Writer's Notebook

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!

Christmas was meant to be a time of peace and goodwill to all men. But all Father Christmas could think of now, was how damned hard that was to bring about. This year he'd not even been given one day's respite. The moment he'd got back from delivering the last of his presents, his brand-new state-of-the-art cordless telephone – ironically enough his own present from Santa – had started ringing. By the end of January his agents all over the world had phoned in with well over a hundred cases for which his help would be needed.

He had begun his tour in early February, as soon as he was assured that production for next year’s presents was well underway. By Easter he had visited three continents and dealt with a majority of the cases his agents had been unable to resolve. But dealing with humans was beginning to take its toll, so he took a one week holiday before moving on. Now, he was on his Dole and the last case before returning home. It was not, he hoped, the most difficult case he had faced, but it was the most saddening.

It was in Dole he had inaugurated what to date had proved to be one of the most effective ways of bringing never-would-otherwise-fraternise groups together. The idea was the brainchild of a local radio station, planted into one of their DJ’s mind after a particularly long evening of soliloquising on the way home from a late-night party. The previous year this DJ had announced over the air the death of Santa. He really had used the word death, although what he meant by it was, of course, the fact that Santa had never really existed. Meeting this man at the gates of the local park he accompanied him to his home which they reached some thirty minutes later. The man was unusually quiet making Santa’s task all the easier. By the time he entered his house enough arguments were planted into his mind for the soliloquising to go on all night. Just days later the man went on live to announce Santa’s resurrection and his Goodwill Plan for that Christmas. The idea was simple: anyone who would be spending Christmas alone could phone up the radio station, as could any person or family who wanted to open up their home, however lowly or humble to another human being.

That first year things had been difficult. Several families phoned and expressed their willingness to open their house to others, but just two or three were willing to actually take up on the hospitality. To increase chances of getting more people the following year, the station had decided to interview each of those involved to talk about their experiences. That’s when things began to unravel. One of the men was extremely dissatisfied with his experience and equally extremely verbose in his condemnation of the project. If he could not be prevailed upon to change his mind, the programme, due to be aired on the 1st August would be cancelled and the whole project would shelved. Apparently, the old man felt he had been completely ignored. The family played out their Christmas much like they would have done every year, without a thought for his presence. Dinner was some kind of traditional Greek dish, very meagre fare in comparison to what he’d been used to in previous years and they’d not served a drop of wine explaining that they never drunk it themselves. He’d stayed long enough so as not to be impolite and then beaten a hasty retreat.

Once Santa had interviewed the family concerned he realised he was up against a typical case of mutual, cultural insensitivity. They had moved to France just six months previously and were not aware of all that was involved in receiving strangers in this most gourmet of countries. All they had wanted to do was to open their house for a lonely stranger in need, and share what they did and had with them. Yet, he had been so impolite turning his nose up at everything they offered, , and finally leaving after just one hour, just as the singing and dancing was due to begin. They had even had the chance to get to know each other properly, they complained.

With the greatest of pleasure Father Christmas wrote out the two checks: the first, a six week course in cultural discovery including a wine-tasting at one of France’s greatest cellars, for the exasperated family; the second, a finely bound tome on Greek including a voucher for an evening’s gourmet entertainment at a specialist restaurant.

The headline jumped off the page and did a little song and dance act. Only then did it succeed in penetrating my already somewhat feeble state of mind. I'd been on a binge with the boys. True that was days ago. But it might have been yesterday, for every time I tried to think about what happened only darkness reigned.

How could anyone be so stupid? Okay, you break into a drinks depot, you patronize it, so to speak. Mind you I'm not sure if the word patron actually fits those who don't pay. Okay, so you break in, drink, get drunk and then...? Well, even I in my weakened state realise that the last thing you do then, is to visit your friend to invite him for a drink. Why not? But isn't it obvious. You're friend is a policeman. And it's his job to catch those who committed the crime.

And yet, the newspaper article left no room for doubt, neither did the handcuffs around my wrists. But I still wonder how it happened.

Sitting at the table Jeffrey tried to make sense of what lay before him. Over 10 000 pieces. And that, only because he had been very sparing cutting them up. Had he really taken each episode, he could easily have ended with twice that number. Usually, it wouldn't have been a problem. He was a keen puzzler, and the greater the challenge the better. But this one was different. Different, because today, he did not have an overall picture to help him. Why was life so difficult to piece together?

Three days later Jeffrey's frustration was greater than ever. It wasn't that he found it hard to connect the various pieces together. On the contrary, there seemed to be a plethora of possible combinations. But once he had put several different pieces together, he realised the emerging picture just didn't make sense.

It was his grandson who provided him with the solution. Jeffrey had accompanied Jay to the weekly soccer practise. There was a boy Jeffrey had never seen before. He was quick and had a pretty strong boot, but seemed to lack some of the basic techniques. On his way home he questioned Jay who couldn't hide his disappointment.

"He's useless. He thinks he's the greatest player in the team and some things he really can do better than most of us. But he just kicks the ball anywhere and we never know what he's going to do. And when the ball goes miles away, he throws up his arms in delight as if that was what he wanted to do all along. With him in your team it's like playing with no plan."

It wasn't until he sat down once again to his puzzle that the full significance of those words hit home to Jeffey. Wasn't that exactly what he had been doing all his life. Muddling along, kicking the ball of life anywhere, and trying to make do with whatever resulted from his efforts. No wonder, he was failing so abysmally to make sense of it all. Something was going to have to change.

Leaving work early had never been one of Stan's habits. He could have tried to mask his departure, but that would have been futile. He could imagine only too well the whisperings which would have started the moment the door shut behind him. But today, Stan couldn't care less. His work had been his whole life. Now he was going to have to look for something more important.

Maybe sport was the answer. Rugby was, of course, out of the question. At his age it would probably do him more harm than good. Running would probably fit the bill. Several of his friends had taken up running in the latter half of their life, some even after retirement. Of course, no championships or anything like that. But it did give them the chance to open up their lungs.

What was it the doctor had called it? The word had meant nothing to him, so he had trouble recalling it. But what he couldn't forget were those words which had gone round and round in his head like an old vinyl record with a scratch in it.

"The best thing you could do now, is find some way of exercising your lungs day by day. The more you exercise your lungs, the better you will be able to cope."

Lungs! It was that word that had convinced him it could be nothing serious. He wasn't a smoker, never had been. Not even one single drag. Lung disease was only for smokers. So he'd be okay. He knew it instinctively. So the doctor's news came as a far greater shock. And what was he going to tell Erna and the kids. He hadn't even mentioned having been to the doctor's. For how long could he keep this to himself?

He stepped out from the staircase into the office car park. Then he changed his mind. If he was meant to exercise his lungs, then he'd forego the car; at least for today. At this time, he might even be quicker on foot than by car. Maybe he could get a bicycle. Like in his university days. He could do another charity ride, gather the boys together one last time. What an idea for the reunion they'd been planning! Scotland's team of 78, the front row leading the way. Passers-by turned and stared as he burst out laughing at this sight. Laughter, he thought. That would do the trick. But how can one laugh in the face of a horrible death?

The lights turned to red and Stan darted across the road. The thought did come to him that it might be easier to just lie down there and then and let come speeding car finish the job off there and then. But Stan was a fighter and he didn't want to end like that. Once across the ring road, he cut into Silk Street and crossed the footbridge into the old city. It must have been months since he was last in the part of the city, yet its charm was already beginning to rub off on him, when he stopped short in front of the window of a run-down music shop and began to read:

Ham felt himself the luckiest mouse alive. It wasn't every day that someone came into the shop and bought a mouse. Hamsters, yes; guinea-pigs too. Even rats would have ranked higher on the pet-shop's best-seller lists than mice. But for Ham - he had taken the name in a bid to try and persuade the customer that he was more like a hamster than a mouse - that had changed that very morning. He was chatting away with one of his neighbours who had gone into a sulk over the dwindling food supplies the new help was giving them, when she came into the shop and straight up to the mice cages. She, young, blonde, with a pretty face and such hypnotic, blue eyes that you could forgive any self-respecting mouse for falling in love with her. She wanted a mouse, she explained to the shopkeeper. She had always wanted a mouse, but her mother had never let her have one. Now, she had her very own flat and she was going to buy a mouse, nothing else would do. The words sent the mice into a flurry of activity. Each one wanted to look its little best, in particular the males. And obviously Ham managed to make himself look his very best, for after a brief moment of despair when it seemed the girl might, after all, go for the little pink mouse, she asked the shopkeeper to give him that cute, little white one in the corner.

That was now over six hours ago and Ham was still floating somewhere between the sixth and seventh heavens. As soon as she got home the young lady took him out of the box the shopkeeper had given her and put him in a delightful little cage she had prepared just for him. Not that he had found much rest, as yet. Several times that afternoon she had lifted him out and cuddled him in her tiny, cupped hands. She would carry him into the kitchen and hold him up to the small so that he could drink, promising that tomorrow she would buy him a proper water drip. Once she even lifted him up to her face and stared at him with her bright blue eyes. It was obvious they were made for each other and Ham remembered a story he'd once heard his mother tell him about an animal who had been changed into a handsome prince upon being kissed by the prettiest girl on earth. Well, he had the prettiest girl, now if only... And that was when it happened. Ham wasn't quite sure how or why, all he knew was that he was standing there tall and proud watching his beloved turn and flee in fear at the unusual turn events had taken.

Last Sunday the menu read:

Kir Royal (Sparkling Wine with blackcurrant liqueur) and petits fours.

Entrée: Poached Egg Soufflé served with pâté and salad.

Main Course: of Salmon filet served with Chardonnay Sauce, rice and fresh vegetables. Side Salad.

Bottle of Jura Chardonnay 2006 (a local speciality)

Plate of Cheese with Cracker Biscuits or French Bread

Cheesecake with fresh, home-made ice cream and raspberries

A glass of Champagne (offered by the house to celebrate the occasion)

Coffee and mints

All this while cruising down the river Saône enjoying the beautiful countryside. It was, after all, our wedding anniversary so we indulged.