent of a psychosis like schizophrenia or a disease like dementia, well then you're nearly right. Let me remind you that in order for imaginary people to be real they have to be believable, not just by other people but especially by the person who does the imagining. After all, Luke Skywalker and Harry Potter 'did not exist' until George Lucas and J.K. Rowling brought them to life. Their birth was essential – the creator had to make them walk, talk, have a reason to get up in the morning as well as save the universe and didn't stop until their imaginariness became a reality.  

Imaginary people should be lifelike and interesting, but they do not have to be your friends – in fact, you can do terrible things to them. There is a perverse pleasure in plotting someone's death or their descent into depression.

But there's a problem with imaginary people. Sometimes they are too normal. Real life is actually a bit weird, and sometimes completely unbelievable. Thus, and rather unfortunately, George Bush wasn't an imaginary person. He probably wouldn't have fulfilled even a single category on the 'believability criteria', even less so if you were to add all sorts of impossible details — for instance, that he couldn't spell but that he was elected American president – twice!!

The second point is what they are not: they aren't ghosts, spirits, aliens, spooks or things that go bump in the night. These may, or may not, be imaginary, but they have not been deliberately created by me. I have seen ghosts and strange things, but I haven't had any of them talk to me – at least not directly. If they did I think I might be a little scared. And if I wasn't scared then perhaps I ought to go to a local mental hospital.

They are also not the sort of imaginary friends that a child may have in his or her private imaginary world. These friends may be there to help the child cope with difficulties or loneliness and the child usually leaves them behind as they grow up.

The third point is how imaginary people can help you. If you have an imaginary character who is a little underemployed, then perhaps you can get him to do something for you. For example, use him to go through issues that you are facing now. Rehearse how the imaginary person would cope in that job interview you did badly at? How would he organise a holiday? How would he deal with your boss or lecturer or landlord? This has its risks – depending on who they are, they might resolve every problem with a punch on the nose, or by wetting their pants. On the other hand, they might resolve your problems through charm, excellent logic and satisfying responses to questions.

There you have it: imaginary people are completely believable living people, that are not ghosts, and who may be able to do some good in your life and help resolve issues. So, from all of us, thank you.

Wind Chill

The night time Hong Kong winterness begins with a charmless descent from the warm car. A faster rush of freezer air from over the Chinese border snaps flapping corner flags and loose jackets. Another pummel dominates the open, bleakly floodlit field and even the curls of long, tough pitch grass flutter and cower in its wake. Above, the normal pink clouds have been vacuumed into a featureless emptyness. All but Fei Lian* slumber: he empties out his bag of wind and nothing on earth can stop him.

No time for slow thoughts, training begins in run, skip, bend, throw, kick, tackle bags – movements that beat the heart and push the breath; all steam lost on the gale. One hour, then a rest, then another hour, minute-by-minute the frost-touched knife of the north cuts the skin, trimming all heat to the bone. They say there's snow in Guangzhou!

As static pinned victims of medusa, rigid New Territories parents watch on the sidelines, diligently waiting. "Come on!" the explosive encouragement, generating energy in the giver as well as receiver, and hurry on the slow marching end. How can there be this much searing chill in a few honest hours of a single night?

Now the debrief – fixtures, placings and awards, all moronically await the final, final, final... but then there's extra chit-chat about school and ideas for the next night out. In the mad rush home cold heads and cold hands instinctively find the vents, heater on full blast. Showered and pyjamad, good sleeps await.

*Fei Lian – the Chinese god of wind

Erik De Pous, Part 3

“All right, what if I were to tell you something that would be potentially damaging both for me and for Lee? Would that help?"

He shifted in his seat and looked up as if about to speak. The barman brought over the new martinis, replaced the placemats. Erik thanked him with a nod, and she continued.

"Look, let me start then. About twenty years ago or so, back in the late 80s – 1988 to be precise – Thatcher's Britain, you know, I had a baby. I was really young: 15, in fact. It was an accident – the sort you have when you don't know what you're doing. There I was all wide-eyed at one of Lee's family big dos with all the employees, wives and husbands, and as pissed as a fart. It wasn't long before Lee noticed me and had his wicked way – in the toilets would you believe. I was pretty, but, like I said, so young and impressionable, and he was much older – about 20 himself. So, technically it could have been called rape. And with an under-age girl at that: Lord knows he could have done time. Once we found out I was pregnant, my family that is, oh there was all sorts of trouble. We went right in to the old man's office and 'discussed it' with him, a big slanging match. Lots of red faces, I'm crying and my dad mad as hell, he being the lab tech manager back then – a bit like a shop steward really. God, he was furious, as you can imagine, and Lee's dad was just as angry with him. In the end they agreed to come to an understanding and… I can’t believe I’m telling you this, well, the upshot was I had the baby and it was to be taken away – into foster care somewhere. Died later, I was told. I was distraught. But it was meant to be. Dad pressed them for more, much more, than a mere financial settlement. So because the company was about to go public, he was offered a seat on the board, enough shares to keep him loyal and as soon as I was 16 I got to marry Lee. That was his idea – it meant there was a reason to keep quiet: a crucial bit of power. It’s never been a happy marriage, but it helped keep the ball rolling. The company floated and went from strength to strength – that is, until this year.

There: I've given you some juicy information about the company and about me. I trust you will keep this a confidence. Now, what about you?"

"But wait a minute, you married Lee because you had his baby? Why no just have abort? Why not keep the baby? And why marry?"

"At the time no one wanted a scandal. The family, now our family of course, wanted to keep it all under wraps. Dad had all the cards – he was very good at bargaining. Can you imagine what the press would have done with it – a baby born to an employee's underage daughter? Company's image would have been ruined. Scandal would have been in the papers, and you don't have to wonder much what they would do with that kind of story now. As for an abortion, that just wasn't on the cards, my family being proper catholic, so we had the baby and I just… I had to... let it go. Besides, there was something wrong; something with the feet."

"With the feet?" 

"Yes, some sort of an accident at birth. Or afterwards – the feet were broken. Don't ask me how." She now looked unhappy, resentful almost. That was not his intention for this evening.

"Well… that's… certainly a revelation. Thank you – for being so open – and for allowing me into your confidence. But I'm not sure there's much about it that could cause a scandal now – for the company, I mean. It might have complicated things back then, as far as the morality of a genetics company was concerned, but not for the acquisition now. Really, this is ancient history. Twenty years ago did you say? More? It's salace… salacious –Hello! not Financial Times."

"Maybe, but what could possibly be worse than abandoning a baby, Erik? A sick baby?" Her mouth was downturned. She was stupid to even consider raising this topic, this awful story, and shook herself. In an attempt to change the mood she picked out the orange slice from her glass and, taking another delicate alluring sip, tried to move things away from the mother and baby focus. Leaning over, she allowed a little more of her cleavage to form, sucked the sharp Campari-infused juice from the fruit and licked her lips. "Now, Erik, what about you?”

"Jo, I am sure your intentions are... Actually, I'm not sure exactly what your intentions are. Or am I? You say your marriage has not been a happy one?"

"Well no, not really – actually, not a bit. Oh, I've thought of divorce, we both have, perhaps too much, but everything's tied up with the company so we don't rock the boat. He has his life and I am quite happy to let him get on with it and I live in my own little kingdom. Besides, I've not met anyone worth breaking it all up for. Neither has he: in fact, if you really want some gossip, I can tell you he swings the other way."

"What? I didn't know that – but, I have yet to meet him."

"Not many do. He's essentially private, so you won't be able to dig around and find out much. But what I do know is that he had this thing with a guy once, Chrys — his dad was the boss of a big sports company. Seduced him teaching him how to drive I think. Used to take him off for weekends, etcetera. But that was long ago, before we met actually, but I think he still favours a bit of rough trade on nights out, in hotel rooms, business trips. Now, look, I've told you so much more than I thought I would – laid myself wide open, you might say. If you're so up-front about everything, Erik, then you've just got to tell me about yourself. I'm dying to know."

He shrugged. "Yes, yes you're right, Jo. I suppose I ought to now tell you of my humbles origins dans la France rurale, that my father drove buses and my mother fixed his socks?"

"...without the sarcasm, Erik."

He took a big sip to finish the cocktail, less delicately than before, and an almost imperceptible trickle ran down his chin. Wiping it with a handkerchief from his pocket, he shrugged. "You're right. Sorry – again. But that bit about the buses is right. Corinthien SÁRL began as a small transportation company in Limoux, south of France – a few trucks and buses. I took on the company from mon père, who took on from his father and yes, they drove the buses. My grandfather was Flemish, married my grandmother after the First World War – she was his nurse, hence the Dutch name. The short version is that the Corinthien was a success, went international – Spain, Portugal – and when my dad retired he asked if me, er, I, wanted to be director, after I'd finished ENS of course.” She looked like she was about to ask. “ENS? Without question the best University in Paris. So, I saw how he had done things and it seemed right to carry on, only I would concentrate on the consultation and the business strategy. I floated the company releasing cash for expansion into consultation, acquisition, across borders and it's worked out, so far – success!"

"Success indeed! So where's the bad blood?"

"Ah! I… er… Well, it's a little bizarre, Jo." He paused again and tried to empty his already empty glass. For the first time that evening the energetic, young businessman looked truly uncomfortable, if not a little scared. He ordered another two, a little less confidently than before and had to attract the barman's attention. "I don't really want to tell you: you might think I'm… That it's all a bit too, er, creepy."

"Creepy? Jesus, Erik, what the hell is it? Were you abused or something?"

“Oh no, nothing like that. OK, it's like this: just after the floatation I wasn't entirely sure whether to focus on maintaining Corinthien or boosting the consultation. And on the top of that at dinner – big company dinner – you know Doric Group? Ah it doesn't matter, someone on the table said that I was adopted: not the sort of thing that would have normally bothered me, a few unwise words from someone... what is it, in his cups – excellent expression. But, I don’t know, for some reason it got into me, played on my mind. I mean, no baby pictures at home, that sort of thing. One picture outside a hospital, that's all I remember. So, I asked them. They denied it, of course. But why would he say such a thing? I wanted an answer, so on impulse I went to see a card reader – you know, a medium, a fortune-teller with the name Krisa: c'était très bizarre – moaning and like she was on drugs. She said… well, I was told that I would… it was something about the family."

"Yes?" She was riveted; resting her chin on both her knuckles, she nevertheless couldn't resist a quick flutter of the eyes and another smile. The barman brought the next round, same as before and asked if they would be ordering any food. They synchronously shook their heads.

"I was told… Well, that I would… I would – murder my father."

"What?" She drew back, trying to hide a laugh. 

"I know, I know – murder my own father: Impossible! Incroyable! Inconcevable! Fortune-teller garbage, nothing more, yes? And yet I could not ignore it. I tried to continue with the business, but there was some thing, something… presentiment – foreboding? about it – in her eyes, her sincerity. She was afraid, actually scared; and I was scared by it. She also said another thing – disgraceful: I would marry my mother."

"Oh, but this is just ridiculous. Just the sort of thing designed to scare you, get you hooked, and make you come back for another reading: more money. You should have told her where to get off."

"Where to get off? Exactly! That is, at first, what I wanted to do – after all my parents had done for me? No, I love them too much. But I didn't do anything. When I think, all I can remember now is her face – that she was not joking, not kidding. And then I was not sure what to do, Jo. I'm not a man who takes these things seriously, but when it came time to leave I had this impression there might be a truth, a grain of truth, in her words. I don't know why, but it played on my mind and I just didn't want to risk anything. It was like shame. I couldn't go home. In fact, I didn't go home all that summer and for the rest of the year, her words on my mind, and when I wanted to ask mon père about something I just could not. I didn't answer their calls; I tried to delay again and again going home. Of course I couldn't tell them, and when I moved to London and expanded the consultancy I made myself busy – and that was nearly two years ago." 

"But I can't believe it, Erik. You're an intelligent, attractive man. I presume you know how to take risks, how to control things; people. Surely you could see this for what it is; nothing more than superstition – a raving wild fancy."

"You're right, Jo, it was. I'm such an idiot – really. And in December last year my dad suddenly died. I felt terrible about it, so terrible. I really thought there was something in that damned woman's words. And once he'd gone then I knew it was utter bullshit. Ma mère – I could never tell her about it. She could not understand why I was not there, why I had cut myself off. In fact, you are the first person I've ever told, Jo, the first person I have confidence in talking about this."

She smiled broadly, the 'at last' moment she had been expecting and awaiting. "Erik..." She reached out and held his hand on the cherry wood table top. "Erik, I can see how this would upset you. I can see how kind and sensitive you are. You're not... there's nothing creepy about this. You did what you had to do because you loved your parents. You're a loving person – I can see that. It must have been hard for you."

"Oh, you have no idea. I kick myself now – imbécile! That I could believe someone who took their job, took themselves, too seriously... And the worst is that I was not there at the end, for him…"

While he was speaking her phone buzzed in her bag indicating a call. She tried to ignore it, but it continued.

"Damned thing! This had better be important." she exclaimed, pulling it out of its purple leather slipcase. "Hello?"

There was a silence as she listened. He played with his cocktail. She slowly put hers down as she listened. Her final words were muted: "Thank you. Yes. Yes, I'll come right away."

"Sounds serious." he tactfully enquired, reaching over to touch her hand again in a reciprocal gesture.

"It was. It's Lee – he's been involved in some sort of accident – quite serious. I'm afraid I'm going to have to…"

"Bien sûr! Of course. You must go. Please. Do you want me to take you..?"

"That's probably a bad idea right now. But call me." She leaned over the table to kiss him, but stopped just before. "No, I'll call you. I want to see you again. I want to finish this – what we've started." And with that her lips missed his cheek and merged effortlessly with his lips yielding to his polite kiss more than either of them expected. His short stubble brushed noisily against her cheek's fragrant smoothness. She didn’t back away. Neither did he. He reached around to hold her head, but she pulled back, closing her eyes and taking a breath. "No, I have to go. I have to. God but you're a good kisser." She picked up her bag, plopped the phone back in and stood up, modestly pulling down the hem of her skirt. "Well, thanks, erm, for the drinks. I…" His nod told her to go.

Insomnia

Vacuus rooms breathless for the daylight

The cathedral bell rings on the hour – half-hour – quarter

Burnt peel street lights pour juice on the ceiling

Cat puss purr – there's food and milk – head bonk – purrrr.

He drinks my water.

 

    Think of the day...

 

Voices of waking dance merrily their same old jig

A non-stop torment ramble: shoulda-coulda-woulda

Fight and love and fear and sex and anger and peace

Plans to learn Japanese, and Russian, visit Vyborg and Mount Rishiri

 

    Think of ghosts...

 

Too hot – too cold – turn over – plump

Time to look at the watch again: 5, 4, 3?

A fart and a yawn – YAAAAWWWNN!!

Is that my breath? Impossible! I am gorgeous!

 

    Think of the answers...

 

Drowse of slow sleepless, aching restless, pointless lying

Get up/work/tea/play/read/watch/cook/lie?

Banish night – begin the day – hooray!

There's no fast solution to slowing down

How many more nights left?

Let it go

    Think of questions...