This is the 200th Sunday Scribblings prompt! When I started this blog in 2006, I hoped that a few people would want to write with us once a week. I had no idea it would last this long or that so many people would continue to participate. Thank you so much for continuing to come and play! Is there anyone out there who has done every single one?

Once upon a time Scribbler left the little forest she'd grown up in to visit the widest of wide worlds. It didn't take her long to discover that the world was far greater than the little corner she'd considered not only home but her universe. But very soon she also felt a little lonely. If only... she dreamed, but where was Scribbler to find friends among the bewildering mass of webs she encountered at every step. Besides, all Scribbler could do was precisely that; scribble. So she sat herself down, took out her pencil and scribbled. It wasn't long before a number of people began to drop by. They seemed intrigued with what she was doing. Some showed their appreciation, others asked if they could scribble too. The owner of the pencil store where she regularly bought her scribbling supplies was more than happy and even offered her a table and chair in his shop window. But Scribbler knew that was not the correct place for scribbling and politely went on her way. But soon she began to wonder what it would be like to go a scribbling together. Just imagine, Little Red Scribbling Hood and Her Merry Band of Scribblers. Of course, they would be very philanthropic. Instead, of robbing from the rich to give to the poor, they would merely carry the words away in their head; the owner wouldn't even notice they'd been taken. Indeed, one owner was so surprised to see Scribbler making off with her words, yet leaving them there, she began to dream too. And before too long, they set themselves up in their own little niche, and were offering Scribbling opportunities to the one or two... or maybe that should read ten or twenty, or perhaps even one or two hundred. But then, with 200 prompts to their scribbling names and let's say one new person every week, well that may even mean one or two thousand... who knows. All I do know is that soon there were lots of little Scribbler milestones, testifying to the power of pen, paper or keyboard. And, of course, they all lived happily ever after. At least, this one little Scribbler milestone hopes they do. He would be so sad if ever it were to stop.

Read some more Scribbler milestones here.


This week's words are: Beacon, Grieve, Kindred

"Are you trying to tell me that we're flying in just 2 hours and your passport is no longer valid!"

"That's right. It expired 4 months ago. But I'm sure the guy checking won't notice."

A beacon started flashing furiously in my mind, a warning things were reaching breaking point. I tried taking long, deep breaths in a bid to stay calm. This was the kind of thing you expected from young kids when you took them on a trip, but not from a 48 year old man.

"And you're identity card...?"

"Oh, that's fine. I got it renewed just before Christmas."

This time I really did start to relax.

"But it won't help much. I left it at home."

Now my breathing began to go haywire. I tried repeating various injunctions about it not being his fault and it might happen to anyone, all the time trying to force myself to stay calm. But that didn't work either. It seemed I began to shout, attracting the attention of an airport security guard.

"Can I be of any help. Sir, are you alright. Sir..., Sir...!"

A multitude of images kaleidoscoped their way around my mind. People urging me to calm down, to keep quiet. Someone said, "Come this way, hurry or you'll all miss the plane; never mind we'll look after him."

I woke four hours later. I was feeling a lot better. A nurse came by and smiled; a kindred spirit if ever I saw one. "So you've woken up. Good to see you've calmed down a bit. That was quite a scare you gave us, this morning."

"This morning? What time is it," I replied trying to get out of bed.

"Now just you get back into bed or I'll have to call the ward heavies. We can't have you gallivanting about after what you've been through. Besides, your friends will not be returning until Sunday."

"Sunday? You mean they've all left."

"Yes. But they only just made it. Your little fit almost made them lose the plane. In the end they were hurried through and didn't even pass security."

Now, I really did relax. What was there to grieve over? Everything was fine and I could look forward to five days of pampering by my very pretty new nurse friend. Good job I wasn't aware that my friends had all just been arrested by the UK police for trying to smuggle one of the group into the country.

Your Desicision

A poem in answer to this week's Sunday Scibblings prompt "YES"

ou know how
Easy it is said, but
Sometimes, regret is harder still.

Yet, often,
Even when you think, you know your mind,
Sneaking round the corner comes disquiet.

You shake it off, it insists.
Evoke a hundred reasons to send it packing;
Suddenly, enlightenment knocks.

You realise struggle spells
Escape from doubt, your mind no longer

You answer



This weeks Fiction Friday prompt: A woman revisits the neighbourhood where she grew up to find that her childhood home has been condemned.

Sîan once again picked up the letter from the solicitor's, and turned it over and over in her hand. She knew this was the final blow. The house was sold, making her a rich woman. But what did she care for that! Time and again she tried to make sense of the film running out of control through her mind. The first letter from the solicitor, repeated calls requesting she put the house on the market, heated discussions with her sisters, the decision to return home. Finally, the day when she once again set foot on her home soil.

Fifteen years it had taken. She had dreamt of this moment almost every day. A joyous celebration was how it had always been represented in her mind. And indeed, she was glad to be back home. Yet, she had never imagined it being a lonely matter. Her sisters' decided lack of enthusiasm and their unwillingness to travel down to see her were bitter disappointments. Gwyn had even refused to answer the telephone last time she called, hiding behind her ten year old son.

Then came the visit to the rectory. It didn't take long for her to realise it was beyond repair. Condemned, the solicitor had put it, and the word battered away its around her mind whilst she carefully picked her way through the broken floorboards and the undergrowth that had once been their play room. So many happy memories, but someone must have erased that hard disk. She failed to conjure up a single one, not even her father in his study. If it hadn't been for Delwyn she'd have drunk herself stupid that night.

He'd recognised her at once. Called out her name. Come up to her. It wasn't until he brushed his index finger over her cheek that she realised who he was. Time had not been kind to him. He was greying far more than was normal for his 36 years, and his features were ruddy and harsh, doubtless the by-product of years of labour in the local stone-quarry. But a few words sufficed for her to realise that time had not erased his courteous, even generous, manner. She remembered the shy little boy who'd come to hear them sing. Then later, he'd even joined the group. Four years they sang together and were often solicited for various local concerts. Then came her one big chance. No one could refuse a scholarship to the Royal Musical College of Wales. She'd left without so much as a good bye; and regretted it ever since. He walked her back to the hotel that night. And as he ran his finger down her cheek, she saw her sisters' reflection in his eyes as they'd stood there teasing her. She had always asked herself if there was anything in their gentle badgering. Now, she knew.

She invited him to breakfast the next day. He turned up saying he'd taken the whole day off work. This time it was his turn to talk, and she discovered to her amazement he'd become one of the most successful people in town. He'd inherited the quarry from his father and turned it into a thriving business, employing over a 250 townsfolk. But he still lived in the run-down old house behind the scrapyard, though he did admit to having done it up, somewhat. As they were chatting away, the hotel manager arrived with three letters, each from the solicitor. She couldn't help explaining her business there now.

"So, you see either I have to come up with £350 000 by next week or accept one of these offers and get out of here for ever."

His eyes more than his lips asked: "Is there no way you can raise the money?"

"Not by next week. If I had another six months, I might manage it, if..." But that part of her life still lay under a shroud of secrecy.

He excused himself right after breakfast but promised to pick her up before eleven. We'll walk out to the canal and take a boat down to Tonwy. She'd not quite imagined the boat being his boat but loved the thrill she got from standing at the tiller, Delwyn standing behind her, holding firmly onto her shoulders to keep things steady. They'd lunched on a fine old ploughman's at "The Crossed Keys", washed down by a quenching pint of real, brewed by the landlord himself. And when she saw the piano sitting alone in the tap room, she couldn't resist. Another pint of real and the three of them - the landlord also loved a sing-song - were off. They sang all afternoon, going through their old repertoire several times, and even trying out some newer songs. People came and went and were generous with their applause. But not one of them recognised that they had before them half of the foursome who had entertained not a few of them some fifteen years ago.

That night it was Sîan who lovingly raised her finger to caress Delwyn's cheek, hoping that he might... They parted without a word, not even making arrangements to see each other the next day. But, thought Sîan, he knew where to find her.

Sîan slept the next day until after ten o'clock. Delwyn had proved the perfect antidote for her troubles and she was looking forward to seeing him again. The moment she appeared in the lobby, the manager came out to meet her.

"Miss Pryce, your solicitor has been trying to get hold of you, all morning. He wants you to go and see him as soon as possible."

Sîan shivered a little as a cold foreboding came over her. If only Delwyn was here now. She poured down a cup of pretty tepid coffee and grabbing an apple made her way into town.

"Mr. Silkin, will you please explain what all this is about. You said there would be no further developments this week."

"Yes, but I was not expecting an additional offer, and one you can't refuse."

"An offer I can't refuse?"

"Yes, I have received an offer of £550 000 for the immediate sale of your property. At that price I would be failing in my duty if I didn't advise you to accept. True, the bidder wants an exclusivity clause, but he's a respected local business man and even if he had to invoke the clause, it would take six months at the most."

"Could you please explain what you are talking about."

"An exclusivity clause, Miss Pryce, means you agree to forego any current offer on the table. So in the case of the buyer not being able to come up with the money in the required time, he would be granted an automatic extension of six months to find the necessary sum. But as I have already said, the likelihood of that happening is extremely remote."

"Six months! But Mr. Silkin, if you had only waited six months I could have raised the sum needed to restore the property and keep it in our family."

"That I'm afraid, Madam, is beyond my control. You were not able to pay the outstanding bills, so..."

"Mr. Silkin, would you kindly inform me who this extraordinary offer is from?"

"That, I'm afraid Madam, is not possible. The bidder distinctly requested his identity be kept a secret until the contract itself is signed. And now, if you will excuse me, I have a prior engagement at my golf club. Good-day Madam."

Before Sîan was even aware of what was going on, he had disappeared. She slowly got up from the desk she'd been sitting at and made her way to the front door, only to hear the secretary call out:

"Come here, love. I shouldn't really be telling you this, love, but you seem so distressed. The bidder is a Mr. Davies, Delwyn Davies, the man who runs the stone-quarry in town. And if it's any consolation to you, he's a really nice man. Not much to look at maybe, but he's got a heart of gold."

"Yes, a heart of gold," replied Sîan in a daze. "A heart of gold, gold, that's all his fucking heart thinks about; gold, gold, gold and more gold; cold, gold heart; slimy, cold, money grabbing bastard." The office door shuddered behind her.

Sîan left the hotel within the hour. No humiliation could touch her now. She was beyond being moved. Like a worm he had courted and cheated; wormed his way into her trust before wriggling back down into the earth where his wealth had come from. Suddenly, she saw her father standing in front of a gaping whole. His words had both a familiar and a comforting ring to them: "Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shallt return." If only... but she knew she would never find the courage.

The next day she'd gone back to the solicitor's to pick up the remaining documents.

"There you are, my dear. Hope you're feeling a bit better this morning. Mr. Silkin is out right now, but he's left everything here for you to collect. Always his usual efficient self, Mr. Silkin.

Sîan took the envelope without a word. She walked out into the park wondering whether or not to read the fateful words the letter contained. It made little difference whether she read them or not. Yet, she had to know. After hours of dithering she finally took her penknife and slit open the envelope. The letter bore the familiar letterhead blazoned above the terse statement.

Dear Ms. Pryce,

I regret to inform you that our bidder is currently unable to go through with the deal. He has begged me to be allowed to inform you of matters himself, a procedure which while highly irregular, I reluctantly agreed to in light of the very generous offer made. I therefore enclose a further note, the contents of which I am wholly ignorant of. Should they reveal any failing on my part, I beg you to excuse me.

Your's faithfully,

J.I. Silkin Esq.

Sîan examined the envelope once again. It contained one further sheet of paper. With a slight tremble she unfolded this second letter and read:

Dear Sîan,

Now is not the time for keeping up pretences. When I heard of your predicament, I decided, I could not leave you helpless as you seemed. Had I tried to offer you the money needed to cover your debts, you would doubtless have refused me. So I made my way immediately to the offices of J.I. Silkin Esq and made an immediate offer of £500 000 for your property, insisting on an exclusivity clause being written into the contract, in order to assure no other bidder could present themselves until six months after any failure of completion on my part. I am so pleased to inform you, that I am currently unable to complete and that the likelihood of my doing so within the next six months is very small. If at the end of these six months, you are able to raise the money to clear your debts, you are free to do so. It is normal in such circumstances for a penalty of 10% to be imposed up the failing partner. If this sum can be a help to you in paying off your debts, I shall be only to pleased to have been of assistance.

Please forgive me. I'm not much of a writer. But what I really want to say is...

It was Sîan's own tears that had blotched the rest of what he wrote, rendering it unreadable.

Memory Lane

Entering the museum Lupak felt a little guilty. Was this really going to interest his son. For him it would be a welcome trip down memory lane. As a kid he had spent days on end in this museum. A stranger might have wondered how that was possible. It only had two rooms and the cellar, fitted out to look like an old kitchen. That, of course, was the museum's secret. He remembered the first time he's visited it with his aunt. She was helping out after his parents had moved to this new town. There was so much to do, the three children had been packed off to stay with her for a few days. And today they had all tumbled into her old Hillman imp and up the valley, over the top and down into Morfen. They'd all had lunch in the new house but before returning Auntie Aggie had promised him something special... the museum.

To be perfectly honest, it had not caught his imagination, at first. Not until, they had descended the staircase and seen the kitchen. Auntie Aggie couldn't contain her excitement. It's just like the place your Mam and I grew up in. And off she went on her own trip down memory lane. By the time they had finished the small crowd that had gathered in the meantime, applauded discretely. But Lupak hadn't finished yet. He wanted to know more, and he bombarded her with questions.

And now, here he was with his own son. Would the magic wear off on him? What sort of questions would he ask. Obviously, the museum would have changed. New exhibits, old ones vanished. Yes, there was the old Penny Farthing and Simon's eyes gleamed as Lupak explained to him how he had once taken part in a Penny Farthing rally. But apart from that, Simon hadn't said much. They went down to the kitchen but even that didn't really awaken his interest. Then he saw it. An old wooden box with something like a spiralling loudspeaker on top.

"What's that Dad?"

"Well now, that's something quite special. It's one of the first record players they ever made."

"And what's a record player?"
This week Sunday Scribblings asked to write about "The Good Old Days" and provoked this trip down Memory Lane.

The question took him aback. Of course, Simon was barely old enough to remember cassette tapes. How on earth could he be expected to know what a record player was. He began to explain. Not only the mechanics of the thing, but all about the evenings spent around the fire, listening, laughing singing. The dances they used to have, treading softly so as not to cause the needle to jump and force from them three steps at once. And, of course, the one time when he had gone into the recording studio himself and made a record with his four idols.

"Jim fixed it for me," he said, telling Simon about that old television programme that made young children's dreams come true.

When they went back upstairs, they realised it was already getting dark. And the elderly museum attendant was slumbering away in his rocking chair. Some things never change he thought.

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #138:
It took Edgar six months to muster the courage to ask out his dream girl. Their first date is almost over, and it couldn’t have gone better—until he discovers his wallet is missing. Write the scene.

The moment he saw her front door open Edgar checked himself in the mirror. Straightening his tie he slipped his jacket on and descended the staircase. He couldn't believe this was really happening. Six months of waiting, despairing and, more recently, even hoping. Hoping beyond hope? Somehow, Edgar couldn't help feeling he wasn't good enough for her. Even her enthusiastic 'yes', once he'd finally taken the plunge and asked her out, did little to allay his misgivings. Jasmine was no ordinary girl and he was going to have to come up with something special to impress her.

He raced down the stairs and was waiting by the open door as she came up the path. The moment her foot reached the top step he whisked a flamboyant bouquet from behind the door, surprising her just as she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. He saw her hesitate and at once started to excuse himself.

"Sorry, it's not as..."

"Edgar, stop! The flowers are lovely. It's just, I wasn't expecting any, that's all. Besides, spending an evening with you is worth far more than anything you could give me."

Edgar winced at this perceived put-down. Worth nothing more than an evening out. Clearly, he was going to have to come up with something better. He steeled up his voice so as not to betray the lie.

"Dad has given me permission to use his car. It's a Mercedes C class; the latest model and it runs like a dream."

"But, we're only going around the corner. We don't need to take a car." And hooking her arm into his, she pulled him down the stairs.

Edgar had wanted... but he found nothing to say. How on earth was he going to impress her now. If only it was his success they were celebrating.

"I do hope you can come to my concert, next week. I've decided not to play my audition piece. I'm going for the Bach instead. And afterwards, maybe we can go over our maths together. It makes so much more sense when you explain it to me. And if I don't get my grade up, passing the audition will mean nothing."

"I'll tell you what, I saw this excellent piece of computer software the other day. It's real state of the art technology; it'll make you into a maths whizz. I'll get it for you, if you want."

But she didn't want, and once again Edgar was left to rue his inability to impress her. And as they approached the restaurant he realised this wasn't going to improve his chances with her either, being a pretty run-of-the-mill sort of place. At least, it had a pleasant view over the canal and the old town. That was probably why Jasmine had chosen it. But Edgar couldn't help wishing they were somewhere a little more classy. Opening the door to for her, he gave a little smile and was surprised when she once again took his arm and pulled his towards the steps leading down to the canal. They sat down on the wall.

"Do you know, that's the first nice thing you've done for me all evening."

"What do you mean? I've been trying to impress you ever since you arrived."

"I do realise that. Indeed, it's been quite painfully obvious. But I don't want you to impress me. At least, I don't want you to impress me with what you can. I came out with you tonight because I wanted to be with you. I was so glad when you offered to celebrate together, because I love being with you. You're the one that impresses me, not your expensive suit or the giant bouquet. And as for your father's car..." She slipped her arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. "Edgar, don't you realise I just want to be with you. To talk together, laugh, have a good time... with you! That's all I want."

Edgar said nothing. He just lifted her head and stared at her. But in his eyes understanding was dawning. A few minutes later he caressed her cheek and said, "Let's go in."

"Right," she whispered, "and no more trying to impress me."

"I promise, maybe I can even come with something distinctly unimpressive. I've just realised I left my wallet in my jeans at home. Either we go back home or I'm going have to ask you to pay."

The three words to be used this week: ribbon, zeal, jolt

Dear Friends and Readers,

This is the first time I am exercising my creative abilities to write a piece here. Indeed, when my father asked me to write in his place, I spent ten minutes protesting.

"I can't write. I've never written anything creative in all my life. How can I even begin to do you justice?"

These and other excuses only provoked a wry smile from my father. But he waited patiently until I'd finished, before opening a draw to his desk and pulling out a wad of papers, I soon recognised. How on earth had Father come by them?

"These, young gentleman, are some of the most creative pieces of writing I've ever been witness to. But one thing you should remember. Parents who write excuse notes for the children, never look for such elaborate reasons. They stick with the plain and simple: 'Please excuse Ian's absence from class yesterday, as he was in bed all day with a temperature.' They are far more believable."

I reddened and as my excuses had run out, I acquiesced

As you have probably guessed by now, I am writing to excuse my father who is incapacitated and thus unable to fulfil his obligations towards you this week. I'm afraid he is unable to use the fingers of both his hands due to a sickness contracted whilst playing the piano, last night. It seems as if the dog we were looking after licked most of the keys on the piano during his stay and has since had to be put down after contracting a fearsome virus. Fortunately, such drastic measures will not be necessary for my Dad but he will be out of action for the next few days.

In addition, our home computer has been taken ill. It seems serious surgery is required on what in human body terms would be called the heart. Such surgery is a delicate matter and although we have been able to call upon one of the country's greatest blue-ribbon computer surgeons, it will take quite some time before Compy (that's our pet name for her) will be back to normal.

And finally, I should mention the pressure of seeing work build up as a concluding factor. Dad's desk has become such a mess as paper piles rise, fall and automatically create new piles which themselves follow a similar pattern. And I'm only talking about urgent items. Anything else finds it way into the paper bin without passing by his desk. You can imagine for yourselves how totally depressing this must be. As a result the jolt needed to get Dad going again is sorely lacking.

If you think this concourse of circumstances goes too far, then please accept my humblest apologies for the zeal I have shown in excusing my father. All you have to do is to delete one or more of the above arguments, as appropriate.


S.(on)O.(f)P.(aul) CHARLATAN Esq.

P.S. I almost forgot to say that in case you are wondering how I have access to the broken down computer, that I am writing this post from a terminal in our public library.

Prompt: A woman makes a New Year’s Resolution to make her husband/boyfriend break his resolution within a week. What’s the resolution, and why does she want him to break it?

I suppose you could call it a battle of wills. It's not that I've anything against Fiction Friday as such. And at least writing keeps my husband away from the pub. But when I get home from work on a Friday, then I like to be pampered a little. The last thing I want, is to have to play Rocking All Over The World or something similar, and do a wild strip-tease just to get my husband to look up from the computer and say, "Hello darling". No, I want him to welcome me home with a nice, sweet cup of tea and a chocolate eclair he bought especially for me on his way home from work. After that, a nice slow massage whilst he's running my bath and once I'm done... well, now it's his turn to do the strip-tease. That's what life used to be like until you guys poked your nose in. For the last three weeks when I get home from work, he's been busy writing. Wants to be author..., make a fortune tax-free..., have people come up to him in the streets and say, "Will you sign my copy please?" And all because you guys persuaded him that what he writes, shows promise. Well, maybe it does. I can't be judge of that. But it's ruining my Friday evening. And now he's resolved to participate every Friday for the rest of the year. "Every artist needs to practise, dear." What a load of...!

Well, I've had enough of it. And as desperate situations call for desperate measures, I've had an expert round to fix our computer up with a new password. I can imagine him at home right now, trying to work out what's gone wrong. He's like that. Teaches mechanical engineering but can't change a plug. And when it comes to the computer... Mind you, I'm no better. That's the beauty of it. It will never occur to him that I changed the password.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know why you won't be hearing from him any more. And who knows, if ever you become Fiction Thursday, then maybe, I'll let him in on the new password. You see Thursday is my evening out.

Allie stared at the text in front of her. Four words were underlined. The first three items she soon dismissed. True, they had not discussed them in class, but some students probably knew them anyway. Besides, they were not that important for an understanding of this text. But extreme...; she knew she was going to have to explain that. She checked it up in her dictionary:

extreme: –adjective

  1. of a character or kind farthest removed from the ordinary or average: extreme measures.
  2. utmost or exceedingly great in degree: extreme joy.
So much for the meaning, but how to explain it? Maybe concept questions would help.
  1. Does it describe somthing ordinary or not? (If so, it's not extreme)
  2. Is there an expression even more unusual to describe what is being said? (This answer has to be no if something is extreme)
What it needs is an example, she thought to herself. These questions alone are just too theoretical. But coming up with an example for her multi-ethnic, multi-cultural class was not going to be easy. One man's meat... as they say.

Just then, her computer gave a beep; she had a new message. It was her RSS receiver indicating another post was up on the Sunday Scribblings blog. Allie clicked on the link, glad for the distraction, and read:

In homage to the weather here in the UK, the prompt this week is: Extreme.

But of course, the answer was staring her in the face. No, it wasn't the extreme weather that counted. When she had tried to explain that these weather conditions were most unusual, a number of the students had laughed at her complaints. Damtilla had spoken for them all when she explained that in her language they had 19 different words for snow and the word she used to discuss current climatic conditions was one of the mildest. No, what was extreme was the British obsession with talking about the weather. The students themselves had complained to her about it just a few days ago. It was on everybody's lips. And now even Sunday Scribblings were getting in on the act. What better an example could there be.

Allie quickly packed her things away and headed down the pub. She could do with some refreshment. Besides, she needed to collect some research data on extreme to provide her class with. And when she returned, she mustn't forget her Sunday Scribblings post.

Final Wish

The doctor's message annoyed him, Not so much the content, nor the fact it had come by phone, That had, after all, been this idea, But why couldn't he stick to the facts. He had just one more month to live, So what! It could have been worse. Besides he'd had a fair innings And. there wasn't much he still wanted to achieve. Why couldn't John just leave it at that. 1 month... Why did he have to add his sixpence worth by adding: "use them wisely!"

Besides, everybody seemed to want to offer him advice when they learnt, he was dying. His two ex's had both reminded him of the importance of putting his affairs in order before.. He knew what that meant but supposed it only fair he did smoothing for them. At least, they 'd had the decency to stop after 'before'.

The priest he'd gone to see to try and get some comfort managed little else than getting a list of songs for the funeral out of him. ''It's good to plan ahead, you see. "At least, we don't have to think about the prayers and the lessons. They're all prescribed by the liturgy." Then stuffing some sort of religious tract into his hand, ushered him out with the promise to come and pray with him in hospital.

His brother's solution had, at least, been more entertaining, But taking his rampaging cancer on a two week luxury cruise was almost certainly not the wisest of ideas.

So what was left for it other than to carry on as usual? Yet maybe? A day had so many experiences, so much to reflect on. Maybe, he needed more time to profit from them: to think, to digest, to prepare, to mould what would happen each day. Yes, that was it. He simply needed more time.

Picking up his diary he went through each day crossing out any entry before 10 a.m. and sketching in a small Rodin like figure every morning.

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