This Is The One

I don't write too many love stories, but here's one that got published a few years back...

I  fell  in  love  with  Amanda  Reece  on  the  first  day  of  secondary  school.  I  was  twelve. Do  not  misunderstand  this  declaration  of  Love,  this  was  not  some  haphazard  decision  arrived  upon  while  queing  for  sweets,  some  awkard  teenage  crush;  this  was  It.

It  was  in  Art  I  believe,  second  period.  I  sat,  listening  to  the  register,  attempting  to  put  names  to  so  many  new  faces...Julie  Lemon,  Martin  Locke,  Andrew  Parker  and  then...Amanda  Reece.

Teacher  stopped.  No  reply.

Suzanne  Dixon  stepped  in.

"She's  not  coming  to  this  school  sir.  She's  moved."

"Oh.  Right.  Thanks."  said  teacher,  and  scratched  her  away  forever  with  his  biro.

As  soon  as  I  heard  her  name  I  knew,  I  knew  this  was  the  girl  I  was  going  to  be  with.

Her  not  even  being  at  my  school  simply  made  her  all  the  more  attractive, she  maintained  a  mystique  and  allure  that  most  of  the  other  girls  very  quickly  lost.  She  alone  remained  aloof,  distant,  unattainable.

So  unattainable  in  fact,  that  she  wasn't  even  there.

Erased  from  our  register,  she  quickly  faded  from  the  minds  of  my  classmates,  but  her  name  was  already  burned  across  my  heart.  And  I  knew,  as  you  do,  that  we  would  be  together.  Eventually.  I  could  wait.

And  while  I  waited, I  passed  the  time  with  a  very  short  list  of  girlfriends.  An  average  of  just under one  partner  per  year.  We'd  be  ecstatically  happy  for  a  period  of  no  less  than  two  weeks  and  no  more  than  three months.  The  time  difference  between  each  of  my  secondary  school  girlfriends  ensured  that  every  time  I  returned  to  the  dating  game,  the  definition  of  what  was  considered  acceptable  behaviour  had  always  changed. Thus  I  progressed  across  the  sexual  arena  in  a  series  of  well  timed  skirmishes,  always  surprised  to  find  that  so  much  ground  had  been  gained  in  previous  campaigns.  To  me  therefore,  sex  seemed  to  occur  more  quickly  than  it  actually  did.  Like  time  lapse  pornography.  Hand  holding  to  bashful  embraces.  Bashful  embraces to  french  kissing.  French  kissing  to  ineffectual  groping.  Groping  to  more  prolonged  fumbling.  And  then  on  to  capture  the  flag.  My  lack  of  any  physical  prowess  seemed  to  ensure  that  I  was  never  the first  team  to  capture  the  flag,  but  I  was  always  just  grateful  for  being  given  the  chance  to  compete.

I  left  school and  began  the  lengthy  process  of  avoiding  going  to  university,  punctuating  the  desolation  of  my  early  twenties  with  a  number  of  dead  end  relationships. 

And  then  when  I  was  twenty  three,  I  got  engaged. 

It  was  very  fashionable  at  the  time,  and  I  had  reached a  stage  in  my  life  where  the  aching  reproductive  panic  of  those  around  me  had  begun  to  take  it's  toll. 

My  fiance  was  Suzanne  Dixon,  the  girl  who  had  first  placed  Amanda  tantalisingly  out  of  reach.

She  had  gone  to  university  and  gotten  herself  a  degree  in  something  which  allowed  her  to  earn  professional money.  I  couldn't  honestly  tell  you  what  her  job  was.  But  she  was  A  Professional  at  it.

The  engagement  crept  up  on  me,  and  took  me  a  little  by  surprise.  The  proposal  seemed  to  fall  out  of  my  mouth  like  rogue  chewing  gum,  as  if  I  hadn't  quite  finished with  it,  or  I'd  been  storing  it  in  there  for  later  use.  I  think  to  be  fair,  we  were  both  of  us  a  little  taken  aback,  but  as  neither  of  us  could  think  of  a  good  enough  reason  not  to get  engaged,  we  pushed  on  with  all  the  bloody  mindedness  of  the  young  and stupid.   

The  wedding  preparations  went  on  around  me,  a  lace  tornado,  with  me  the  eye  of  the  storm.

What  struck  me  as  time  went  on  was how  little  I  had  to  do  with  it  all.  Getting  ready  for  the  happiest  day  of  my  life  was  a  very  isolatory  experience.  Gradually,  the  wedding  eclipsed  our  actual  relationship,  and  we  happily  latched  onto  it  as  something  to  talk  about  during  the  increasingly  regular  silences.   We  would  talk  about  our  wedding,  other  weddings  and  people  we  thought  would  probably  have  weddings  soon.

Each  Saturday,  religiously,  Suzanne  would  purchase  the local  paper  and  examine  the  wedding  photos  of  the  recently  hitched.  I  would  smile  and  nod,  or  shake  my  head  disapprovingly  as  the  situation  demanded.  One  Saturday  she  said

"Look!  It's  Amanda  Reece!  I  haven't  seen  her  for  years."

For  well  over  a  decade  I  had  loved  Amanda  from  a  distance  which  had  precluded  any  visual  contact.  Here,  now, I  was  about  to  see  the  love  of  my  life  for  the  first  time.  But  I  had  to  be  careful  not  to  make  it  too obvious.

"Amanda  Reece?"  I  said  "She  was  supposed  to come  to our  school  wasn't  she?"

"Yeah  that's  right.  She  was  my  best  friend  in  primary.  I  can't  remember  when  I  last  saw  her."

Suzanne  was  still  holding  the  paper,  and  so  I  could  not  yet  see.

"She's  married Andrew  McIntyre!  Remember  him?"

"No."  I  said  "Was  he  at  our  school?"

"For  about  a  month.  He  got  suspended  for  stealing  craft  knives.  And  then  just  never  came  back."

"Well  he  sounds  charming.  Let's  see."

Mercifully,  Suzanne  just  turned  the  newspaper  around  to  let  me  see  it,  had  she  handed  me  it, she  would  have  doubtless  noted  the  incessant  shaking  of  my  hands.  There  followed  a  brief  period  of  tunnel  vision;  Suzanne,  my  room,  the  rest  of  the  world  all  blurred  and  swirled  away,  until  only  she  remained,  the  light at  the  end  of  this  tunnel.  Finally  visible.

I  had  long  prepared  myself  for  the  day  when  I  finally  saw  her,  knowing  that  she could  never  be  the  idealised  beauty  I  had  allowed  her  to become.  And  sure  enough,  she  wasn't.

Her  hair  was  a  little  shorter  than  I  had  imagined,  and  more  blonde  than  brown.  Her  lips  looked  more  or  less  right  and  she  was  maybe  a  little  taller  than  me.  But  it  was  her.  Amanda.

She  was  smiling,  just.  But  it  was  an  empty  smile,  a  drawn  on  smile.  A  smile  for  the  cameras.  Full of  teeth  and  lipgloss,  signifying  nothing.  She  wasn't  happy.  And  how  could  she  be  happy?  We  were  not  together.  And  now  how  could  we  be?

It  was  over.  And  it  never  really  began.

Following  this  abysmal  revelation,  even  the  lacklustre  soda  stream  sparkle  fizzled  out  of   Suzanne  and  I's  relationship,  and  we broke  off  our  engagement  just  in  time for  Christmas. It was cheaper that way. I  spent  New  Year  attempting  to  reach  her  on  the  phone  in  order  that  we  could  get  together  and  have  bad  idea  sex.  Afterwards  we  would  both  feel  guilty  and  ridiculous,  but  in  the  short  term  New Year  wouldn't  be  so  cold  and  lonely.  She never  returned my  calls.

All  through  the  bitter  January,  I  consoled  myself  that  everything  that  had  happened  actually  made  a  twisted  kind  of  sense;  I  had  been  with  the  wrong  partner,  and  now  I  was  free,  someday,  Amanda  would  be  free  too.  I  would  wait.

Two  years  later,  Amanda  Reece  died.

She  was  hit  by  a  car  coming  out  of  Tesco's.  She  was  six  months  pregnant.

It  was  a  taxi  that  hit  her,  the  driver  was  Martin  Locke,  another  classmate  Amanda  never  met.

He  killed  himself  about  a  fortnight  later.

I  attended  her  funeral  of  course,  I  stood  right  at  the  back,  but  I  could  still  hear  Andrew  sobbing.

I  didn't  go  to  the  cemetery,  instead  I  spent  the  day  walking  around  the  streets  where  I  so  dilligently  misspent  my  youth,  eventually  coming  to  rest  outside  my  old  school. I  sat  for  awhile  by  the  bins  and  had  a  brief  but  cathartic  cry.

Afterwards,  lost  and  confused,  I  wandered  into  a  pub,  firmly  intending  to  accentuate  my  misery  by  getting  bitterly  drunk.  Across  the  years  of  my  unrequited  love,  I  had  become  an  adept  in  the  art  of  wallowing. The pub  was  busy  and  grey,  but  as  I  returned  from  the  bar,  two  girls  were  just  leaving  their  table  and  I  grabbed  it  immediately.

The  table  presented  me  with  a  decent  vantage  point  with  which  to  dip  into  the  lives  of  those  scattered  around  the  room.  And  they  all  seemed  to  be  happy  but  me.  Groups  of  friends,  couples,  simply  enjoying  themselves  without  having  to  concentrate.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  felt I had  no  agenda, or worse, no excuse.  The  girl  I  was  meant  to  be  with  had  lived  and  died, before  I'd  even  had  the  chance  to  meet  her.  I  sulked  into  my  vodka  and  settled  down  for  a  life  alone.

This  was  when  one  of  the  tables  previous  tenants  reappeared. 

"Excuse  me."  she  said.

"Sorry?"

"Did  I  leave  my  purse  here  a  minute  ago?"

"I  don't...I'll  see..."

Sure enough,  there  it  was,  on  the  chair  next  to  mine.

"There  you  go."  I  said,  attempting a winning smile,  but  instead  managing  a  kind  of  tortured  grimace.

"Thanks."  she  said,  and  turned  to  leave.  But  then,  for  some  reason,  she  turned  back  around.

"You  work  in  that  art  store  don't  you?"  she  said.

"Yes."  I  said.

"I've  seen  you  down  there.  Nice  shop."

"Yeah  it's  a  great  place  to  work.  Terrible  hours,  shit  pay,  good  pictures."

She  laughed.

"Hey  listen,"  I  said  "D'you  want  a  drink  or  something?  Or  is  your  friend  waiting..."

"No.  No  she's  gone  home."  she  smiled  "A  drink  would be  nice."  

"Great."  I  said.  "Oh...I'm  Steven  by  the  way." 

"Hello  Steven."  she  said.  "I'm  Amanda.  Amanda  Reece."

.

Her  hair  was  a  little  longer  than  the  late  Amanda's,  and  more  brown  than  blonde.  Her  lips  were  perfect  and  she  was  about  as  short  as me.  It  was  definetly, suddenly her. Amanda.

I'm not the only person to accidently spend some  of  my  life  in  love  with  the  wrong  person,  but  now,  my  course  was  clear. We  moved  in  together  within  the  month,  entirely  assured  that  we  should  be  together. Love,  not  at  first  sight,  but  sound,  the  resonance  of  this  moment  echoing  fifteen  years  back  in  time  to  my  art  class.  Where  I  would  promptly  put  a  name  to  the  wrong  face.

I  saw it  all,  a  mirror  reflecting  endlessly  upon  itself  stretching  back  across  my  life,  showing  me  how  things  would be. My  past,  our  future,  forever  orbitting  the  burning  brilliance  of  this  moment. 

Fate does not wait for you. Fate is busy and has a lot on right now. So you  must  seek  Fate  out,  stand  in  a  million  wrong  places  at  the  incorrect  time,  battle  through  the  dark  days  which  erode  your  vision  of  how  things  will  be.  And  when  you  find  Fate,  as  you  will,  hold  it,  shape  it,  make  it  your  own. Let  there  be  no  doubt  in  the  resolution  of  your  future, let  there  be  no  escape  from  this  wonderous  self  fulfilling  prophecy.

And  most  of  all,  let  there  be  love.

Churn

Gary Hobble sighed and half heartedly adjusted his clipboard as he followed the receptionist through the largely beige, foul smelling industrial unit. Crates of tinned pet food were stacked floor to ceiling,
“When did this happen?” he thought briefly, “At what point in my life did I take the wrong turn that led here, to this.”
The receptionist showed him into the magnolia office where the factory manager, Mr Fanshawe stood to greet him. His host filled two cracked and stained mugs with weak tea, and dropped some soft digestives onto a dirty plate. Time to get down to business.
“Okay Mr Fanshawe, you’ve now been running this recycling programme for young unemployed people for six months, so this is just a perfectly routine audit of what you’ve been doing.”
The office was also littered with tins and boxes, pet food marketing posters hung limply from the wall.
“Of course. Government needs to know the money is being well spent. I quite understand. I know these new programmes can be controversial.”
Gary shuffled his papers in a way that he hoped suggested he was remotely interested. Mr Fanshawe grinned a rictus grin.
“Now,” said Gary, “you’ve had really massive numbers of young people getting involved which is great, but I’d just like a word with a few of them...to see how they’ve been finding the work.”
Mr Fanshawe continued smiling, but a little wave of confusion rippled gently across his face.
“I’m not sure I understand. I mean...how would you be able to speak to them?”
“Arent they here?” asked Gary.
“Well...yes,” smiled Mr Fanshawe, “they’re everywhere really.”
Mr Fanshawe gestured around the room, and then picked up a tin.
“In these. Three varieties. But not very chatty.”
Mr Fanshawe chuckled genially.
“They’re...in the dogfood?”
“They are the dogfood.”
“You’ve turned them into dogfood!?”
Gary, for the first time in some months, started to panic.
“No! Dear me no! Not just dogfood. Cat food as well.”
“You’ve turned people into petfood?!”
Mr Fanshawe scrambled urgently through some papers on his desk and produced a report, holding it up in front of himself like a very flimsy shield.
“Well there was a bit of consumer resistance to eating spam made out of dead unemployed people. But we’re a nation of pet lovers so...”
“I can’t believe this is happening.” said Gary, no longer even pretending to look at his clipboard.
“It was all in the proposal.”
Mr Fanshawe handed Gary another document, this one entitled “Human Waste Recycling Project”.
“But...I thought human waste recycling meant...y’know...toilet stuff.”
Mr Fanshawe shook his head in disgust.
“Good lord no! I mean..what dog owner is going to buy a can of poo?”
“But this is terrible! This is supposed to be a work project for young people to help them get employed.”
Mr Fanshawe felt slightly on the backfoot, this wasn’t going at all how he had envisaged this morning in the shower.
“Young Tam’s got a job.”
“What does he do?” asked Gary
“He pushes everyone else into the mincer. Big lad. Plus we’ve managed to save a bit of money there by paying him on commission.”
Gary started to gently rock himself back and forward.
“He was a bit overkeen the first few weeks mind...lost a few cleaners..but thats all calmed down now. Great boy...credit to his family. God rest their souls.”
Gary upturned the plate of soft digestives in the nearest he could manage to a rage
“This is a charnel house!”
Mr Fanshawe was now on the verge of feeling a little hard done to.
“Well...yes....Did you actually read my proposal?”
“Not the detail...it's a black box approach...the numbers just looked really good...”
“The numbers are really good!”
Regaining ground, Mr Fanshawe enthusiastically unfolded a series of colourful bar graphs and pie charts.
“We’re at 150% productivity...way above original projections. Plus we’re recycling almost 95% of waste products. Teeth are a bit problematic at the minute...but I’m thinking we could look at some sort of jewellery line.”
Gary’s dead eyes danced numbly across the figures.
“These numbers are fantastic...”
Mr Fanshawe nodded, producing a nice pastel tone gant chart for the rest of the years activity.
“Local unemployment is down...local pet satisfaction is up. This is a good news story!”
“I suppose...apart from all the murdering. Listen...let me have a think about it.”
Gary got up from his chair, shaking only slightly.
“Makes a change from all that negativity around government work programmes eh? Let’s celebrate success!” said Mr Fanshawe, handing over a document entitled “Human Waste Recycling Franchise Opportunities”.
Gary looked at one of the tins
“Okay. You’re not totally convinced." said Mr Fanshawe, placing a reassuring hand on Gary's arm, "Do you have a pet at all?”
Gary shook his head
“Shame. Tell you what...come back next week and I’ll talk you through my proposals for a chain of old folks homes.”
Not even realising he had left his clipboard behind, Gary wandered out of the magnolia office and back onto the beige factory floor.
Mr Fanswhawe lifted the phone and dialled downstairs.
“Tam. Hi. See our guest out would you. Very meaty thighs.”

Platitudeypus

11 March 2012 would have been the 60th birthday of the writer and thinker Douglas Adams, author of The Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy, lover of Apple Macs. This only slightly derivative story is by way of a wee tribute...

The assault fleet of the Galaxia Media Corporation hung silently in orbit, waiting. Below, the focus of their long mission, the last planet to provide a home to the almost entirely extinct platitudeypus, beloved of publishing companies and lecture circuits everywhere.

So important, so vital was this mission, that the entire operation was being beamed back to their homeworld as a reality TV series, the longest running in their planet’s history. In truth, most people preferred the first few series before all the staged wars and jacuzzi planets. Initially, the advertising revenue from the show had funded the tanks and guns. Now it was lucky to cover the freeze dried ice-cream.

Admiral Fnurt wearily straightened his lapels and walked on to what he was beginning to feel was the rather optimistically named Battle Deck.

“Admiral on deck!” chirped a well groomed lieutenant.

“Well Captain..are the forces preparing to strike?”

Captain Zstash shifted awkwardly in his very comfortable Captains chair.

“Well...yessss...but me and the lads we was thinking”

Fnurt sighed.

“Yes?”

“Well it’s not a very nice day is it? I mean looking at those monitors. It’s pouring down.”

“I fail to see what this has to do with our planned attack.”

“You don’t want to turn up on a wet day is all I’m saying. None of the lads have got macs or anything...and yknow...it might be sunny tomorrow. Sets a better tone for an invasion.”

Fnurt had known this was how his day was going to end up.

“This is not a holiday Captain. We cannot afford to wait.”

“You’d kick yourself it it was nice tomorrow though. I mean wouldn’t you?”

Fnurt had read a book earlier in the week, “Just Managing”, it suggested that you do the thing that you are most dreading first in the day because then the rest of the day would be a breeze. It did not allow for the possibility that the thing you are dreading most might take all day.

“Captain we have been orbiting this planet for the last ten years. And every time we are ready for attack...something goes wrong.”

“Oh come on sir. That last time was hardly my fault.”

“Well I can’t see how your emergency dental treatment would take priority over the mission.”

“I lead from the front Sir. If I’m not there the lads are all over the place.”

The assembled Generals on the Battle Bridge nodded in agreement, one or two dropped their weapons or held them upside down to illustrate their incompetence. Fnurt was fairly sure most of that was intentional.

“Captain we were here two years before you mentioned you’d forgotten to pack all the attack saucers.”

Fnurt winced at this memory, this remained one of the most popular episodes of the TV show.

“Well..”

“And what about the time before that when you couldn’t attack because your task force were all being fitted for new trousers?”

“But I think you’ll agree they looked a treat”

Second most popular episode. Third was the first time they found a jacuzzi planet.

“We are here to take this planet...rain or no rain.”

“It is awfully heavy rain.”

Admiral Fnurt recalled another lesson from his book.

“Now is not the time for us to pick the low hanging fruit. Moving forward I want us all singing off the same hymn sheet. Today, we attack!”

So, what was it that inspired the heroic Galaxia media empire armies to brave the near torrential rains? What could be worth travelling halfway across the universe for? Well, money obviously. The platitudeypus first came to prominence just over a century ago, indigenous to several hundred very similar carbon based planets it has since been hunted to near extinction not because it tastes particularly nice or looks good as mittens, but largely because it irritates many lifeforms to the point of violent fundamentalism. And that is because this bafflingly literate beast’s many and varied mating calls sound exactly like the sort of vague half baked false wisdom that people really like to hear in times of personal crisis. So, while a male platitudeypus might be frantically signalling all females within a five mile radius, it would sound to our ears like he was suggesting that “time heals all wounds” or “ah well, it wasn’t meant to be”. The fact that medicine and surgery are more likely to heal wounds than letting them fester over time, or the notion that you are solely responsible for your own destiny and frequent mistakes is really neither here or there - who likes to hear that miserable rationalism when you can listen to a reassuring platitudeypus instead. After all it’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. As indeed, is almost anything.

It only took one savvy entrepreneur to set the whole nightmare in motion; by recording the mating calls of the platitudeypus, naturalist Fillian Trantantor realised he had enough material to release an audiobook on increasing your self esteem through interpretive dance. He released “Like No One Is Watching” on Monday, was able to quit being a naturalist by Wednesday, and by Thursday teatime, the platitudeypus was being pursued by publishers across the galaxy.

Behavioural discoveries came thick and fast; herds of captive platidudeypi would synchronise the style and theme of their mating calls to the point where within a week you could almost guarantee that you would have enough material for a book on management theory, the power of positive thinking or relationship counselling. The outlay was low, a few leafy cages with a tank full of aquatic insects, and with just a sprinkling of judicious ghost-writing, you could be hitting the bestseller lists in no time.

As is so often the case, the popularity of the platitudeypus became it’s ultimate undoing. Ruthless publishing companies scoured the universe for ever more creative mating calls in an effort to continually reinvent the self-serving self-help boom; mighty media empires turned their guns on one another in the race for supremacy, with whole galaxies laid waste; households paid furtive platitudeypus poachers to provide them with their own home based oracle, always there with helpful though largely vapid and insubstantial advice; whole countries began to interpret the messages of the beasts in wildly opposing fashions and self actualisation wars broke out all across the universe.  However, more problematic by far, was the attention of gangs of increasingly angry rationalists who were incredibly ticked off by the popularity of such patently ridiculous advice and the damage it seemed to be causing; this was especially galling given that its very existence appeared to be an evolutionary fluke.

Indeed on one planet, a crack team of fundamentalist rationalists hunted the platitudeypus to extinction for no other reason than they were sick of people taking its advice on low-carbohydrate diets and self worth so seriously all the time. And sure enough, once it had gone, and the final platitudeypus had been stubbornly parboiled and served on a nice bed of rice, everything did actually get a lot better and there were less disagreements and upsets all round; but the planet became so monumentally grey and dull that no one even remembers where it is anymore.

Meanwhile, on the planet below, the imminent arrival of the Galaxia media empire assault fleet had not gone unnoticed, partly because the planet was very self conscious and had telescopes trained on the skies to see if anyone was looking at them, but mostly because the Galaxia media empire had started beaming down adverts for their cutting edge, reasonably priced, market cornering services. Most people were at least mildly interested in the introductory offers, but could have done without the attack saucers. Here and there, disillusioned by the brutal assault on their world, or perhaps just unhappy that their area was not within coverage of Galaxia services, pockets of resistance were gathering.

Former civil servant Hershel Genshburger decided that the time had come to take a side, and having seen an advert for his local resistance group in a newspaper shop window, he turned up at the secret meeting and was rather surprised to find that there were plenty of biscuits and tea available. But not quite as many burly ex-military explosives experts and former special-ops as he might have hoped.

“And are you connected to any other groups?” asked Hershel, helping himself to another ginger nut.

“Sorry. Could you sign in please.” said The Secretary, passing a notepad and pen over to Hershel. “Thanks!”

“Well....” said The Chairman, “There’s a group up the road in Plantard. And one down in Lurg. Jessie’s sister runs that one.”

“Okay. Any national networks? What’s the plan?”

“Well...its really still developing at the moment. We’re hoping to have some sort of conference.” explained The Secretary.

“A conference?”

“Yes...then we can workshop it all out. Figure out exactly what it is we want to do?”

The Chairman nodded and smiled as The Secretary minuted this point.

“What you want to do?” Hershel looked around at the collection of rather pleasant elderly folk. “What you want to do?! Surely you want to get ready to fight all the alien invaders and get them off the planet! That’s what a resistance movement do. They resist!”

“Told you!” said a lady by the tea urn, “I told you if we said we were a resistance movement that people would expect more from us.”

“Well this is precisely one of the reasons we need a conference.” said The Chairman “An open forum to discuss all of these issues and come to some sort of consensus.”

“There doesn’t need to be a consensus...” said Hershel “The spaceships are landing right now...”

 “I mean...maybe it isn’t about resistance at all. Maybe it’s about negotiation and understanding between ourselves and the attackers.”

At this point, The Treasurer could hold his tongue no longer.

“I think we’re all concentrating on the wrong issues. Think about the carbon footprint these things are making.”

The Chairman shook his head angrily, gesturing helplessly to Hershel in attempt to make it clear that this was old ground, well trodden.

“I honestly think that an organised group with an agreed mandate and agenda has more chance of influencing the decision making of the invaders. That’s what we’d be striving for at this conference.”

The Treasurer threw his arms up in the air.

“Oh! You and your conference.”

“Strawberry Tart?” offered the lady at the urn. Hershel smiled and shook his head.

“No...ehm…thanks very much for that.” he said, walking slowly back out of the community hall towards the battle scarred and burning streets “Probably all a bit much for me to take on in one go.”

“No problem. We’re here every week.” said The Secretary “Oh! But not next week. There’s a bingo night on. And Jessie’s got her appointment.”

“Now then,” said The Chairman, “arrangements for the AGM....”

The first of the attack saucers exploded just after lunch on Friday. A delegation of Galaxia Media executives were on their way to address a peace conference, when the rain had really started chucking it down. The hard water and acidity level of this planets precipitation did not at all agree with the Galaxia Assault Fleet’s fusion generators. Within minutes, an entire squadron of anti-matter propelled saucers starting malfunctioning. It really was very heavy rain. The planet didn’t stand a chance.

As the world below exploded, drifting swiftly out across the dark emptiness in waves of dust and rock, Admiral Fnurt sighed and turned to the camera.

“Ah well. There’s plenty more fish in the sea.”

End
Douglas Adams said many wonderful things, among them this very poetic defence of science and secular reason,
"Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it as well."
I'm a non-believer myself, but in our increasingly polarised times, I'd certainly like to think that Douglas Adams wasn't suggesting that anyone who does believe in fairies is an idiot, and that maybe, it is really up to individuals what they do and see in their garden...providing they don't start berating other people for not seeing things too. I've eh..I've run out of metaphor.

Enjoy some of my very own Vogon Poetry.

Enjoy "Shada" a lost Doctor Who, which Douglas Adams wrote for the BBC .

Get tweets from "The Meaning of Liff", Adams dictionary of things there should be words for.

Here is an episode of the bizarre childrens TV show "Dr Snuggles" written by Douglas Adams and John Lloyd.

Doctor Who - Red Letter Day

The disappearances had been going on for some time before myself and the other gentleman became involved. On many occasions since, I have cursed the day I ever set foot in the wretched bookshop – certainly my nerves have never fully recovered. There are still those who recognise me in the street, glancing askance, inferring upon me a sinister notoriety I scarcely deserve. For that reason, I have resolved to record my own version of events, in the hope that it will go some way to drawing a line under the whole affair. Perhaps too, it will convince some of those who left my life that it may yet be safe to return.

The Bookshop in question enjoyed a reputation in the town for sourcing rare and unusual editions. It was equally famed for the haphazard nature of its collections and so I had set aside a day for my explorations. I was looking for a particular copy of “Peter Pan and Wendy” to gift to Miriam – it had been her favourite book as a child – and as I wandered leisurely in and out of the rickety wooden maze of shelving and book stacks, I became gradually aware of being watched. I looked around, but seeing no one, I continued my deliberations. Shortly thereafter the feeling came upon me once more, and this time, I could also hear a whispering – again, not uncommon within the more respectable bookshops, but as I looked around, there was still no one to be seen. I rang the bell upon the counter for service, more for the reassurance of company than assistance, and as if in response there came a low guttural giggle. There was then within me, a very sudden and inexplicable panic, a tremendous overpowering urge to flee, and so, with scant regard to who might see me, I ran foolishly towards the door, intent on leaving immediately. But the door was no longer there.

At first, assuming I had become confused and inexplicably lost my bearings in a small city bookshop, I looked around, expecting the door to be elsewhere. It was then that I saw the man sitting cross legged on the floor.

“Odd isn’t it?” said the gentleman “That’s where I was sure the door was as well.”

I politely nodded, hoping my acknowledgement would not be taken as an invitation to further conversation. Naturally it was.

“Sorry.” He said “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m the Doctor. Good afternoon. Is it still afternoon? You lose track of time in bookshops…”

“No…it’s before eleven.”

“Ah…then is it still Tuesday?”

“Not until tomorrow. Excuse me.”

I wandered across the room, still looking hopefully for the door, no longer interested in buying anything this shop had to offer.

“At least a week then. No wonder I’m getting tired.”

I was embarrassed and annoyed and in no mood for further nonsense from the gentleman.

“What’s this all about?” I said “Were you the one laughing just now?”

“No. No I don’t find our situation remotely funny.” He said “And that feeling? Like you’re being watched? I feel that too. Something’s watching both of us – presumably the same something that has hidden the door.”

“Don’t be ridiculous” I said, intent on maintaining some semblance of normality “I stepped through the door not 5 minutes ago…I’ve become disorientated is all.”

The Doctor smiled.

“Possibly. Though again….that’s how I tried to rationalise it. Is it really that big a bookshop d’you think?”

I looked again, I was so certain; I ran my hands over the wall as if expecting it to give way, revealing one of those secret passages so popular in gothic fiction.

“This was the door.”

“And yet…it isn’t there.”

The panic came again, this time finally resolving itself into terror. I grabbed at one of the shelves to steady myself.

“I only came in here for a gift for my fiancés birthday.”

The Doctor stared at me for a moment, then, clearly having reached some sort of decision he smiled and leaped up from the floor, hand extended.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Harper. Maxwell Harper.”

“How do you do Harper. Glad you’re here. And no. I don’t know the way out either.” 

Hands still shaking, I passed the Doctor my flask, but he declined.

“Unlike yourself Harper, I didn’t actually come here looking for books. I was looking for people. Missing people.”

Here finally, was something I could understand, something real.

“You’re investigating the disappearances?”

“I was. What do you know?”

“No more than has been in the papers.”

By this stage you may recall that more than twenty people had apparently vanished over the preceding fortnight. It would be fair to say that it’s very likely more than twenty people vanish every day in London, people who are already invisible, destitute and alone. This twenty, who had more obviously vanished, were well heeled city folk. The presence of the gentleman and the strangeness of our situation suddenly put an altogether different complexion upon the matter.

“You think the bookshop has something to do with the disappearances?”

“I know it has. Listen.”

I was first aware of a low moaning, then a whispering

“It’s the books.” Said The Doctor “There are ghosts in the books.”

“Ghosts! Please don’t tell me you’re one of those dreadful spritualists.”

The Doctor hushed me, and I heard once again the strange whispering I had heard before. This time though, the voices were more distinct, sad, some crying, all talking at once without order or reason, as if desperate to be heard.

“Can you hear them? The books are talking Harper. I’ve been hearing them for hours now.” 

He lifted a book from the nearest shelf, ran his fingers carefully along the cover, then lifted it up to his face, first sniffing at it, then listening to it as if it were a shell found at the seaside. His face darkened.

“Something very bad is happening here Harper. These aren’t just books.”

He handed me the book. It had no title. I carefully opened it; the pages were of a heavy yellow vellum, more suitable for manuscript. Indeed, that seemed to be what it was, for across every page the words were scrawled in a deep angry red, like scars across the parchment. Realisation came then, and I dropped the book in horror and disgust. The Doctor carefully picked it up and respectfully returned it to its resting place on the nearest shelf.

“The books are…written in blood?”

“I’m afraid its rather worse than that. Whoever has been making the books doesn’t believe in wasting anything at all. And we need to put a stop to that.” 

I’m sure my face betrayed my terror, my cowardice, for he brightened then, as if resolving to reassure me by his own example.

“There’s a door back here I can’t get opened. Maybe if we give it a go together eh?”

We pushed at the door and finally it gave way, revealing stairs leading down towards the cellar. Below, burning torches, bathed the room in a low red flickering light. I will not pretend I took the first steps down those stairs. Neither did I run, much as every part of my being seemed to scream at me to do so. 

We surveyed the room, even in the poor light the cogs and grinders of some awful machine could be seen, stretching and stitching the terrible leather of those bindings. The Doctor was staring into the corner. As my eyes became accustomed to the light, I could make out a hunched figure. The shape shuffled and giggled.

“Hello there! I’m The Doctor, I’m a…”

“Time Lord, yes. I gathered. I’ve been watching you wander around my shop for days. I cannot wait to write your story.”

The figure kept his back to us, still clearly busying himself with some unpleasant task.

“Oh there was no need to be shy. You could have come and said hello…I don’t bite. Which I’m guessing is probably more than can be said for you.”

The man turned and stepped out from the shadows into the dim red light of the workshop. He was a fat, unpleasant looking fellow, wearing the telescopic glasses jewellers use for precision work.

“This is my friend Mr Maxwell Harper. And you are?”

“A simple craftsman.”

He gestured around the room.

“Do you like my machines? Certainly they can help you create…but you must of course have the spark of imagination to start with.” He grinned. “And the right materials.”

“You’re too modest.” Said The Doctor “Operating this level of technology takes more than craftsmanship Mister..?”

“On this world, I am but the nib.”

“Mr Nib.”

He stepped forward again, just far enough that we were able to see he was brandishing a number of knives.

“There are always collectors on the look out for something new and different. My books from this planet are very much in vogue in certain circles.”

“And you use this machine to what? Unpick and extrapolate their life and memories?”

“As a starting point.” Said Nib “Then I embellish the stories slightly. More glamour, more pain. My collectors can only take so much of the mundanity of this tedious little planet. But they do love the misery. The sorrow.”

The Doctor lifted a book.

“But these are people….in every possible sense.”

“Yes. That’s rather the unique selling point Doctor. You however, will be a true original. It’s whether you are one oversized edition or an eight volume set.”

All the while they had been talking, I continued to look desperately around the room for something, anything that could aid us in escaping. Certainly there were no other obvious exits from the cellar, only his machines and the endless dark shelves, rows and rows of unread lives, unlived. It became clear to me then, that far more than twenty souls had become the focus of Nib’s craft. 

All pretence of polite conversation now dropped, Nib circled The Doctor in predatory excitement.

“You will be my finest work. Truly priceless. Timeless.”

Nib lunged for The Doctor, blades outstretched and instinctively The Doctor shielded himself with the book he was holding. As the knives plunged in, there was a shriek then what sounded like a sigh before the book crumbled into pieces.

“No!” cried Nib.

Seizing his opportunity, The Doctor pushed Nib back towards the machinery and then grabbed one of the torches from the wall.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this Harper…burn the books!” he cried “It’s the only way to free them.”

I flailed around, grabbing as many of the braziers from the wall as possible, and setting them to the shelves while the Doctor continued to fight off the fiend who had written them. 

As each book took flame, there was a terrible screaming, a wailing release from the pain and the eternal sadness of what might have been. Not undaunted, but certainly undeterred, I visited fire upon each and every one of the damnable volumes. The cellar walls were now aflame, and the shelves began to crack and topple. I caught sight of The Doctor attempting to haul Nib back, but he charged into the flames as if somehow expecting to rescue his abysmal machines. There was fire all around and amidst the burning books, a constant unearthly howling. In those final moments, The Doctor dragged me back up the stairs. By now, blackened and coughing, I was sure my own story was coming to an end. The Doctor smiled sadly as everything began to blur..

“You know, my birthday always seems to end up like this.” he said, and then he handed me a book.

It was two days later that I was discovered unconscious in the scorched rubble of the bookshop, surrounded by the bones of the missing, still holding the book The Doctor had given me. My own distressed and dishevelled state went some way to convincing the authorities of my innocence – but only just. In any case, my association, however unfortunate with the horrific bookshop murders was enough to immediately distance me from polite society. 

I spent months unable even to leave my house, my only comfort, the book given to me by The Doctor. For days I would grip it, as if to anchor myself to this world lest I once again drifted into his. But those days are behind me now, and I am ready to give it to Miriam, for whom it was intended, if she will but pass my way again.

There are loads of sites featuring "fanfic", stories, books and novels based on other people's creations; some really REALLY weird stuff out there, but loads of cool stuff too. This was my entry into a Doctor Who competition run by audiobook company Big Finish a few years ago. As you may have guessed...it did not win. But it was right good fun to write. For the record, its meant to be the Paul McGann version of the Doctor. But yknow...if you have to explain it...

Open Up

It  is  a  rainy  Wednesday  lunchtime,  I  have  just  finished  my  chocolate  espresso  and  Michael  is  constantly  waggling  his  eyebrows  up  and  down  at  the  waitress.  She  is  not  impressed.

Myself,  and  two  of  the  workers  from  the  “Hokey  Cokey”  art  project  are  having  coffee  in  Utopia,  an  inoffensively  fashionable  coffee  shop.  Technically,  this  is  research,  so  the  council  are  picking  up  the  cheque.  In  celebration  of  this,  we  have  all  had  the  most  enormous  muffins  on  the  menu.  Mine  was  banana  and  nut.  Mmmmm.

So,  just  to  clarify,  we  didn’t  come  up  with  the  project  name  “Hokey  Cokey”.  We  all  hate  it.  It’s  called  “Hokey  Cokey”  because  it’s  about  bringing  what  is  often  termed  “outsider”  art  “into”  the  wider  community.  In.  Out.  See?  Well  exactly.

“Outsider”  art,  is  one  of  the  least  offensive  names  for  art  which  is  produced  by  groups  considered  to  be  excluded  from  “regular”  society.  This  is  all  pretty  much  straight  out  of  our  information  leaflet  you  understand.  Anyway,  in  the  case  of  “Hokey  Cokey”,  our  particular  outsiders  are  adults  with  learning  disabilities.  

There’s  me  and  there’s  Sasha,  our  artist  in  residence,  and  there’s  anyone  else  who  wants  to  turn  up  and  enjoy  themselves.  And  we  really  do.  Enjoy  ourselves.  So  anyhow,  we’re  opening  up  a  gallery  to  display  all  the  work  we’ve  put  together,  and  eventually,  it’s  going  to  have  a  coffee  shop  in  it.  Which  is  why  we’re  here  at  Utopia.  That  and  the  muffins.

“What  do  you  think?”  I  ask

“Nice.”  says  Michael,  who  has  now  moved  on  to  winking  at  the  staff.

“You’re  out  of  order.”  I  say.  “If  you  don’t  watch  out  that  waitress  is  probably  going  to  belt  you.”

Michael  is  undeterred.

“She  likes  me.”

“I  think  Anne  might  have  something  to  say  about  you  chasing  other  women.”

Here,  Michael  stops.  

“You  wouldn’t  tell  her?”

“Oh  really?  Stop  harassing  the  staff  and  we’ll  say  no  more  about  it.”

Michael  nods  solemnly  and  shakes  my  hand  by  way  of  a  gentleman’s  agreement.

“You’re  a  good  pal.”

“I  am.  She’s  way  out  of  your  league  anyway.”  I  say.  “I  mean  don’t  worry  about  it,  she’s  way  out  of  my  league  too.  We  should  both  just  chuck  it.”

Lisa  returns  from  the  toilet.

“Nice  soap.  Smell.”  she  says,  thrusting  her  open  palms  almost  entirely  up  my  nose.

“Mmmm.”  I  say.  “Are  we  about  ready  to  go  then?”

“I  am.”  says  Lisa,  hauling  on  her  coat.

“Me  too  pal.”  says  Michael.  He  looks  at  me  very  seriously  and  slaps  my  arm.  “Me  too.”

I  grab  my  notepad.  I’ve  been  scribbling  down  things  I’ve  noticed  about  Utopia  in  order  to  at  least  vaguely  justify  this  field  trip.  It  is  full  of  incisive  comments;  “We  should  definitely  get  those  syrups  which  make  the  coffee  go  all  different  flavours.  Hazelnut?”

As  we  leave,  I  half  heartedly  smile  at  the  waitress,  but  she  doesn’t  seem  to  notice,  or  care.  She  really  is  out  of  my  league,  I  wasn’t  joking  about  that.  

Hokey  Cokey  HQ  is  a  former  charity  shop  on  short  term  loan.  If  the  gallery  and  the  cafe  all  work  out  as  planned,  we’ll  take  on  the  lease.  In  theory.  We  really  have  to  get  it  right  first  time,  which  is  why  we’ve  invited  the  Provost,  the  social  work  department  and  the  entire  council  to  our  opening  party.  It’s  in  two  days.  I’m  sure  it  will  all  work  out  fine.

Michael,  Lisa  and  I  arrive  back  at  the  same  time  as  Susan,  another  of  the  workers.  We  are  barely  through  the  door,  when  Lisa  spies  someone  exciting.

  “Craig!”  shouts  Lisa  and  runs  off  into  the  workshop.

Sasha  walks  over  smiling.  Sasha’s  always  smiling.  And  it’s  one  of  those  ‘weak  at  the  knees’  smiles.  I’m  sure  you  know  the  kind  I  mean.

“Hiya.”  says  Sasha.

“Hello.”

I  am  about  to  ask  Sasha  how  her  morning  was  when  I  notice  Susan  standing  very  still,  and  very  close.  Susan  seems  to  have  almost  no  concept  of  personal  space,  but  is  far  too  polite  to  butt  in  on  a  conversation.  It  is  easier  therefore,  to  just  ask  her  what  she  wants.

“Hi  Susan.  Can  we  help?”  I  ask.  

“Today...”  announces  Susan  “I  have  brought...for  you  and  Sasha...a  special  treat.”

“Smashing.”  I  say.  “What’s  that?”

“It  is...home  baking.  Buns.”

“What  kind  of  buns?”

“Coconut.  And  I  have  also  added...a  small  number...of  chocolate  chips.”

“Thanks  very  much  Susan.  You’re  the  tops.”  says  Sasha.

“Well  Sasha...you  deserve  a  treat.  But  now...I  must  go...and  finish  my  sculpture.”

Susan  wanders  off  into  the  workshop.  She’s  been  making  a  model  of  the  Yellow  Submarine.  Our  toilets  have  an  undersea  theme.  It  certainly  makes  going  to  the  bathroom  more  fun.  There  was  a  big  octopus  which  was  going  to  hang  from  one  of  the  ceilings,  but  it  fell  on  my  head  and  so  we  had  to  remove  it  for  health  and  safety  reasons.  And  also  because  I  was  very  angry.

I  examine  the  buns.

“These  look  excellent.”

“Mmmm.”  says  Sasha  “She’s  really  come  on  since  she  got  her  own  place.  How  was  Utopia?”

“Well  Michael  failed  to  score  with  the  waitress.”

“What  about  you?”

“Well,  I  wasn’t  really  trying.”

“Waitresses  aside,  do  you  think  we  can  make  our  coffee  shop  as  cool?”

“Oh  easily.  Well,  not  easily...it’ll  be  murder.  But  we  can  definitely  do  it.  Probably.”

“Mission  accomplished  then.”  she  smiles.  God.

“Come  and  see  some  of  this  new  stuff.”  says  Sasha  excitedly.  “People  are  just  going  to  be  blown  away.”

She  leads  me  through  the  gallery  and  into  the  workshop,  to  the  untrained  eye  a  chaos  of  colour  and  plaster  and  wire.  But  when  you  stop  looking  and  just  see,  there’s  clearly  alchemy  at  work  here.  A  secret  science.  Admittedly,  we’re  not  actually  making  gold  or  anything,  but  there’s  so  much  gold  paint  all  over  the  floor  that  it  almost  doesn’t  matter.

“Anne’s  made  a  vase...just  feel  that  texture,  and  with  those  colours...outstanding!  And  over  here  Simon  started  a  painting  of  a  dolphin.  And  look  at  this...yesterday  Lisa  drew  this  picture  of  a  policewoman  on  the  computer.  And  she’s  copied  and  pasted  lines  of  them  all  on  screen.  Loads  of  them.”

She  almost  dances  round  the  room  as  we  go.  And  she’s  right.  The  artwork  is  impressive,  but  I’m  honest  enough  with  myself  to  know  that  I  am  spending  more  time  being  impressed  by  her.  We’ve  been  planning  this  party  for  three  weeks  now,  and  coincidentally,  that’s  exactly  how  long  I’ve  been  coming  up  with  ever  more  complex  reasons  to  avoid  asking  her  out.  So  I  nod  and  I  smile  and  I  give  the  big  thumbs  up,  taking  the  opportunity  just  to  enjoy  how  close  she’s  standing  to  me.  I  know.  I  know.

It  is  mid  afternoon  and  I  am  sitting  in  the  tearoom  imagining.  Susan  walks  in  purposefully,  and  I  suddenly  realise  that  I  haven’t  yet  had  one  of  the  buns  she  baked  for  us.  Susan  can  get  very  hurt  if  you  ignore  her  bakery  and  so  I  grab  the  little  bag  and  make  to  open  it.

“Have  you  eaten  my  special  treat  yet?”  asks  Susan,  pointing  at  exhibit  A,  the  unopened  buns.

“No  Susan.”  I  say,  holding  up  the  bag,  “I  was  actually  just  about  to...”

“Oh.  Good!”  she  says,  and  snatches  the  buns  away.

“What...I...”

“I  have...just  remembered...that  today’s  special  treats...were  I  am  afraid...not  for  you.  They  are  for...the  MacDonald  Centre  staff.”

“Oh!”  I  say  “No  buns  for  me  then.”

“No.  Perhaps...a  special  treat  for  you  and  Sasha...tomorrow.”

“Fair  enough.”  I  say  “I’ll  look  forward  to  that.”

“Although...I  am  making  marshmallow  cakes...for  the  party...so  I  may  be  unable...to  bake  anything  for  you.”

“Well  I’ll  just  have  one  of  your  marshmallow  cakes  then.”  I  suggest.

“They’re  for  the  party!”  exclaims  Susan.

“Yeah.  But  I’ll  be  at  the  party.”

“Oh.  Of  course...how  silly  of  me.”

Susan  slaps  herself  on  the  forehead,  smiles,  and  walks  away  with  the  buns.

I  should  have  eaten  them  at  lunchtime.  

I  am  so  disappointed  by  the  loss  of  the  buns,  that  I  decide  to  see  them  as  a  symbol  of  my  inability  to  seize  the  day,  even  with  confectionery.  I’d  be  the  first  to  admit  that  this  is  rather  flimsy,  but  y’know,  I’m  of  a  mind  to  feel  sorry  for  myself.  They  had  chocolate  chips  and  everything.

It’s  late.  Dusky.

All  the  workers  left  around  four  hours  ago.  Right  now,  Sasha  and  I  are  slumped  against  an  enormous  papier  mache  banana.  We  are  The  Velvet  Underground  sweating.  Still,  the  workshop’s  tidy,  except  for  the  bit  of  floor  where  Michael  has  painted  “Rangers”  in  a  nice  Royal  Blue.

“Time’s  it?”  I  ask.

“Just  after  nine.”

“There’s  hardly  any  point  in  going  home.”  I  say,  which  is  meant  to  be  just  one  of  those  things  you  say  but  comes  out  sounding  like  a  sinister  proposition.  I  adjust  my  big  black  top  hat  and  twirl  my  evil  moustache  in  anticipation  of  her  response.

“More  iced  coffee  I  think.”  she  says.  Read  into  that  what  you  will.

Sasha  wanders  over  to  the  fridge.  It’s  covered  in  magnetic  poetry,  which  today  reads  “atonal  balloon,  sasparilla  nightmare  windmill”.  So  true.

“What  are  we  making  to  eat?  For  the  party  I  mean.”

“Sausage  rolls?”  I  suggest.  “Go  traditional.”

“That’s  rubbish.  The  food  should  be  y’know...as  exciting  as  the  exhibition.”

“Confrontational  food?”

“No.  Y’know,  just...fun.”

“Fun  eh?  How  about  papier  mache  banana  sandwiches?  They’re  really  chewy.”

“Too  bland.”  she  smiles.

“Maybe  the  way  you  make  them.  Anyway,  sausage  rolls  are  fun.  We  could  call  them  ‘pigs  in  a  blanket’.”

“I  think  we’ll  ask  the  team  tomorrow.”  says  Sasha,  unimpressed.

“Goddamn  you  free  thinkers  and  your  blasted  democracy.”

“Yeah  well  it’s  either  that  or  you’ll  have  us  cutting  the  crusts  off  triangular  sandwiches.”

“Nobody  likes  crusts!  And  what  are  you  suggesting...sandwiches  cut  into...spaceships  or  something?”

“Bingo!  And  we  could  lay  out  a  big  table  with  all  the  identically  shaped  sandwiches,  except  we  dye  the  bread  all  different  colours,  Warhol  style.”

“I  don’t  think  he  ever  branched  out  into  catering.”  I  say,  and  for  a  moment  I  consider  cracking  a  joke  about  everyone  being  hungry  for  fifteen  minutes,  but  thankfully,  think  better  of  it  just  in  time.

“So...”  I  say,  loudly  announcing  Some  Serious  Conversation.

“Mmmm?”

“Are  you  bringing  anyone  to  the  party?”

There  is  a  silence.  But  is  it  the  silence  of  someone  who  doesn’t  like  to  talk  about  their  private  life,  or  the  silence  of  someone  who  can  see  an  unwanted  proposition  approaching  waving  a  big  red  flag  and  banging  a  drum?

“I’m  not  actually  seeing  anyone  right  now.”  says  Sasha.

More  silence,  but  not  the  sort  which  is  a  cue  for  me.  

“I’m  kind  of  down  on  relationships.  I  finished  with  this  guy  last  year  and  well...it  wasn’t  very  nice.  Not  a  good  break  up.”

“None  of  them  are  exactly  good.”

“No  this  was  really  terrible.  The  police  had  to  take  me  away.”

“Oh.”  I  say.  I  don’t  know  what  to  do  with  this  information.

“But  he  dropped  the  charges.  I  mean...he  provoked  me.”

“What  did  you  do?”

“Well,  I  was  painting  him  and  he  didn’t  like  it  so...”

“What,  a  sort  of  caricature  thing  or...”

“No.  Him.  I  was  actually  painting  onto  him.  In  gloss.  I’d  found  out  he’d  been  messing  around  on  me  from  day  one.  Well...day  three,  so  I  decided  to  paint  him  bright  red.”

“Right.”

“And  I’d  just  started  inking  on  the  word  ‘wanker’,  when  he  woke  up.”

“That’s  when  he  phoned  the  police?”

“That’s  when  he  phoned  the  police.  I  couldn’t  get  the  paint  off  the  phone  for  weeks.”

I  laugh  nervously.  I  am  working  with  Zelda  Fitzgerald.  Perversely,  this  mental  health  issue  instantly  makes  Sasha  ten  times  more  attractive.  I’m  not  even  going  to  attempt  to  justify  that.

“What  about  you?”

“Girlfriend?  Nah.  My  mum’s  stopped  just  short  of  putting  my  name  in  Exchange  &  Mart.”

“Well  your  biological  clock  is  ticking.”

“I  think  it  might  actually  have  stopped.”

Just  there,  I  catch  myself.  I  really  do  pull  off  being  feeble  and  non-threatening  with  aplomb.  It’s  not  deliberate.  I  have  a  mate  who  intentionally  turns  on  this  sensitive  loser  act  around  women.

“When  women  don’t  feel  threatened,  you’ve  more  chance  of  getting  them  to  shag  you.”  he  says.

It  would  be  a  lot  easier  to  get  annoyed  about  this  statement  if  it  didn’t  turn  out  to  be  true  on  a  fairly  regular  basis.

So  anyway,  I’m  not  trying  to  sound  pathetic,  I’m  just  being  myself.  Unfortunately,  I  genuinely  am  pathetic.  Bonus  though,  I  think  she  likes  that.

“Well...”  I  say,  incisively.

A  policeman  passes  and  checks  that  we  haven’t  just  broken  in  to  stage  an  art  exhibition.

“I  suppose  we  should  lock  up.”  she  says.

“Mmmm.”  I  say,  downing  the  chilly  dregs  of  my  iced  coffee.  “Yeah  we  really  should.”

Smooth.

We  pull  down  grilles,  lock  the  doors  and  go  our  seperate  ways.  I  stalk  home  alone  to  watch  “Annie  Hall”.  See.  I’m  pathetic  even  when  nobody’s  watching.

The  party  food  production  line  is  in  full  technicolour  effect.  My  sausage  rolls  were  unceremoniously  howled  down  at  yesterday’s  morning  meeting,  and  so  while  Susan  humanely  dyes  the  bread,  Michael  is  using  a  cutter  to  turn  them  into  flying  saucers  and  rockets.  Elsewhere  Lisa  pours  fruit  salad  into  tall  glasses  which  have  been  decorated  with  stick  on  smiles  and  crazy  eyes.  Sasha  meanwhile,  surreally  sculpts  carefully  dripped  icing  across  the  tops  of  cakes.  

I’m  out  of  my  depth  here  and  so  wander  into  the  workshop  where  Anne  sits,  painting  one  final  piece  for  the  gallery.  She  looks  especially  focused  this  morning,  meticulously  coating  this  last  canvas  in  end  to  end  green.  

“How  you  doin’?”  I  ask.

“Painting.”  

“Painting  what?”

“Green.”

“It  certainly  is  green.  What  is  it,  a  field,  or..?”

“No.  Just  green.  The...the...colour.”

“Very  relaxing  Anne.  Good  stuff.”

“This  bit  is...a  different  green.”

“Like  a  Mark  Rothko  print.”  I  observe  cleverly.

“No.  Like  my  dress.”

Anne  gestures,  and  sure  enough,  she’s  decked  out  all  limelike.

“Green.”  she  explains.

“Got  it.”  I  say.  “Good  one.”

“Have  you  decided  what  to  call  it?”

Anne  nods.

“Boyzone.”

“Really?  ‘Cos  I  would  have  gone  with  ‘Green’.”

“No.”  says  Anne  very  definitely.  “Boyzone.”

“You’re  the  artist.”  I  say.

“Yeah.  And  Sasha.  Sasha’s  the  artist.”

“She  sure  is.”

“Is  Sasha  your  girlfriend?”

“...eh...no.”  I  say,  and  then  cleverly  mask  my  embarrassment  with  an  enormous  Brian  Blessed  style  laugh.

“No  we’re  just  friends.”

“How?”

“...”  I  say,  for  a  while,  and  then  “Let’s  make  party  hats.”

“Do  you  know  my  boyfriend?”

“Michael?”

“Yeah.  Michael.”  she  giggles  “He’s  gorgeous.”

“You’re  right  enough  Anne.  He’s  a  fine  lookin’  man.”

“Yeah.  We’re  gettin’  married.”

“Excellent.”

“You  marry  Sasha.”

“No!”  I  laugh.

“Don’t  you  like  Sasha?”

“Of  course  I  like  Sasha.”

“Woot  woo.”  giggles  Anne  as  I  fall  into  her  trap.

“Very  good.”

“Sasha  likes  you.  She  said  she  wants  to  do  a  slow  dance  with  you  at  the  party.”

Anne  emphasises  this  point  by  waggling  her  eyebrows  up  and  down  in  the  manner  made  popular  by  her  boyfriend  Michael.  

“Oh  really?”  I  say.

“Yes  really.”  says  Anne  and  goes  back  to  painting.

This  conversation  is  clearly  over.

Soon  they  will  be  here.  I  look  around  our  gallery  and  there  isn’t  anything  I  don’t  like.  Even  the  buffet  is  art.  And  I  see  her  smile  beaming  from  every  corner  of  the  room,  a  spotlight  laughing,  illuminating  everything  we’ve  done.  

Anne  stands  by  the  door,  ready  to  open  it  with  a  vengeance  when  our  guests  arrive.

“Where’s  Sasha?”

“Woot  woo.”  says  Anne.

“She’s  in  the  storeroom.”  points  Michael  “For  the  paper  towels.”

“Right.”  I  say.

And  suddenly,  This  Is  It,  as  if  perhaps  “paper  towels”  was  the  secret  trigger  placed  in  my  mind  by  a  benevolent  hypnotist.  I  am  going  to  ask  Sasha  out.  Right  now.

I  leap  toward  the  storeroom  like  a  man  in  serious  need  of  a  new  broom.

I  throw  the  door  open  a  little  more  melodramatically  than  I  had  intended  and  Sasha  is  struggling  to  reach  the  shelves.

“This  fucking  octopus.”  she  says.  Which  is  suddenly  the  most  romantic  thing  I’ve  ever  heard.

“We  had  to  put  it  somewhere.  It’s  a  hazard.”  I  say  “Anyway  never  mind  that.  Listen.  Do  you  want...I  mean...this  afternoon..why  don’t  we  sort  of...couple  up.  Host  and  hostess  style.  We’ll  be  like  the  Fitzgeralds.  But  with  less  cocaine.”

That,  was  brilliant.

“Couple  up?  What’s  brought  this  on?”  asks  Sasha,  who  is,  at  least,  smiling.

“Well...it  was  Anne  really.  She  said...she  said  you  wanted  to  do  a  slow  dance  with  me  at  the  party.”

“Oh  did  she!”

“She  did.  But  I’m  a  terrible  dancer.  And  so  rather  than  stand  all  over  your  toes  I  thought  it’d  be  easier  to  just  ask  you  out.  But  it  isn’t,  and  it  seems  to  be  taking  forever  and  it’s  very  hard  to  do  it  properly  with  that  octopus  looking  at  me.”

“Anne  eh?  She’s  all  there  and  round  the  corner.  She’s  been  talking  you  up  for  weeks  now.  Not  that  she  needed  to  really.”

Oh.

I  lean  forward,  time  slowing  to  a  near  standstill.  But  not  enough  of  a  standstill  for  the  door  not  to  open  as  I  lean  against  it.  And  as  I  tumble  backward,  I  grab  Sasha  to  steady  me,  but  she’s  already  tilting  badly.  So  Sasha  too,  grabs  for  support,  but  despite  having  a  full  compliment  of  eight  arms,  the  octopus  sculpture  is  of  very  little  use  on  this  score.  The  first  kiss,  the  door  opening,  and  the  octopus  poking  me  in  the  eye.  And  we  fall  together  into  the  party,  all  tinsel  and  kisses.  Wrapped  up  in  ourselves  and  also,  in  the  wire  frame  of  the  banished  octopus  sculpture.  The  team  are  clapping  and  laughing  as  we  roll  helplessly  around  on  the  floor.

“Will  you  go  out  with  me?”  I  ask,  crepe  paper  seaweed  sticking  to  my  glasses,  tinting  Sasha  a  pleasant  green.

“Yes.”  she  says  “But  I  think  I  should  warn  you  that  this  octopus  is  also  making advances.”

Party  poppers  for  big  moment  fireworks,  our  names  are  writ  across  the  skies  in  tissue.

We  kiss  again,  and  Lisa  pours  pink  lemonade  into  painted  paper  cups.  

Anne  opens  all  the  doors.

note : I spent seven years working with adults with learning disabilities, more time than I've ever spent in any other job, you were guaranteed a wee laugh pretty much every day. Some of this actually happened, making this particular entry just slightly more self indulgent than normal.