Writer's Notebook

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is 'me,' begging the question who am I?

She knew, he'd been working on one last project. She knew he'd wanted to keep it secret. "When it's ready," he'd say. There's just so many things going round in my mind, I have to sort things out. The next day, he was no longer. All that was left, were the letters and the safe where the manuscript was kept. At first, she'd wondered whether she should. But how couldn't she? Resistance had never been her forte. But what she saw surprised even her. Not one but five different manuscripts. Each one bearing the same title; each one bearing one single letter for the author's name. It was only when she went back to the letters that she realised what he had done. He had sold his memoirs to five different publishers; a manuscript had been prepared for each one. But this was no fraud; each manuscript was different. Each looked at the world through the eyes of the man she had called husband. Five answers to the same riddle.

"Thirty minutes," added Luap as he continued his letter to the life-change fairy. "It mustn't be a minute more; that would be detrimental to our cause. But for thirty minutes..."

Luap closed his eyes and tried to imagine the sights, sounds and smells inside the dressing rooms. The pungent odour of ointment as the players rubbed themselves down. The banter designed to provide an outlet for the big-match tension. The back slapping as the players make their way to the tunnels. And then the deafening roar as the doors open and he jogs out onto the pitch alongside his fourteen or more colleagues and looks up at the thousands of waving dragons, voices raised in song.

Then, the deafening silence. The two teams line up. The first hymn for the visitors, a sign of respect Luap thinks only fitting. Yet he can scarcely wait for the moment which finally comes. Those introductory notes echoing around the stadium and then he opens his mouth and sings his heart out as his soul rises to the highest heights of whichever heaven habours anthem-singing rugby players.

Luap's dream is over all too quickly. The game is beginning. Good job he only asked for thirty minutes, because once the game starts...

His piece finished, Luap reflected a while before again putting pen to paper...

"Dear life-change fairy, should you by any chance be an avid Sunday Scribbling reader, please don't forget me."

It's been billed as the event of the century. 5 long years people have been waiting. Yet now that it's here, it's hard to know what the event really is. Everyone's talking about Thursday, but the real action - i.e. sitting back in my armchair, beer in hand, trying to decide why the man in the centre is not performing as well as he usually does - has long since died away by then.

Of course, we do all participate in the event itself; rushing into the station, pencil in hand, surprised at the long list of names someone thrusts into our hand. We can't be bothered to figure out who they all are. A quick X marks the spot and it's all over. Your own personal record - 27.85 seconds from start to finish, unless of course, you can't remember which name on that long list you really wanted to mark. As you leave the station, there's a somewhat anti-climactic feeling. But at least, you've participated and there's always the next time to look forward to... five years on.

That evening, once it's all over, the excitement mounts again, whipped up by media boys showing us how interest is down, but promising to get us all excited in whatever it was that didn't really interest us in the first place. But in spite of the promised excitement, you fall asleep in front of the T.V. and wake up to find those bloody ***s have won after all. So it's off to work to join your colleagues in the greatest slanging match the world has known.

The real event has begun.

The book that changed everything is this week's Sunday Scribblings challenge. This may be slightly enigmatic, especially to those unfamiliar to Welsh culture. It's a tribute to those books that set me off on reading, and to one hidden jewel locked inside the multitude of its volumes.

Thick and blue;
In how many volumes?
Memory playing tricks
Never lets me forget
The treasures stored
In Grandmother's bookshelf.

And what's in a name.
The spell is what counts.
A magnetic spell,
Drawing in six year olds,
Captivating sevens,
While never letting off the hook
Those turned even older.

One above all,
My eager eyes caressed,
A lover sought out
Among the crowd
Till hunger satisfied.

A poem, a dog, a death,
In lilting Welsh verse
Despite English words
Bedd Gellert's acts distorted
But himself never disloyal.

For years neglected.
The tricks that age has played.
Forgotten and languishing,
Till one fateful day,
When father and son,
With mother and daughter,
Leaving Snowdon upon
The immortalised village chancèd,
And memory did the rest.

All four the road
to Grandma's bookshelf sought.
That spell now guiding
New strangers to its light.

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.

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

You 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
Sways.

You answer
Eager
Self-assured

YES

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.

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.

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)

Sunday Scribblings this weeks wants me to have a dare. And since I've been thinking a little about so-called good grammar rules, then I'm daring to slaughter a few holy cows.

It took some five minutes before the obvious dawned on her. She had all he needed in the words of his title. Until taking this class Penny had loved writing. That's why she had been one of the first, to register when the college syllabus appeared. Now some three weeks and several humiliations later her motivation was rapidly ebbing. Something had to be done, and now was the time to do it. "Grammar rules are made to be broken." It took her almost five minutes to write this as she glanced up after each letter to make sure, Mr. Goodwrite was not watching her. Mr. Goodwrite represented the old school; the school that knew beforehand how everything had to be done and never flinched from doing it. Looking at that opening sentence staring at her from the page gave her courage to continue...

"Grammar rules are made to be broken. Thus the question every self-respecting writer should be required to ask himself is whether to courageously dare or to cowardly not dare. Indeed, there are a number of examples of shoddy usage away from which every self-respecting writer has to keep. Should and she fail to do so, the wrath of her teacher down upon her will come. Were she to but realise the ridiculous nature of such rules, there might be hope for her yet."

She looked up. Mr. Goodwrite had started to move towards her. She trembled as she saw the lightening flash from his eyes and the words thundered out from his mouth:

Miss Penny, never forget...

1. Thou shallt not begin a sentence with a conjunction;
2. Thou shallt not end a sentence with a preposition;
3. Thou shallt not split thine infinitives.

Geoffrey tore his tie off the moment he came in; the usual sign that he was stressed. Sally poured him his glass of sherry, anyway. Maybe...

"Sorry love, but no time for that now." He gave her a peck on the forehead. "You know we got placed in the top three in this year's league table. Well, the boss is laying on a big do to celebrate. Several people from the town hall will be there, and we're hoping even the inspector will turn up. Big publicity stunt for the whole school."

"Does that mean..." Sally didn't finish her sentence. Prospects had been always been bleak, and now this. She swallowed his sherry in one gulp and let out a hiccup. Geoffrey turned and began to scrutinise her. His piercing eyes went from the glass in her hand up to her face. She averted his gaze. Why should he see her disappointment? But the tell-tale tear made its way slowly down his cheek.

He moved towards her and watch it snake its way down past the metal frames of her glasses. His finger caressed her cheek. "I know I'm missing your club do, dear. But you can still go. I've asked George to drop by and pick me up. So you'll have the car. You know how sorry I am not to accompany you, but you know I don't get on well with that sort of company. I can never think of anything to say to them."

"You find enough to say to the people you'll be seeing this evening." There was an edge to her voice which warned Geoffrey to be on his guard.

"Come on, dear. We've been through this a hundred times already. I can't help being what I am, and I can't help needing some stimulating conversation when I go out. And your friends are just not up to scratch. Anyway, I have to run. Don't want to keep George waiting.

* * * * *

"Did you have a good evening, dear?"

Instead of a reply he gave her a vague, incomprehensible stare.

"Dear? Geoffrey!"

"What? Oh... You know, the most queer thing imaginable happened to me this evening. Have you heard anything about this crazy ministerial initiative to... 'improve our awareness of third world poverty'. At least, that's how the boss put it. Nothing but bureaucracy gone mad, if you ask me. There we were milling around the tables with all these wonderful things to eat, when the inspector came in and announced no one was allowed to eat using fingers. Then, she produced these bloody metre long forks which were attached to each of our wrists, and said could only eat using these."

"So?"

"What do you mean, so? How the hell do you expect us to feed ourselves with only metre long forks to put the food in our mouths."

"I'd have thought, it wouldn't have been the slightest problem for such an august gathering of intellectuals. I hope, it at least gave you something to talk about all evening."

"Now, there's no need to take that tone with me. Just be glad that at your party you didn't have metre long forks to eat with, or you wouldn't feel quite so cocky."

"Who said, we didn't have them. Ministerial initiatives concern us just as much as they do you and your merry band of geniuses."

"You mean you found a way to solve the problem."

"I'm not sure I'd put it like that. But we did find a way to eat using our metre long forks. We just did what came natural to us."

Geoffrey looked at her dumbfounded. His silence was an invitation for her to elucidate.

"Well, if you must know, all we did was to feed each other."

This week's Sunday Scribblings topic is Brave. I set out to have a little linguistic fun with this topic but then got carried away by my fantasy. Hope you enjoy it, anyway.

Brave decided it was about time to do a little shopping. It had been some time since Brave had been seen in public and a little company would be welcome right now. After all, what was the point of being brave, if there was no one there to appreciate you. Of course, the first thing that was needed was to find someone Brave could personify. Watching the passers-by Brave soon decided to chose to become a man. This would be a much greater challenge as the proportion of female braves was evidently far larger. Having made this decision he walked up to a shop he'd never seen before. It was an intriguing place which sold specialist menswear for different activities. The first floors were filled with items required for various breathtaking and dangerous activities such as scuba diving, bungee-jumping, and even mediaeval jousting. But Brave quickly realised none of these would do, they were all far too adventuresome and so obviously brave. If he was to be a true light in the darkness, he would have to pick something far less obvious. The fourth flour, reserved for professional clothing, provided him with what he wanted. As he stopped in front of the white baker's coat, images of flying rolling pins, all heading for different parts of his anatomy flashed through his mind. His decision was taken. If ever there was an activity designed to show one's bravery, then here it was.

Next he went down to the store's basement which contained an assortment of verbs designed to accompany any activity. He soon found the more obvious ones: kneading, mixing, beating; hesitated over praying before deciding it might come in handy in case of emergencies, before also picking up a few less obvious ones like crying (in case he had to peal any onions), tippling (well-known for its courage boosting properties) and consorting (a cure-all for many a scrape). On his way to the cash desk he even found a packet off 'unusual and assorted adverbs' designed to spice up any regular activity.

Exiting the shop Brave made his way across the road and down the narrow alley leading to the estate agent's. After all, if he was to take to baking, then he was going to have to find a place to do this. He want to look over what was available. The most obvious was simply to pick a kitchen. But Brave was never one for the obvious. As he made his way from agent to agent, each one lauding very volubily (had Brave actually realised that this word was actually his very first creation he would have been very excited, but alas...) the particular object they had on offer, he soon came across a summer camp-site. Surely, this would be an excellent place both to practise his newly-acquired talents, as well as to let his bravery brighten the lives of so many people without his having to boast. In minutes, he had acquired the site and set off for the art gallery where he hoped to pick up several identities for his endeavour. On his way, however, his eyes fell on a small, copper plate advertising the services of the local psychologist. Maybe, he thought to himself, I could pick up a few personal identities here, and then go on to the art gallery for the others.

A quick glance at his watch and Brave slipped quickly through the door. Yes, he was in luck. The psychologist was with a patient and the secretary was still on her lunch break. It didn't take him long to find the patient records on the computer and he left with three identities safely tucked inside his briefcase. The first, was that of one Walter Mitty, whose dreams and fantasies suited brave to down to his toenails. From now on, he would become Walter. The second was that of a young lady who vacillated at the drop of a hat from fervent admirer, to ardent hater. This was Walter's philanthropist streak coming out. If she could only see him at work, then all her pent up hatred would melt away like butter. And he already knew which picture he would buy to incarnate her. He had often walked past this picture of a dark, beautiful lady and it seemed as if her eyes would follow him every time he did so. Nothing more reassuring than that, when you're up to your neck in dough and trying to find the cake tin at the same time. The third identity was that of a little boy who refused to eat whatever was given him. If his parents offered him spaghetti one day, he would insist on carrots and cabbage. Were they to offer him carrots and cabbage, then he would want spaghetti. The ultimate challenge for Walter's culinary skills.

And so we see Walter, striding expectantly (don't forget that packet of assorted adverbs he picked up) towards the railway station, in his briefcase the picture of his beloved Mona and another of a man feeding five thousand people all at once. He was so taken up with dreams of bravery, that he never noticed the screaming sirens, nor the shout of the security guard pointing out to the police that the thief was over there about to escape into the railway station. But he certainly needed all the bravery he could muster as a few weeks later, the judge sentenced him to five years of prison food.

Mark has left his homeland to go and live with his parents in Africa. After a week of solitude he meets his neighbour's boy, Sony, and the two soon become friends. After a visit to Sony's house a few days previously, the two boys are now together in Mark's house.

"Is there something wrong? You don't seem very happy."

"I'm just trying to understand what you people eat. Dad says you're a lot richer than we are, and you're certainly a lot bigger. But with plates this size..."

"Well, what size are your plates then?"

"You remember the other day when you were at our house and Mam brought out those peanuts and dates..."

"Yes. Your mother served them on that big tray thing."

"I'm not sure what you mean by tray? Those are our plates. She always serves dinner on them."

"But those things are huge. How much do you eat every day?"

"Well, one of those trays is enough for our whole family. But these small plates, they're scarcely enough to feed one person."

"But they are just for one person."

"You mean, you don't eat together?"

"Well, sometimes we do and sometimes we don't. That depends on how busy Dad is. Usually, it just Mam and me."

"And no one else comes to eat with you?"

"No, why should they? Everyone eats in his own home."

"You white people certainly have some strange ways of doing things. In Africa, no one eats on his own. A meal is the one time of day when we can relax and be with other people. That's why it's so special."

"Well, if you want to see something special, then look at these. My dad made these himself. It was one of the first things he ever made. There's not many people around who use home-made knives and forks."

"I... What..."

"What are you staring at me like that for? You do know what knives and forks are don't you? Look, this is a fork. It's really simple to use. You stick it into a piece of meat and then cut it with your knife. Then you use the fork to put it into your mouth."

"You don't mean to say, you put that thing in your mouth. That's disgusting."

"What's so disgusting about it?"

"Well, you never know who else has already had it in his mouth. We use our fingers to do the same thing. And I know nobody has ever had my fingers in his mouth."

"Well, of course we wash before and after every meal."

"And we wash our hands, too. Every time. But I still wouldn't want to put one of these things into my mouth. It weird."

Game - that's this week's Sunday Scribbling prompt. And ever since signing the Entente Cordiale over 100 years ago, France and England have met regularly for a gaming spree of unparalleled reputation. Luckily, I was one of those asked to cover last year's event for your favourite blog. So read all about it right here.

"Good evening, Prime-Minister, I hope your visit to our magnificent capital has persuaded you that the IOC never makes a mistake?" (15 - 0)

"Well, indeed it has. But to be quite honest I was perfectly well aware of that fact before today. You just have to look at the committee chairman to realise he has enough reserves to survive for three weeks on an English diet." (15 - 15)

"Ah, yes I concede our gastronomy was the weak point of our bid (service fault). That's why we have hired the services of our best French cook for tonight's banquet." (weak second service)

"And what mouthwatering delights are in store for us then?" (poor service return)

"Well, you know we English are game for almost anything. So that's what we're having tonight. Give your ministers a chance to bypass your import embargo on our meat products." (Scintillating volley for 30-15)

"Would you like a glass of wine? (Seeing opponent still reeling from that previous blow below the belt goes in for the kill) It's one of our best brews." (but miss-hits badly. 30 - 30)

"Ah, there's the dinner bell. My butler always makes it ring in that Wagnerian manner for a head of state."

"Yes, I hear Chancellor Merkl found it quite narzistic." (double-fisted cross court return sends opponent scrambling back)

"Well, at least we corrected our attempts at appeasement which is more than I can say for... (returns with a high lob which doesn't have enough depth)

"Well, at least we gave you an excuse for your hasty retreat." (and so is smashed away to the back of the court 30 - 40)

"Since your charming lady seems more than game enough to spend the ni... evening with me, I thought I'd place you next to one of our ravishing young beauties from the foreign office. That's her over there next to her husband. Better keep an eye on him, though. He beat your David Whatisname to a judo gold medal in Beijing." (straight ace - deuce)

"By the way, is your negotiating team all ready for our negotiations tomorrow?"

"No, not quite. They've invited your translation team for a bit of cordial intente at the Hilton after tonight's banquet. But don't worry, they'll be perfectly ready by the morning." (Advantage Miss Paris)

"To be perfectly honest, that's what was worrying me. This match is so important I felt we should dispense with our translation pawns. Like the French I have learnt to make good use of my hands and can always fall back on good, old-fashioned ignorance, in case of any emergencies."

Well, that's a dis... (stumbles and misses and misses a sitting volley - deuce)

And so the head-froeing went on until players, spectators, umpires and even your humble author himself could no longer keep their eyes down. Finally, the match referee put everyone out of their misery by calling out:

The moment Katie entered the office she sensed something was different. The tell-tale sheet of paper peeking out from the side of the desk quickly pointed her in the right direction. The overflowing waste-paper felt distinctly out of place in Sean's half of the office. True, Katie had in the past witness him screw up a piece of paper, which promptly disappeared into the said basket. But such an earth-shattering event had occurred maybe three or four times in the six years they had been working together. And never, had he rejected more than one draft.

Katie found herself drawn to basket. She picked out the was of paper and cast a glance at the top one. Her face wrinkled with a frown as she looked at the next sheet. Slowly, she walked across to her desk. Placing the pile of papers in front of her she began to read. Tears came to her eyes. The words were magnificent, electrifying. Why wasn't he satisfied? Yet, wasn't that typical of Sean? The best wasn't good enough. Only the perfect sufficed. And who was he describing? Sean had never let on that he was seeing somebody. So why such an elegiac evocation of beauty? Whose image had so imprinted himself on his mind?

The thought that Sean might return and find her looking through these papers tore her from her reverie. She picked up the pile and was about to carry it back to the waste paper basket when she noticed the rose sitting on her desk beside the phone. Propped up against the vase was a card from which Sean's bold handwriting proclaimed:

Sandy always turned to the horoscopes first. In the beginning out of habit; it was the one part of the paper her father never looked at. So she didn't have to wait until he'd finished. Later, her interest grew. Not that she started to believe in them. She merely wanted to see how they were written, how precise the predictions were, how they managed to fool people into believing. This morning they gave her food for thought: "Get around today but beware of new acquaintances."

Well, that was alright then. Sandy had a busy day ahead of her. She was due to help out at the club's stall. Selling was her thing and when the club decided they would prepare and sell their own flower arrangements as part of their town's charity weekend, she was one of the first to volunteer. After all, she reasoned to herself, not one of her stories had sold yet. So what was the point in just writing more and more. She'd take a break, wait until something sold. And then... But for now, she could afford to help others a little more.

Sandy did, of course, consider that being on the stall might mean new acquaintances but she didn't believe in all that nonsense anyway. Besides, most of the people with her, she knew already. And she didn't have to get close to any she didn't know.

When she arrived, Jacky already had everything set up and they did a brisk trade until just before eleven when the streets suddenly emptied. Soon they were the only ones left in the town square when someone from a neighbouring store came rushing out and told them to told them to get inside.

"It's just been announced on the radio... explosion in a chemical factory... poisonous fumes." The announcement was somewhat muddled, the woman even more. Jacky made straight for home while Sandy raced into the café on the corner. This was her big chance. Something was happening on her very own doorstep. All the country's newspapers were beckoning.

Some two hours later Sandy was putting the finishing touches to her own peculiar slant to the adventure, when she noticed the café owner pointing her out to a stranger who had just come in. The man paid for his coffee and came up to her.

"Mind if I join you. My name's Richard Hartnall. I'm commissioning editor for the Bracknell County News. I'm looking for a few personal stories to accompany our coverage of the Damson explosion. Several people have mentioned you. Maybe you'd like to..."

Sandy's heart leapt. Fame at last. Then she remembered the oracle: beware... So she got up and left the café, convinced that now was not the right time.

Lakeside fog lifting,
Bright eyes shining,
Gold glinting from two fingers,
For ever we said and kissed.

I'm an English teacher and I love to create small stories to explain various items of vocabulary. So here's a little vignette to explain various meanings of the word tattoo. Have fun finding them.

Ivor begged her to work quickly. The bugle would soon be sounding out calling, the men back to barracks. A deep melancholy filled his heart at the thought of leaving her. But orders were orders and there was no escaping them. They were going back to Edinburgh. This time next week they'd be parading in front of thousands at the castle's showpiece event. He doubted he'd ever be back; surely she knew that too. It had been beautiful while it lasted but tomorrow all that would remain, was her name etched indelibly onto his skin and in his heart.

It started with the walk:
People, fun to be with,
Sights more spectacular than words can express,
The joy of leaving all behind.

So no, it started before the walk,
The problems, the questions,
Unavoidable consequences and unwanted certainties,
And the joy of putting them all behind me for one blissful weekend.

It was egged on by Brigitte,
author, teacher, facilitator.
Her way with words, her way with us,
But most of all her enthusiasm.

It was done in a jiffy.
Done?
Done but not finished,
Like a craftsman fine-tuning to perfection.

It was read.
Bright eyes flashed;
Appreciation so welcome,
And later reciprocated
As poem after poem was added
to our kaleidoscope of creation.

Then, back to earth,
with a piece of paradise in mind and heart.
I read it to an earthling;
What was the point!

From the way Simon put the book down his disappointment was obvious. From the moment the Mayor hid the pistol in his drawer he was hooked. He raced through its pages, not stopping even for lunch. Arriving at the beginning of the final chapter, he felt like the pilgrim looking over the valley into Mecca. Just a few more minutes and all would be revealed.

In the end nothing was revealed. All those devices scattered about the novel to heighten the tension merely led up proverbial garden paths. Second guessing the author had been pointless.

Eve looked up at him with a frown. The answer came before she had even formulated the question.

"That's the last time I'll read anything by that guy. Why, even I could have done better."

"Why don't you then?" her smile taunting him.

"Why... What... You mean me, write a book. Why you've got to be kidding."

"Not at all." She hesitated before continuing, aware that she was leading him into a minefield. "You know how Dad has always been taunting you about not achieving anything. Why not join him at his own game and prove him wrong. If you really think, you can do better..."

"Why, I'll begin by writing down all the mistakes the author has made. That'll give me something to start on. I'll carry on from there."

Eve gave a little wry smile. She knew how easy it was to get Simon going on something. The real problem was to keep him going. She had no doubt in his ability. If he did get to write his novel, it would outsell those of her father. Now that would be something to look forward to!