365 Ways With Words

Heroes

                                        
                                        Harold fights on three fronts

                                        In timid scare, to battle descend

                                        Cast hearts as limbs out beyond limits

                                                Down, down, down

 

                                        Scipio treats with deserters harshly

                                        Beheading Latins, crucifying Romans

                                        Exemplars all of turncoat creeds

                                                Down, down, down

                                        Richard faced the walls but once

                                        To see, and not to take

                                        A prudence that disappointed so

                                                Down, down, down

 

                                        Windgate takes the bull by the horns

                                        In mud and rain, deep penetration through

                                        To strike the mind if not the heel

                                                Down, down, down

 

                                        Full courage run on each for each

                                        The bitter gall, bladed grasp of blood

                                        Consumed and left in legend

                                                Down, down, down

Elephant Attack

The mood was up —a good deal of training and the resultant fitness had emboldened them all. The 5,000 men had sung songs and played drums through much of the night and the party-like atmosphere continued until the first long rays of the sun broke through the smoky gloom of the mountain camp. Beneath them a host of angelic birdsong echoed down each dark green valley and a clear tumbling brook cascaded between the primal tumbling rock pools.

It was then, in the dawn’s light, that the beautiful Prince Vyankoji rode haughtily upon his chestnut Arab gelding; small-headed and elegant, it was the epitome of grace. Silent and regal, he momentarily glanced to his left and right, settling on each of his awe-struck jawan’s young faces. He permitted no response to each loudly hailed greeting: his control was to be respected. Pace-by-pace and tent-by-tent he finally began to feel the weight of command assuredly upon his young shoulders. His time was coming. It was here and now. Other men stood to attention where they were, irresistibly resting their widening eyes on his bejewelled coronet with its’ over-sized majestic plume, his finely polished armour and beneath that his sky blue silken bodice. Even the bronzed leather saddle gleamed brilliantly in the morning sun. He felt each gaze, even on the back of his head, and finally turned. With slow measured words he commanded them to break camp and leave, for today was the day they would in all probability bravely meet with glory.

As the morning brightened they moved onwards through the forested hills, the sticky heat rising hour by hour. After midday they were snaking upwards over the last pass through the ghat that would eventually give them access to the main road from Bengalaru. Downwards they weaved until the land was sufficiently level and they could look out upon the long plain. At last when the path ran through a sufficiently darkened glade at the dry flattened bottom of a valley Vyankoji called a halt and ordered that his three good scouts be sent out. He regarded the over-noisy scene with what he felt to be soldierly pleasure—his men had made good sturdy progress and were weary. Nevertheless, he believed they were now in a much stronger position from which they could begin inflicting their stings, make a difference, and increase his martial reputation—a reputation which must always be compared with that of his glorious father Shahaji Bhosale, or even that of his illustrious brothers. Vyankoji could not know that sooner than he expected he would meet the men of one of these brothers, Shivaji, and that they would have with them a dozen elephants.

As each of the little cooking fires rose swirling into the mid-afternoon hillsides his men took on the appearance of the rested. They had all expected –even desired– rain from the cloudy skies but instead the winds had picked up from the south and brought with them gentle cooling relief: the lowering sunbeams began to pierce through the smoky canopy and all around them the trees began to gently bend. Beyond the camp’s perimeter the fallen leaves swirled their circular dances upon the sun-hardened earth. Perhaps this spooked the horses, for they were leaving their fodder. Sensing unease, Vyankoji arose and without assistance adjusted his harnesses and saddle. At the same time he called out over his shoulder for orders to be sent out for his men to break camp and continue their advance. One of his already mounted daffadars walked his horse over to him and leant over to hold the Prince’s horses’ reins begging a word: surely this place was a relatively good defensive position? The scouts had yet to return, the day was late and the men were now weary. The Prince smiled, as if to a child. His orders had been issued, and now they should be carried out.

A small pop of thunder rang across the forested scene, followed by an indistinct shout, then a louder panicked scream, the resonance of which filled each unquiet ear. All stood and turned in its’ direction, the playful leafy edge of the camp. A short and shoeless dark Kerelan jawan jauntily ran shouting and wildly gesticulating through the gloom. He had a purple stain of splattered blood on his white tunic from just above his right hip. No-one understood his ranting. It was then that the first distant elephant trumpeting rang through the trees: they had been expected!

Vyankoji looked angrily at the daffadar—where of his scouts? How had they been discovered? He jumped up into the saddle and for the first time shouted orders directly to his men—pikemen to the front, musketeers to the trees, daffadars and risaldars with him!

The official subedars and sergeant-like havildars barked commands, and the hurried soldiery made a chaotic assembly under the crack and whisper of incoming bullets. Dust swirled excitedly with the woodsmoke as feet rushed to make ready in the direction of the oncoming commotion. Vyankoji tried to keep control of what was already looking like a helpless situation and a catastrophic scene: his was always to have been a prolonged hit and run guerrilla campaign. A pitched battle was the last thing he anticipated.

The horsemen looked to him—would he take them right or left? For the moment he couldn’t move, finding himself still worrying that his scouts had still not returned. Shaking his head, he knew a rousing speech was what they needed, but at the moment he opened his mouth to utter the first words a piercing elephants’ trumpeting soared across the treetops: they were upon him now, right there in the trees. His skittery horse buckled fearfully under him. He drew his curved sword and waved it above his head, but no one was looking at him. He barked the nearest havildar: If they could hold a line long enough for the gunners to pick off the mahoots then they might stand a chance…

A pair of polished tusks glimmered in the evening light of the forest—each gold-tipped and aggressively waving left and right. They were attached to the large lead elephant that thirstily ran towards the quivering assembly of jawans hurriedly drawn-up to meet and challenge this force of nature. Nothing but deep almost uncontrollable fear filled each wide eye, their subadars’ brave and harsh words doing little to keep them from running. Nevertheless, the lances and barchis all faced forward. In the trees beside their flanks a tirade of sporadic musket fire broke in echoing black clouds, but the rounded bullets all-but bounced wildly on the beast’s flanked side plate armour. And then they had to re-load.

These were the most fierce war elephants—savage beasts that had learned to enjoy many a fight with men and horse. They all-but ignored the booms and the punchy impact from bullets on their sides and kept their war step. The relentless charge continued towards the mass of men, rapidly closing the 100 yards gap between them within seconds. In the front line the weaving pikes pointed tremulously towards the nearest elephant, the apposite of a reversed porcupine. Their training made their actions effortless, but at this very moment an unspoken realisation spread amongst them that it was all untested. At the last step when finally breaking on the pikes, the massive beasts instinctively raised their heads to grasp the wooden staves with their serpentine trunks, several at a time, yanking the sharpened points to the side beyond the withering grip of the terrified men. Thus, the dreadful stabbing bronze tusks forcefully plunged downwards onto the terrified men. Swiftly shaking their heads, they began scything down the men, the noisy mahoots angrily urging them on and on. Beneath the glistening silvery armour, the sheer mass of their gray muscled bulk could not be halted.

Now all those standing turned and fled over the underbrush in every direction. Those trapped at the front were mercilessly trampled down; crushed mercilessly, stabbed through, torn to pieces. Some of the gunners caught hold of those on the run, but blind panic meant most could not think of standing ground or surrender.

Irregular cracks and booms from shots rang out through the hillsides. From the intense roaring of men and beast Vyankoji knew they were now at close quarters. He could see little at the front, but assumed from the smoke where his own musket men were standing. But the more he looked on, the less clear it seemed.

Sensing the attention of the sharpshooters, he turned his horse and headed towards the thicker forest, his devoted horsemen following behind. The Arab had just broken gallop when it stumbled mid-stride from the impact of a musket ball. It crumpled, catapulting him towards the leafy dust. The cracks from the guns caught up with their discharges and he turned quickly to see his beautiful horse mid-somersault in the air over him, its’ beautiful brown eye blown through. And then the broad back, saddle pommel sticking out like a bizarre vertebrae, landed heavily upon him, forever squeezing the entire breath from his lungs and the hope that all had invested in him

Career Change

His career took an unexpected turn: the carrier was visited by a film crew, making a human interest piece about the last of the great ships of war still roaming the high seas. Ordinarily, this would not have disturbed his focus but for a drunken discussion in a late-night bar in Hong Kong.

They had followed his tour for two weeks; flying, briefings, recreation, even at sleep.  At first he welcomed the attention as a form of flattery, despite the comments of the rest of his flight. They rapidly settled into mutual satisfaction—he supplied the good looks, the human interest and some excellent opportunities for stylish shots which the camera operator knew would long be remembered, they supplied the initiative to keep him sparkling. He liked it.

It had been an intense two weeks and so at the end of that time they moored in the Lamma Channel in Hong Kong in need of a little relaxation time ashore.

The bars in Wanchai had gone through several developmental phases over the years.  At first these bars were little more than covers for discrete acts of immorality. In the 1960s girly bars sprang up to cater to the needs of British squaddies and visiting American airmen and their naval counterparts. Of the two nationalities the girls always preferred the latter, especially for the thankful depths of their wallets. But of the two, and somewhat unhappily for the girls, the former stayed longer, for when they were not drinking and whoring they were positioned at the Mainland Chinese frontier. In the end, wars would always be impermanent, but the bars remained. Some went bust, others changed name and re-opened the following day. Some were muscled out following triad turf wars or payment difficulties with ‘fire insurance’ or the police. Some moved along the Lockhart Road away from the more established areas of pleasure, only to be forced back by unhappy neighbourhood complaints.

The Pink Pussycat Bar they sat in had been there for nearly eighty years. Of course, to look at the tatty sparkly fixtures and fittings you might be forgiven for thinking it had only recently opened, but the management kept the place shining and the constantly-cycled girls beaming. At any one time after six p.m. the bar contained three or four grinning idiots consuming frosty San Miguels and who sat amidst a wealth of exposed flesh. Patiently the Mama-San would wait until a sixth of the bottle remained, and then wink at the girl whose soft arms and hands would then become a little freer and… bingo!—another beer. This skilful transaction would continue until all the customer’s money had been taken. Sometimes a little more skin would be exposed (sometimes even the promise of it) and an expensive girly drink would be bought. This consisted of coloured water, although the customer could insist on a ‘real’ drink that cost a twice as much. Sometimes a little too much beer would be bought for the money; then everyone’s face changed, the girls left to find another nice man and embarrassing credit details would be taken.

It was Saturday night and they had been sat for three hours on the same black pvc stools, sticky and sweaty. At first they discussed the filming, then the ship, then his career, then hers. At times they looked up at the girls gyrating nimbly on tottering high heels, their soft curvaceous skin gently absorbing the spinning multi-hued lights. He had been to Hong Kong before and fallen in love with one of these mirages only to be dashed the following visit by her spectacular fall from grace. She deliberately sat with other guys; he didn’t much care for the show now...

He paused—was this part of the interview?

“I’m always working” Soo replied, “but I thought we were just talking… about your work, the girls, you.”

“Yeah sure. But I don’t want it to get back to my folks, ya know, that I always head straight for these places.” He finished his San Mig and another was plopped before him.

“But you do, don’t you?” she reminded him. “You and the other guys. Straight to the Wanchai bars for your fix of flesh and… what was it Frank Zappa sang about? Titties and Beer?”

“Who’s Frank Zap –Frank who? Does he work below?”

Soo laughed again. He’d been keeping her well entertained all evening and his charm was effortless. She was putty in his hands. By now she not only expected him to make a move, she was also very much looking forward to it. She had worked many times in a military setting (that was how she got her crew the current commission) and had met many metal men full of themselves, but here she met someone she actually admired. There was something about way he conducted himself at his briefings, on his flights –hell, even his work-outs at the gym. If she didn’t know better, she would say he was playing to the crowd, doing it to please her. But maybe he wasn’t doing it to please her. She couldn’t work out whether he really had integrity, or was just full of shit.

She continued, “You know, we’ve been watching you these past two weeks and its’ been fun. For the other guys its’ been their first time aboard a carrier. And with all the activity—the exercises each day and the night flights, well, we got you 24/7.”

He lifted the bottle to his mouth and tilted his head back, looking at her from the corner of his eyes. “Yeah, I won’t say it’s been a ball having you tag on me all day. But the Navy agreed. Heck, I agreed. Ah, it’s been good to get to know you, and see what you guys do.” He gulped half the bottle.

She played with her bottle, rolling it between her palms. “Yeah, you seemed interested in it all. You got us some great footage: Like yesterday, on the first climb to 20,000 the light was just right. Like you knew. How’d you know to do that? From deck to the top—one great shot: only after I was thinking, “Jeeze this guy knows how to work a shot, how to get the angles and the frame.” ”

“You think? It was me thinking on how this’d look from outside. I wanted to put you in my seat and show it off and all. Show my best side…”

He put the bottle down, a little too hard. The noise awoke him to his senses. He’d already had one too many. What was he going to do—take her to her hotel and give her a good hard fucking. She’d be ready for it. God knows he was ready f or it. He got a raging hard-on just thinking of the whole deal, of going back to a room, all that kissing and taking off clothes…

Then she put her beer down and turned in her seat directly to him. “You thought of making T.V.? You thought of directing?”

This wasn’t the subject he wanted to discuss right now. He balked and took another swig conjuring images of himself with a crew, with clipboards and camera equipment. He instantly compared the fulfilment of his job now, his limited job of flying old planes from a heaving flight deck mid-Pacific, with one behind a lens in a studio, of unlimited hunting for the greatest shots, and the greatest piece. But then his eyes fastened on her. She sat there, sweaty from the night with dark patches under her arms and on her chest. She had worn a white blouse and it dangled precariously open around her cleavage. Her jeans were tight around her slightly flabby thighs, thighs he thought he would enjoy touching, stroking, kissing. There was no doubt from her open lips and her upward glance that she was ready for his move, his touch. His eyes, for once, lingered on hers. She wasn’t that bad at all.

He decided to humour her. “Why not? I… thought about it while you’re here—ya know, with the Navy hangin’ up these boats and all. Sure I thought about it. But I’m just a Navy pilot. I never had to film anything. Where’d I start?”

She smiled raising her eyebrows and lifted her near-empty bottle. “You just leave that to me!”

He interrupted her. “Cheers!” he held out his bottle pointing it at her. She reciprocated, gently clinking their bottle necks. Then he stopped her. He grabbed her arms and wove it round his so that their arms were locked at their elbows. “In one!” he instructed, and in a gulp sank what beer they had. They sat looking at each other’s eyes for what seemed a long time, but was perhaps two seconds. They both knew what was expected next. As soon as the bottles were put down they were immediately replaced by two freezing identical twins.

“Hey wow!” he started. “If I drink this next one I’m gone.”

Without skipping a beat she lifted hers and, looking at him again, said quietly, “And so am I!” She sank the whole bottle, slamming it down. What followed was a concentrated look on her face followed by a long low belch.

Laughing loud he lifted the bottle and did the same, except his belch was twice the volume. She slapped him on his back in her best ‘good ole boy’ way, just as she’d seen her dad at parties and Christmas, except it came over as a very feminine bitch-slap.

He lampooned her, pretending to bitch-slap her back “Ow! Just a minute there, sister!” He paused as they looked each other in the eye again. “Let’s get the bill.” So saying he pulled out a sheaf of orange-coloured notes and slapped them down with aplomb only to have them quickly snatched up.

The Mama-San behind the bar pointed a fat muscley finger towards the ceiling and in her rough cancerous voice croaked, “One more!”

He checked his pockets; nothing. He checked his crocodile leather wallet; also nothing, no credit cards—he made a point of taking only what he could afford to lose. He thought of explaining to the Mama-San about credit billing to the U.S. Navy in his name when Soo interrupted.

“One more? See, I got it.” she proudly announced pulling a fold of multi-coloured notes from her hip. “And here’s the tip.”

“Hey, you’re stacked!” The counter-top money disappeared as quickly as it could be perceived. He rose and staggered a little. “You always carry so much?”

“In Hong Kong it’s a good idea. Money talks here. You got it, you can do lots with it: More than at home. You ok?”

“Yeah—been sittin’ here too long... I mean I gotta move...  I mean...  why don’t we get outta here?” In a gallant display he gestured his hand towards the curtains and the slither of streetlight from beyond. But she mistook it for a romantic gesture towards her and she held it, at first a little too tight. Looking her in the eye he held it as tightly, as much to reassure her, he whispered, “Shall we go?”

Leaving the commotion of the girls’ “bye-byes” they stepped together through the heavy dark blue curtains out into the hot July street scene a-blur with movement and noise. Taxis were honking at a slow driver at a green light and the rain was beginning to fall in a large deluge.

Standing still under the canopy of the overhanging buildings they felt the rain splashing from the sidewalk back on their skin. She turned her head to him to find him already looking at her, inches away. She inched closer, looking at his mouth, his jaw line, his eyes, his mouth, his…

He kissed her. Quickly at first; then again slowly, deeper and with feeling. Had they been sober she would have felt him rough and unromantic. With their senses dulled through alcohol it felt strong and manly. He just thought she was giving it away.

“Where to now?” he gently asked.

“My room.” she whispered.

Without

The waitress forgets to bring my order. I am furious: she's wasted my time. I've been sitting in this dump of a café staring at the wall for 20 minutes. How dare she use up my day like this?

The train is late. I cannot meet my client at the restaurant at the appointed time. They will think I am insincere and do not want the deal. How can I be expected to do business in his country if the damned trains don't run on time?

There are imperfections in the batch. It turns out the filter was contaminated: someone didn't clean it properly last time. This sample took three weeks to prepare – isolating, purifying, desiccating, analysing... How in God's name am I supposed to get the work done if incompetent buffoons work here?

It turns out the match was fixed! Twenty thousand people turned up to watch the final, but the truth of it is that the score was settled weeks ago. That's the problem with sport these days; there's no fair play anymore. How can you have faith in the teams and players when there's always someone pulling the strings in the background?

The political ambitions of his deputy head were notorious. He just wouldn't do anything without an eye on advancement, on reciprocal actions, on curating a selection of favours to later call on. Some of the parents and governors saw it, but chose to live with it: how could they let children through the gates with such a Machiavellian beast daily working his machinations?

The behaviour of the corporation towards the environment was beginning to bother some of the shareholders. They had been with the company for more than twenty years and believed in it, but recent reports from the River Authority made for alarming reading. They feared a whistleblower, negative press and a drop in share price. But how could they change things in the current economic climate?

The tanks were still on the street, but they needed bread. Before she could do anything about it, Abdul had grabbed the money from the pot beside the door and run out of the gate towards the little bakery on the corner. She called out, but he was long out of earshot. How could she hold together a family in a situation like this?

The landing craft sloughed to a standstill in three feet of choppy seawater: the first out received the bullets –ripping through their clothes, webbing, helmets, to sink deep into their flesh– and they fell backwards and forwards and into the waves. Instinctively he followed, ignoring the gantry he jumped into the bloody water to take perilous cover from the strafing of the machine gun post high on top of the sand. But there was a clear 100 yards of empty beach to run before any possible fighting could take place. The bastards sat up there with pure murderous intent, showing not one little ounce of mercy: if he left the water and the protective flotation of corpses there would be no hiding from it. How could any human survive this? He would never again complain about late buses, the boss's last-minute demands, the weather, or anything, for he now faced death here on Juno Beach.

A Different World

As elsewhere in Europe, dotted here and there all over the Czech Republic are memorials to the dead, many of whom died during World War Two. Nearly every government building and railway station also has a plaque dedicated to the workers who died, one way or another, in the convulsions of 1938-45. What is of startling difference to the cenotaphs, memorial crosses and statuary all over Britain and France, however, are the local memorials to Soviet Soldiers, primarily because of their association with the post-war communist history of Czechoslovakia. Twenty-five years on from the Velvet Revolution, one can't help wondering whether the history of the intervening years could have been different.

On 6th May 1945 the combined armed forces of the Soviet Union took part in the Prague Offensive, the last great European battle of World War Two. The allies had advanced into central Germany and capitulation was surely only a matter of days away. The last intact German army, that comprised the Army Group Centre and the Army Group Ostmark, was held in strength in Czechoslovakia to  directly counter the Soviet army's advance. This they had just done at the battle of Bautzen: the Germans may have failed in their primary objective of advancing on and reinforcing a besieged Berlin, but in the full force engagement with the enemy they inflicted severe casualties and thereby stalled the advancing Soviet and Polish armies. As far as the Russians were concerned, this million-strong army had to be smashed.

The American 3rd Army, already in the far west of the country, largely sat it out aware that the Russians were going to take the rest of the country. They, and the 1st Army further to the north, had captured vast swathes of Germany and counted their captives in the hundreds of thousands. So the allied forces of eastern European – Russians, Poles and Romanians – were given free rein to swoop in from the north and east to deliver the country from the hated, occupying Germans. At the same time Czech partisans were to establish an armed uprising, despite SS Obergruppenführer Karl Hermann Frank's stated intent to put down any such action in a "sea of blood". Nevertheless, Hitler was already dead and on 7th May, within two days of the beginning of the offensive, and the Nazis were committed to unconditionally surrendered their armed forces on all fronts.

On a local note that day, 7th May, the Ukrainians under Soviet command attacked Olomouc, but it was not to be fully liberated before the 8th. As a parting gift, the German troops fired on the famous medieval Olomouc clock, so severely damaging it that it was not repaired until the communist era (replacing the religious images with the secular, politically-approved iconography of scientists, labourers and a happy procession of Haná farming folk).

What happened next was the speedy evacuation of all remaining German troops from Czechoslovakia. The Army Groups Centre and Ostmark in the east that surrendered to the Russians  numbered approximately 900,000. They were then interned for years in Soviet prison camps and gulags. Barely one tenth that number made it through hostile western Czech territory to surrender at the American lines.

The Russians, once in control, were not going to give it up. Despite a brief return to assumed normality, the country increasingly fell under the dominant, Russian-controlled communist sphere. In 1948, despite political manoeuvring and deal-making, Czechoslovakia became a communist state after a coup d'etat. There was little any in the west could do – this fait accomplis resulted in the formalisation of the iron curtain so predicted by Churchill in previous years (although he used the term 'iron fence' with Stalin at the Potsdam Conference).

It is doubtful that anything could have been done to prevent the westward influence of the powerful U.S.S.R. into central and eastern Europe – at least, not without massive bloodshed if not complete ruination. Germany had been destroyed and any more of the same in Europe was unpalatable to all. But whereas a new dynamic Germany arose with the support of the Marshall plan, the nations within the Russian sphere had to adopt Soviet industialisation plans that took decades to reach fruition. Czechoslovakia was still in the throes of such during the Velvet Revolution a little over four decades later.

Whether the Russians, Ukrainians and Poles who died fighting against fascism in the effort to drive out Wehrmacht forces would have approved of the resultant division of Europe into spheres of influence is debatable: certainly Russian soldiers had only one thing in mind – the total destruction of their enemies. That Stalin and the Soviet Central Committee reneged on previous promises to the allies of self-determination for the liberated countries was par for the course of a regime in which political support was not merely expected, but also enforced. In time Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria could do no other than fall in line: it was slightly different for Yugoslavia only because of the political belligerence of Tito. The Allies destroyed German-domination of Europe, but over here the Russians went on to create a different world – one of their own making, the remnants of which can still be seen all around this part of the world. Because of the events of 1945 and the eventual communist coup, it is unlikely it could have been otherwise.

Churchill and the tři čínští psi

To say that the weather was warmer would be technically accurate, although to the senses it would probably be better to say that it was less cold. The riverside footpaths beneath the old willow trees, soaked from days and nights of rain, were now a slippy trail of cloying mud – not quite Somme-like, but enough to double the weight of the boots.

Not that it worried the doggies, of course. Their hot pads may have welcomed the cool clay that oozed between their toes, but their alfactorily-focused minds were ever-elsewhere. The owner's plugged-in wits were also taken up with the slogging match of the assault on Monte Cassino that followed the beachhead in Anzio during 1944's allied winter attack on the Italian peninsula. The churning sludge beneath lent favourably to Christian Rodska's weighty reading of Churchill's Memoirs of the Second World War.

Looking up a large, shaggy white bear approached, checking the three Chinese dogs in their tracks. Every day, come rain, snow or shine, these animals trod the well-used paths, but on no prior occasion had they seen a white bear.

It stopped; head erect and tail upright, classic signs of bear alertness. What would the dogs do? Flight, rather than fight, seemed the better part of valour. But with fearless determination their owner steadfastly approached leaving the canines quivering by the fast-flowing Moravia River. The white bear remained still and unsure until, one by one the three timid hounds inched forward to discover it was a large member of their own species.

A face peered over the embankment and the mouth moved in command of the bear, remaining stock still as noses arrived at tender parts. Beneath a stripey beany the woman's countenance described a mood somewhere between annoyance and disappointment. She repeated words. Pulling out the connecting earplugs the owner asked the usual embarrassingly poor Czech question:

"Mluvíte anglicky?"

"Yes, I know. You are English. And you have three Chinese dogs."

The owner was at an instant disadvantage but, being English, decided not to risk asking stupid questions. Somewhere, somehow, someone had talked.

"How long will you stay here?"

"About two years or so."

"And do you like Czech Republic?"

"I love it!"

The woman smiled incredulously – who in their right mind would love it here?

With sufficient sniffing and passing-the-time-of-day thus completed, the bear and woman walked off in the opposite direction. The doggies and owner trotted on to complete their perusal of today's edition of Scents of Central Moravia and start on Operation Overlord.

Remember

The greying skies are doubled-up with a faded, insipid morning dullness above river water that greens out with an uninspired, blank surface. Like unemployed taxi drivers, the branched birds sit about waiting for something to happen. Beneath all the bullish geraniums struggle on waiting for the end of their year through damp, cold or decay.

A post office girl sits filing her nails, staring out onto the passionless emptiness where customers should be. Above a flourescent tube splutters – dying above the constant hum of the rest. Outside the traffic is slow, steady and sure; each silent drivers' mind elsewhere. Pavement footsteps of every walker fall subdued, as heads down they pass empty park benches, empty shop front windows, closed doorwars. Soporific loneliness compels the old lady to go out and about, but no-one is talking in the supermarket. Not today.

In an empty office a single light bulb burns – forgotten, nobody sees. From the window, one amongst a faceless many, its meaningless rays fall unnoticed onto the tips of a fir tree, crowned with heavy mustard cones. Across rooftops where hearts have become numb and concentration has wandered, heavy lids seek an end of this monotony through slumbering dreams of summer.

November days can be boring –

But they died for such –

Even these.

You Know You're English When...

• 'The works' rarely comes with muesli
• You know how to give someone a tinkle on the blower
• Shakespeare is fantastic – but you haven't read any since you were 16
• Your local bobby's panda is covered in battenburg
• Like everyone else you moan about the NHS but will fight tooth and claw to defend it
• Sweets are called sweets and come from a sweet shop (unless you like toffees): candy from a candy store sounds disgusting
• Your pint has a short head on it. End of.
• You may be as straight as a piece of 4X2, but your favourite band's gay front man died of AIDS in 1991
• The Kwai River has to be bridged and blown up, Light Brigades are for charging and the guns of Navarone must be stopped
• You know what people mean when they talk about what once happened on The Street, The Farm or The Close,
• Your spotted dick should be smothered in cream
• Pedophiles are everywhere. As are burglers. And benefit fraudsters.
• Each day the ferries/chunnel are FULL of worthless asylum seekers/sponging immigrants
• You are really proud of British pop music (usually)
• History is learned through Blackadder
• Your gran probably knows the chorus of Eviva España or Una Paloma Blanca and may still have a donkey
• You know the tunes to 'The Great Escape', 'Lawrence of Arabia' and '633 Squadron'
• You think the Daily Mail is a dreadful paper each time you read it
• The family shares a joint on Sunday
• Going out in your jimmies is a bit like appearing naked
• Your local church was probably first built more than 1000 years ago
• Your local church is probably called St Ægsburghelthirc -the-less
• National dress is something other people do
• You like the the fact the Channel is there
• You always ask for monkey's blood and suck bootlaces first
• You know someone with a full-sized diesel locomotive/Gloucester Meteor/Venetian gondola/steam engine/Stonehenge/concrete elephant in their back garden (sometimes in the front)
• 'Vote Sutch' had at one time a genuine appeal
• You know how to say 'Worcestershire', 'Leicestershire' and any other shire for that matter
• There's no question about whether you should bite on a faggot or suck on a fag
• You argue passionately about your favourite Doctor
• You always sneak a look at Page 3 if alone
• Afternoon tea is only for holidays in the West Country
• You know what your county's flag looks like
• The entire culture is founded on bottoms and willies, toilets and farts
• Your only folk song is "All Around My Hat" or "I've Got A Brand New Combine Harvester"
• Your favourite food comes from another continent
• Proper news comes from Auntie
• You probably sit about a lot in a Living Room in a house that probably has a name (The Laurels/Rose Cottage/Ye Olde Internete Chatroom/Dun Thievin')
• You wish there was still a Woolies
• There is this vague notion called 'Great Britain' and 'The British Isles', but the people out there use devilish words indecipherable to normal folk
• Queues are easy
• £s & pence/ft & in/pints & gallons/driving on the left is correct – everything else is wrong
• It's always a surprise when an England team/sportsperson does well at sport

Cold Tea

It sits on the sill, behind rain-spattered panes overlooking the lovely street. Beyond lies the long lawn and shedding autumnal tree. Loose leaves stir on a iron cold pavement as another mindless commuter passes the vulnerable open gates; a drippy oil patch the only testimony to a old micra, the gravel path all welcome crunch suppressing. The brass letterbox remains firmly shot – unused, closed, uninterested. Beneath grows a small mountain of post daily; pained words in limbo, all alive at departure, their breath held tight.

From the kitchen the fridge hums, shakes and rattles to a stall and a cold still. A singing striplight witnesses; lambent cold in the morose dark proving occupancy, numb beacon of emptiness and a rest to seen demand – once a hitcher to busy necessity now growing into an inanimate forever. A layer of dust settles lazily on the countertop, a gentle death to the heart of the house.

From without, a winged bird roars east over 3 miles high, breathy strings pouring at monumental puffy length, but its sound misses every ear. On it goes without a turn or pause, beyond to a clearer sky, bound to return another cargo filled.

On the starless tarmac lies a minute cotton thread, submerged within a lonely puddle. Shuffed from a cloth that wrapped a coffin, it is the only remnant to the heartbreaking solemnity of inescapable ceremony.

It sits, therefore, on the window's painted sill forgotten, the marker of sudden news and of relatives calling and of the pitying neighbours' hushed Staying at her sister's. Beside tilts a dim photo of a beachside three – a holy family: two gone.