Writer's Notebook

This week's 3WW words - grimace, phase, stumble.

"Hi, is this seat free? Thanks... Phew glad I got through that safely, last time I was here I stumbled over the top step and fell. My briefcase burst open and my papers went flying all over the departure lounge... Eeeh, do you mind if I smoke."

He followed the eyes of his newest neighbour and victim to the large white sign with a red circle around the circumference. Inside, a cigarette and a thick, diagonal, black stripe.

"Oh, of course. Wouldn't do to smoke here, now would it. I'm Michael by the way, Michael Glasdon."

No reply.

"Aaare you flying for the first time? ... Well, there's nothing to worry about you know. They know their stuff, these pilots. They'll have in Mallorca in no time. Of course, there was that time the navigator left his map at home. We were in the air for three hours before anyone realised we should have landed half an hour ago. It was when I saw the river I realised we were going the wrong way. Still, from there it was easy. The pilot just had to turn the thing round and follow the river down to our destination. So we got there in the end."

"At least, we're not late today. Not that I'm in a hurry but I do so hate waiting round. The worst part's once you get in the plane and are waiting for take-off. They have to put the plane through all these different phases before they let it loose. Mind you, good job they do to. I was in Africa once... didn't check on anything. Fastest take-off and landing you ever did see. We were in the air just one minute and twenty-two seconds. Turned out we were overloaded. Some bothersome official insisted on loading a truck full of goods into the hold. That's why we came down so quick. Perfect landing though. They're so well trained, pilots nowadays."

"Would you like a polo? No! OK. Course, I love a polo myself, love sticking my tongue through the hole in the middle. Nothing like it. Hang on, I'm just going give those kids opposite some... Cheeky little blighter that little one. Offered him a polo and he poked his tongue out at me. Never had anyone give me a grimace like that before. Took the polo though. Mind you, mustn't suck a polo on the place. Dangerous with all that turbulence. Here I was one minute enjoying a nice little suck when my stomach came up into my head and the mind got lodged in the back of my throat. Turned green I did. My wife had to give me a good thump on the back to get the thing out. Said she should do it more often, but I've never had anything stuck since."

"Here, look at the guy over there. There, look. Right in front of the phone boxes. Long grey hair, that's the one. Don't you think he looks a bit suspicious. Better keep an eye on him. Might be a terrorist. Never know, do you? That time I was flying to Moscow they had one. Mind you, never have noticed to look at him. Seemed perfectly normal. But when the police came to get to him, he swore at them in who knows what lingo. That's how they found out, he really was a terrorist. Thirty minutes more and the plane would have gone sky high. Not that anything like that is can happen to us, today."

"No. With you around I'll be quite safe."

"What's that? Did you say something."

"Yes, I did. I said with you on the plane then the rest of us passengers will be quite safe. If anything's going to happen, then statistics dictate that it's going to happen to you. We're all in the clear."

The wink he gave to the grimacing monster opposite was one of great relief at the sight of his panicking neighbour fleeing through the departure lounge as fast as his legs would carry him.

This week's 3WW words: joke, leverage, remedy

The jokes were flowing just as easily as the wine was. What more could we ask for: a clear, blue, a three-star picnic table, more than enough to drink, and the prospect of some excellent music ahead. I leant back in my chair, closed my eyes and tried to forget the cloud.

Juliana crept up and put an end to my disquiet with a finger of comté: subtle and fruity With a touch of maturity. I nibbled the cheese down to Juliana's fingertips; with Robert here, I dare not go any further. I wondered if I would ever again have the opportunity...

The fingers returned to wherever they had been previously and I sat up to see her flitting from one guest to the other. Juliana's parties were always special and this one had been perfectly stage-managed. To think that in just 24 hours...

Juliana was an old friend and had been a client long before becoming an occasional mistress. And it hadn't taken me long to catch on to her game. The deal was simple. I kept the bank off their backs warning them only when their spending became critical. And I was a willing player even without the leverage she championed over me. In return, I got invited to all the best parties. I could indulge with impunity.

I watched as Juliana got up to make her usual little speech. She didn't even know it would be her last. Everything blurred as my eyes started to water. This had all seemed so real. Was it just the circumstances that had changed? I tried to work out how to put it to them. Actually, I spent the past 24 hours trying to work out how not to have to put it to them. I clutched at any and every straw remedy that passed through my roaming mind. But the moment I got a grip on one, it slipped away I know not where. So tomorrow, I was going to have to tell them: all about the shareholders' dissatisfaction, the takeover, my getting replaced as manager. Can anyone think of a kind way of saying:

"I'm afraid the first thing the new manager will do is an audit on all our accounts in the red. Bankruptcy is the inevitable consequence."

Two for the price of one today as I've combined this weeks 3WW prompt (bait, jump, victim) with a writing exercise that appeared Monday one the Write Anything site to write a story in just ten lines as follows:

1. describe the weather
2. describe a sound
3. describe an object
4. update the weather
5. describe a piece of clothing/ accessory
6. update the sound
7. using the object, write something about the mood of the scene
8. describe an action or movement using the article of clothing or accessory
9. describe a physical trait of one of the characters
10. end with a single line of dialogue

The red of the setting sun almost matched that of his cheeks. A snigger went through the room as he desperately sought to evade those eyes directed at him, the victim. He stared at the large at the pebble in front of him: round, smooth, a little jagged at the edges; the worm-like writing and that one single word - which had him baited. The sun was growing ever paler; he hoped his cheeks matched. The gleaming, red pen, bought for the occasion, remained motionless in his hand. Around him the sniggering had died down, replaced by the sound of concentration and the occasional scratch of pen on paper. In front of each writer, a pebble evoking memories of carefree days at the beach, sunshine, laughter; the nadir of the prevailing seriousness. His pen touched paper, jumping down the side of the page forming the letters C A D U Q U E S. He began filling in the lines of an acrostic when he noticed her eyes settle on him, their sparkle offering a thousand excuses, all the time seeking absolution for the guilt brought about by chance. His smile returned, he managed to pluck up courage enough to mouth the words:

"How about a quiet drink together after class?"

gentle, praise, vulgar are this week's 3WW words. So settle back for a little allegory this week.

As Alabanzo grew older, he began to wonder whose praise his writing was meant to glorify. His first poems and stories reflected the innocence of the teenager he was: white characters against backgrounds whose shades but occasionally darkened his canvas. Doubtless, a reflection on the simple but loving upbringing Alabanzo had experienced in the small village which wasn't but which could have been called Paradiso. The world seemed so straightforward in those days.

Even when he left home to begin his studies, things hadn't changed much. The worlds he portrayed now contained big, black splodges. Even he could now see that the world of Paradiso was not to be encountered everywhere. Yet light was predominant in his stories, a vaccinating light, protecting and never failing to banish darkness.

At university, his reputation as a writer with talent grew. But, said his teachers, you need to look the world in the eye; most of this stuff is far too sentimental to be of much use. But the girls liked it. And Alabanzo began to like the girls. Passion, desire, and elation rose up from this heart of light lifting him to new dimensions. But alongside such feelings came those of envy, chagrin, anger and obsession as he had to fight to obtain a prize much yearned after. Yet, he couldn't write about any of these. They just didn't fit into any world he could imagine; he had no idea how to represent them.

Salvation came with Doucette. A fellow student she dripped her way into his life, dampening those passions which were threatening to tear him apart. Gentle was the only word he could find to describe everything about her appearance, her manner, her deeds, even the way she had invaded her soul. Not for her the passion others had provoked within him. Here was sweet assurance, benign light, placid contemplation. The world was whole again and Alabanzo wrote with a joy hitherto unfelt.

Their life together followed the regular rhythm of the drum accompanying the onward progression of a tortoise battling its way through the many obstacles on its upward progression. They themselves, however, had very few obstacles to overcome. Alabanzo's writing was received with enthusiasm by tutors and readers alike. And interaction with others made him realise that the world was not quite the paradise he had once thought. His work began to sell and people praised the optimism which shone forth from his pen. He was soon earning a small but steady income and he married Doucette. Once again, all was well in the best of worlds and continued so for many years.

Indeed, it might have continued so for the rest of his life, were it not for the monotony perfection brings. Alabanzo was growing tired of churning out the same kind of work day in day out. He wanted to widen his wings, take in something different. But whenever he went to the bookstore, all he could find was the type of vulgar novel from which he had freed all his life. "Who on earth would read such drivel?" he commented to Doucette one night. She responded with another of her saintly smiles. Monotony soon gave way to a broader dissatisfaction when Alabanzo discovered the drivel, as he put it, was actually selling a lot better than his own work. Not that they needed any extra money, they had more than enough and no desire for more. But the thought that readers were preferring vulgarity to the sublimity he had to offer them was too much. Envy soon found a small chink in his armour and began to lay siege to his thoughts. The resulting dissatisfaction was a severe test he fought hard to counter.

Then came the day of the village dance. Alabanzo and Doucette never spent more than a few minutes together at such occasions. They turned up to show they were not totally cut off from what was going on around them, but rarely gained anything worthwhile from the experience. This year, however, Alabanzo was alone, Doucette having returned to her native village to help prepare her younger sister's wedding. Ever since her departure envy was having a field day with Alabanzo's thoughts, conjuring up various promises of excitement against which Alabanzo had little resistance to offer. In a desperate bid to find some sort of peace of mind, he had considered not going, or, at least just putting in an even more token appearance than usual, or certainly not staying for longer than the first dance. And as he had never liked dancing anyway, the rest would be easy.

And it most certainly would have been, were it not for Tawdria. Tawdria was far from the most beautiful woman in the village. In the cold light of day, few would give her a second look. But done up in her finery with gaiety all around him she was the most hunted treasure

Hiding behind all the modesty she could muster, she held out her little finger to Alabanzo. Just the one dance he thought and then off home. They whirled around the floor and became the object of many tongue among those present. Alabanzo was spellbound when they stopped and was so glad when she leaned over and whispered into his ear. Never had words created such a tempest in his mind. She curled her little finger around his and led him away from the assembly, urging him on with promises of such enchantment. He followed her willingly and they soon came to the edge. She slipped his arm around her waist and soon they were looking out over the cliff into a future that sparkled with exhilaration. Just one more step. But would he go forwards or back?

Determined. That's how my parents knew me. From my early teens onwards I must have given them a pretty rough time. More than made up for my tepid big sister, who's still never kissed a boy or smoked a cigarette in all her 17 years.

But determination doesn't have to be destructive. I learnt that when I finally learnt that my parents weren't quite the bane I'd always taken them for. True, their ideas are somewhat archaic at times. My dad is still proud of the fact that he never made out with my mum before they were married. But sometimes what they say contains some slight modicum of sense. Actually, and I want to make it clear that I'm not admitting to this publicly, but if I put their advice on the scale of good or bad, it would very definitely lean to one side more than the other.

So, if determination does not have to be destructive, I'm issuing notice right now to all my teachers everywhere... you know who you were because of the acrid taste that rises up whenever you hear my name... I'm going to show you what I can do. Leave school with top marks, off to university and with my degree in the bag it's your jobs I'll be after.

Some seven years ago an impertinent Brit took it upon himself to join a writing group in the small French town he had just moved to. His hope was to get to know new people, to enjoy doing something he'd always been tempted by but never seriously put his hand to, and perhaps even improve his French a little bit.

That was my first encounter with J-M. The first evening did not begin promisingly. Every participant had to write a word on a pebble and pass it on to someone else. I can't remember what I wrote but I cannot forget the word I received. I had no idea what it meant and J-M was adamant. I was not allowed to ask. So I wrote an acrostic using the word and trying to describe my feelings.

Last night after seven years writing together, we said good-bye to J-M. He's moving on to fresher pastures, or should that read trees, after all he is a forester. So my 3WW post this week is a tribute not only to a fantastic writer but also a true friend. And because he loves haikus...

What did you imply
With that prompt, we ask, but you
Just shrug your shoulders

Up to us to tell
Your virtue, not to impose;
Leave us free to create

To find our own voice
Not feigning what we cannot
imitate or bluff

No trace of erased meadow phantom

Museum officials are still trying to piece together events that lead to one of our city's greatest art treasures losing its meadow. Officials say they are studying CCTV footage of the room in question but nothing suspicious has been noted. As a result the mayor has ordered authorities to conduct a house to house search of all those known to have been in the museum during the course of the morning. Said a spokesman for the mayor:

"A meadow is hardly something you can keep hidden for a long time, so we are confident that it will soon be restored to its rightful place."

Phantom eraser traced to meadow hideout?

Police say an anonymous tip-off could be the breakthrough they are looking for in the so-called phantom meadow theft. Police raided a country shed in the early hours of the morning after a member of the public complained about 'mooing noises' coming from a man's briefcase. Police using tracker dogs followed the case's progress to the hut - a popular site for partying students and courting couples. The briefcase contained several packets of 'La Vache Qui Rit' - a popular French cheese. A police spokesman admitted that no trace of the meadow had been found in the hut but said a thorough search of the surrounding countryside was in progress and that several members of the cattle fraternity were helping the police with their inquiries.

Artist erased meadow traces with special ink

Peter Alchem, a local art student has been charged with Mr. Alchem was traced after failing to erase fingerprints from a briefcase he used in a failed bid to place suspicion onto local farmers. According to reports Mr. Alchem used a special ink developed by his girlfriend to make the meadow disappear. Unconfirmed reports suggest that Mr. Alchem has now himself disappeared following a visit by his girlfriend. While police refused to confirm these reports the Mayor of Meadowhill berated police promising a very full and public inquiry.

This week's 3WW words: budge, nimble, theory

This is the worst scenario imaginable. I'm sitting here at my desk and I don't know what to write. Does that happen often? Of course not! I don't write often enough for it to be a common occurrence. Not like my brother. He's forever complaining about writer's block and such nonsense. But then, he's forever writing. Me, you can't get me to budge unless inspiration first comes flying overhead and sprinkles a few drops of her precious liquid into my inkwell. I guess you could call it the only-way-to-sure-success theory. And unti now, it has stood me in good stead. Not one of my sure-to-be-published works has come in for the slightest criticism. And I feel they never will. Now for a writer, that's success.

So what went wrong today? Why has inspiration passed by and left me with nothing. I could, I suppose, go into all the reasons for today's failure. But as I'm not any kind of soul-soother and haven't enough parchment and ink to elucidate all the different theories which passed through my head during my most recent bout of staring at the paper then I guess I'd better not. Besides, were I to do so, it would make my fingers almost as nimble as my brother's. And what would that do to my always dreaming of greatness reputation? So please excuse me and permit me to roll back into my furry, little ball for another week. Who knows, if inspiration is still out there, maybe she'll smile on me again. In which case you can read the results in next week's 3WW. But don't bank on it. And for those of you in need of a reading fix right now, you can always try reading one of brother William's plays. They're quite well known and available from all irreputable printers.

This week's words: abandon, gradual, precise

Finding that tie was the last thing I'd expected. But I was even less prepared for Linda's reaction when I got into work. Maybe it had nothing to do with the tie. Maybe she'd had it in for me anyway. The tie had just proved to be a convenient excuse, setting into motion a chain of events which I still have difficulty understanding.

To be quite honest I'd been rather chuffed at finding the tie - a birthday present from my first girlfriend. I'd worn it at my first interview and got the job. Putting it on that morning I felt its magic was bound to rub off. Maybe Linda would at last say yes to that dinner engagement I'd been pestering her over.

In fact, she didn't say a word. She just stood there staring. And when I asked her to type some letters I'd dictated, she fled the office in tears. She still wasn't back when the personnel director phoned about an hour later. In her precise, telegraphic style she informed me Linda no longer wanted to work for me. She was being transferred to customer service. Now it was my turn to blow my top. That earned me a call from the managing director. If I couldn't learn to control my temper, then I could look for a new job elsewhere. I agreed and thanked him for handing me back my freedom, before I realised what I'd done.

I was out of the office before lunch. The personnel director wished me luck in finding a new place; probably suspected I'd come crawling back if I didn't. I shot over to the other side of town before deciding on anything to eat. Couldn't face the prospect of all those questions my now former colleagues just couldn't wait to ask.

So what happened, I hear you ask. I'm asking the very same question, staring into the bottom of my glass for the answer. I hope it comes soon, before I'm tempted to fill up again. I see Julie's reflection in there. The lopsided smile she had whenever she was pleased... like that day she gave me the tie; her eyes, round and black, always looking as if she couldn't quite trust me. And I'd proved her right. Only a coward would have abandoned her the way I did.

As I watched a gradual feeling of familiarity crept over me. I couldn't put a finger on it but it was almost as if I'd seen her somewhere recently. That, I knew to be impossible. They'd invited me to the funeral but I'd not been able face it.

I continued to stare, continued to wonder. The waitress passed once, twice... The third time I ordered another - a double. It would give me more time to think. In the end it stayed untouched on the table as the truth suddenly hit me between the eyes. Julie Wilson... a common name. So common, I'd not once connected her with Ms. Linda Wilson who had been my secretary for the past three months. What had Julie said... her sister had helped her pick the tie out.

This week's 3WW words are dread, grasp, pacify.

Dread never had any problems finding a victim. Today was no exception. The moment he saw the somewhat despondent looking man kiss his wife and set off bag in hand, Dread knew he had his catch. There was something about his stooping shoulders which told all. Following silently, he considered his opening move, deciding against a full-fronted attack. Today stealth was called for. A few reassuring words, an arm over the shoulder; just enough to prove his sincerity but far too weak to be of any real help. And once the seeds of doubt were sown, the rest would be child's play. Or so he thought but just as his spidery fingers reached for the jugular, he took a blow to the nose which sent him reeling. For the first time in months a victim had escaped him.

Luap tried his best to look the part as he set off down the street. His wife's words whirled around in his mind like the Mary Poppins carousel they had enjoyed together the previous night. It had been Hatti's treat, designed to take his mind off things. She had succeeded; for a while. Now, it was up to him to show her that her efforts were not in vain. Victory was in sight, but he alone could reach out and grasp it. No one else could help him. He tried his best to keep his head high but before long whisps of doubt began to tangle themselves around his person. He looked round but could see no one. He sat down as the cares began to overwhelm him. It seemed a lot easier than making a fight of things. But just as he was about to succumb Hatti's insistant words came back to him: "Never lie down, only victims lie down." He shot to his feet. And set off on his way again. As he did so, he couldn't help feeling he'd somehow toppled someone nearby. Yet, he was quite alone, of that he was sure.


Hatti couldn't help pacing back and forth in her kitchen. She thought she'd done enough to keep despondency at bay, but as she watched Luap shuffle down the road towards the station that morning, she saw the familiar figure of dread creep up behing him. The worst was that there was nothing she could do to help him. If only... She pulled herself up as she recognised her husband's favourite train of thought. "If only..." How often had she chided him for going down that path? The surest way of opening oneself up to Dread, that's what it was. How fortunate, Dread was not around. Her husband had been the decoy and now she knew he would make it through. All she had to do was wait for the phone call, wait to hear the pacifying words she no longer doubted would come that evening.

It was meant to be the third and last time: a triangle of love and joy. Joel hobbled out onto the hotel terrace and looked at the fuming clouds above him. The film of feelings linking him to the behemoth churned away deep within. He saw his wife pulling him up that last little rock, his body vibrant with elation as the two stood on the summit holding his wooden leg high above his head. The repeat performance with his son, much harder with the passing years; the smiles and arms wound around each other as sang out the praises of the creator with all their heart. The music still hummed in his ears. And...

But no, no 'and'. That most cherished of pictures was the one that never was; almost replaced by the one most feared. Joel shuddered. His enthusiasm, her reticence.

"I want this more than anything else."

"I know Dad, but we want to get back down."

It had been a lucky escape. Just a few inches more... He turned his away eyes. As he went back into the room he saw her tranquil body asleep beneath the sheets and muttered a heartfelt thanks to that self-same creator.

This week's 3WW words: depart, ignite, rotten

Paddy had one great love in his life - his love for France. And now dear reader, I can see you smile already. You know or think you know that it was really one of the infamous French demoiselles that had ignited such love. I am sorry to disillusion you but such was not the case. Indeed, it was difficult to say what it was that brought on this great love. It was certainly not those wonderful, holiday weeks spent on golden beaches with his parents, for Paddy had never even visited France. Nor was it a love for the rolling valleys resplendent with overripe vines, their nectar dripping down into the streams below. You see, like most Irishmen, Paddy preferred black heaviness to sparkling white. And as already alluded to, the young demoiselles, be ye they from Avignon or elsewhere played no roll in his love either. So I'm afraid his love for France will have to remain one of those unfathomable mysteries, putting him in line with millions of French - men and women - who themselves show a devoted love to their country without being able to explain why.

But if the reason for this love is beyond us, the fact itself remains as unwavering as ever. And so imagine Paddy's excitement when after many years of longing and waiting chance finally knocked on his door and the opportunity presented itself for him to see his beloved face to face. For weeks beforehand, Paddy could not contain himself. He prepared his journey meticulously. Every morning before breakfast he would devour the latest edition of the Beginner's Dictionary, following that up with a series of entrancing flights in which he would conjure up one image after the other, revealing aspect after aspect of his beloved's character. And in the week before his departure he washed his feet at least three times a day in order to be sure nothing could spoil the sanctity of the soil he was going to touch.

But if Paddy's love for France was immense, his hatred of cars was even greater. And so, as Paddy first glimpsed the terrain his heart had so longed for, he raced onto deck to be the first to disembark and embrace his long lost lover. But before he could do so, the bowels of the ferry opened and out poured a stream of cars all desiring to penetrate each nook and cranny of his heart's desire. Paddy immediately took fright and did the only thing he could do faced with such horror... he ran. He ran and he ran until he finally found shelter in a pokey, rotten, little cellar in the middle of one of the dingiest streets that county had to offer, where he remains to this day.

But if Paddy's love was ardent, it was also true. The moment a speck of light poured through the crack in the wall that served as his window to the world Paddy would begin writing. As the speck became a ray and beat its constant progress across the wall opposite, Paddy's fingers would become feverish in production - eulogies of praise to his lover; eulogies which no one would ever read.

A quarter past three. Lacy was late - again. Francis' face began to give a good impression of the Icelandic volcano which had taken one cigarette too many. His colleagues kept well clear of him at such times. The minutes ebbed away. Francis picked up the newspaper and flipped through from back to front in under two minutes.

"There never is anything worth reading in this rag."

He'd forgotten it was actually his newspaper; the one that had published his first freelance articles; the one with whom he was at that moment negotiating a large contract. His mind started to wander. He saw himself on top of a podium making his Nobel speech. But the Nobel was only given over to literature. Literature was story-telling. Literature was only for the make-believes of the world. He hated story-telling. Random facts, slanted as you will. That was what true writing was all about. So, he awarded himself a Pulitzer for journalism instead.

He was jotting a few notes on his desk blotter when Janice came up.

"What on earth..."

He glanced up on her and then back down onto his desk. Lacy Scottskin found dead. Journalist arrested. He reddened and tried to give Janice a smile. Just then a head popped around the door.

"Hey folks, heard the news. They just found Lacy down in the cellar. Seems someone swiped him over the back of his head. He's in a pretty bad way."

Janice's eyes widened as she turned back to Francis.

Being a saint was a damn hard job. Never a moments peace. The moment you got one problem out of the way, the barrier reopened and a hundred others fought with each other to be the first across the threshold. People didn't seem to realise that miracles cost time and energy. Of course, it was all the fault of fairy tales. Their compilers always made things seem so effortless. Take Cinderella's fairy godmother, for instance. All that was required was the wave of a magic wand and hey presto, they all ended happily ever after. But real life, even life after achieving sainthood just wasn't like that.

He remembered taking matters up with a brash sounding scholar at a colloquium. The idiot had just presented a paper on Sainthood and Magic in Ancient European Tradition. The guy didn't have a clue what he was on about. Sprite spent the better part of an hour ranting and raving at him without the guy batting an eyelid. He didn't even believe in the beings he was pontificating on!

Sprite knew the race across the line would take another hour or so before reaching its climax. Time enough to challenge Frankie to a quick game of chess express. After all, wasn't it Frankie's constant refrain:

Games lubricate the body and the mind

Orlato adored fast cars, writing articles for punch magazine, avant-garde fiction and sailing with the world's beauties in tow. His luxury yacht was fitted with every luxury imaginable and supplies were flown in by helicopter once a week. Not that he did much sailing though; he left that to his crew. He concentrated on the beauties and his stock of fine wines which inevitably made up large part of his order every week.

Today, however, Orlato had a decision to make. The recent storms had left his yacht in need of some urgent maintenance work. But where to go? The nearest port where the work could be carried out, was Hong Kong. But the articles he had written at the time of the island's handover to China, made that solution impracticable. Although he often visited high-flying government officials, he didn't quite fancy a lengthy stay as guest of the country's security service. He could try heading towards the coast of Africa but if he was persona non-grata for the Hong Kong authorities, then the pirates that infested these waters were most certainly persona non-grata for him.

No, there was nothing for it but to make a frantic scramble back to Europe. His first thought was to head to Germany. There were more than enough workshops who could do the required work, and as money had never proved an object to him, their exclusively high prices were not a problem. Besides, while he was there, he could buy another Ferrari and take it out for a spin on the 'autobahn'. He loved the idea of those long, straight roads with absolutely no speed restrictions. But a quick check on the internet soon put him off that idea. Not only were there no Ferraris available, but the government had had an attack of greenitis and had laid down stingent new measures on road behaviour. You were still allowed to drive as fast as you can. No German government would take to take on that cherished right, but you were no longer allowed to own a car that drove as fast as you liked. And the amazing thing was that no one single German seemed to be distressed over this.

He could, of course, set course for the mother country, good-old England - as very distinct from the sing-song Welsh or the barbaric Scots whose palate had been ruined by centuries of whisky. In England everything was permitted, everything that is except that which was expressly forbidden. But the current government had passed so many new laws, almost everything was expressly forbidden, nowadays. He couldn't even buy a copy of his favourite author's latest novel without having to confront the pungent odour of underground book-stores, nestled deep inside the seedy intestines of the capitol city, far from the watchful eye of the CCTV freaks. No, there was nothing for it. He was going to have to eat his pride and lurch towards France. Not that the legal situation was much better there. Indeed, the French have more laws than all the other countries put together. But the Frenchman has learnt one essential lesson, one he prided them for. For the Frenchman everything is allowed, even that which is forbidden. France was Orlato's kind of country.

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.

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.

Sincerely,

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.

There's a fun writing game going on this week over at Write Anything, so for ever in favour of killing two birds with one stone, my 3WW piece today is about those resolutions I refuse to take.

• I will refuse to tow the party line by being ambushed into staying up until midnight on 31 December, just because everyone else is doing it. If I'm having a good time and want to prolong that, so be it. If not, off to bed and up early in the morning.
  
• I will stop arguing with my friends who insists on buying me a drink when we go out. Indeed, I will refuse to differ with anyone who offers to buy me a drink.
  
• I will refuse to answer anyone who asks me, "Where do you find time to read all those books?" when they see me returning from the library. They have no business meddling in my affairs. A sweet smile will have to suffice.
• I will most definitely not refuse the car keys to my children once they pass their driving test. I shall be far too happy to have someone to drive me around whenever I need to go somewhere.
• I will not stand in front of a car which tries to park on the pavement. Principles are fine but cars are bigger.
• I will not succumb to the pressure to buy one of those hideous, sixty seconds a minute, sixty minutes an hour, 24 hours a day (ad infinitum) "just wanted to check up on how you're doing" control machines - otherwise known as cell phones, or portable telephones, depending on which part of the English speaking world you're in.
• I will not score the winning try for Wales in the 6 nations decider this year. At my age, the time has come to bow out gracefully. However, I cannot account for whatever may or may not happen in my dreams.
• I shall not succumb to my neighbour's pressure to not sing quite so loudly whenever I pass by his house. Indeed, if he mentions this again, I might raise the decibels ever so slightly.
• I shall not get vaccinated against a certain brand of animal flue doing the rounds at the moment, just because the French president is too mean to grant me a few days off to recover should I fall ill.
  
• I shall not resist peer pressure to publish the links to this piece on the 3WW and Write Anything sites.
  

A question and answer for this week's 3ww challenge. And as usual they have to include this week's 3 words: fondle, kick, sumptuous.

Question

Who do you think is currently sitting in front of his computer kicking himself for having been so stupid as to have refused his girlfriend's invitation to a sumptuous dinner and wondering when he was going to get another chance to fondle her silky hair?

Answer

.ww3 s'keew siht rof etirw ot tahw tuo erugif ot gniyrt rohtua detartsurf A

Where did it all begin?

With his mother? It was the obvious place to start. All those hours spent around the fireplace; the stories she loved to tell; he thrived on her every word. Then there were the regular trips to the town library. He couldn't remember much about how it looked nor the people who worked there: but those books... Little Piccolo, Emil and the Detectives, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. And many many more.

Then there were the teachers. Some only lived on in his memory because of the books they represented: David Copperfield, Call of the Wild, Tom Sawyer. He'd sworn he'd marry Tom Sawyer one day, so pretty she was. Pity she was over twice his eleven years. He wondered if she'd have waited for him to catch up.

Others came and went, but the one who stood out the most was Mr. Carless. The other students mocked him cruelly over his unfortunate name and the oversized bifocals that were his trademark. But two things made him a hero to Mark. He'd introduced the class to Shakespeare, for Mark the beginning of a discovery that still hadn't ended. Then, recognising Mark's enthusiasm he'd made him a librarian, although he was still only in the fifth form.

Other faces came and went. Friends, colleagues, fellow writers: dozens of people who had helped him in oh so many ways.

But the quirkiest turn of irony came from the fact that the one person he hated the most was the one who had done most to push Mark towards writing. Marshall had been a trusted colleague. Three years they had worked together closely. Then the new boss came. Marshall saw his chance. He elbowed his way into the boss's confidence, her bed, and into Mark's office. Any attempt to discuss things with him proved fruitless. He soon found himself marginalised by most of his former staff who knew on which side the bread was currently buttered. Those who didn't play along offered their sympathy. That was worse.

Within the space of just ten months Mark found himself in a basement office, next to the refuse storage, with a rickety desk, an empty filing cabinet and nothing to do. Most would have resigned. That was what Marshall wanted. That way the company wouldn't be liable for severance pay. Instead, he wrote. He'd always wanted to write and had made several attempts at getting his ideas down on paper. It was down in the basement refuge that Mark found the courage and the inspiration he needed. Within six months his novel was finished. Weeks later, an agent offered to represent him. And now, just two years after that fateful arrival he was putting the finishing touches to his manuscript.

Mark had always been one to give everyone his due. Had it not been for Marshall the book would never have seen the light of day. He picked up his pen and wrote the final words he required.

To Marshall
With coldest thanks