Writer's Notebook

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.

Jud stood up with the others as a wave of singing swept over him. Even as a kid he'd been impressed by the quality of church choirs. His favourite had always been the black tabernacle choir that used to parade through the streets every year at 'mardi gras'. He'd even been to see them in concert once or twice. But today he had not come for the music; that was just an added extra. Added extra: the phrase stuck in his mind. He was almost ashamed to admit it. It was certainly the last thing he'd expected.

"Whose Brave New World?" the invitation read. It was Julia who'd invited him. For a churchgoer she was quite enlightened. The two had had some very interesting discussions on the origins of the universe.

"I think you'll find this guy worth listening to."

Nonetheless, Jud was prepared for a good fight. Never yet, had he met a pastor willing to concede an inch to what they called, the encroaching atheistic scientists. And usually, their arguments were spurious and as false as the hypocrisy they were claiming to fight against. But tonight had been different. Here was a man who knew what he was talking about. Quiet, soft-spoken, yet with an authority which inspired confidence he put forward his arguments one by one . His approach had been a philosophical one. He had steered clear from the usual scientific arguments, making it clear that he was far from qualified to speak on scientific matters. In that, he was no different from a lot of his forebears, thought Jud, except he had the courage to admit it. What he did do, was to set forth a comparison between an evolutionary and christian world view, finishing with that tantalising question: "Which would you prefer?" Jud felt his muscles tense at the sound of these words, but he was pleasantly surprised when the man stepped down from the podium, with an invitation to all present to share their own views with those around them over coffee and cake.

And for once, Jud found himself beginning to question his own position. How true it was that the Darwinian theory of the survival of the fittest, if left unchecked, could lead to a heartless, uncaring world, a world of every man to himself; not the kind of world he wanted to be part of.

Jud felt a pressing need to talk some more with this man. He had a number of questions he wanted to put to him; things he wanted them to mull over together. But before he could get up, three of the congregation had him cornered and he was led to a table on the other side of the room.

"Can we get you a coffee, Mr..."

"Davids, Jud Davids. And no thanks, I'd prefer a cup of tea if you don't mind."

"I believe we've seen you here before, brother, is that not so?"

"Well, actually, I took part in one of your debates on evolution. But that was quite some time ago. And I'd rather not talk about that right now. I'd really like to ask your..."

"A reeeeeevolutionary. I might have guessed it. We've got just the thing you need to see the light, Mr. Davids. Hey Mitch, fetch over the student guy from the seminary; got someone here who wants to argue the toss over evolution."

"Well actually, all I want is to..."

"Now, you just stay put. Our student pastor will be over right away, and he'll give you all the answers, you'll ever need. And if you still have any questions after that, maybe he"'ll let you say something too. If you ain't seen the light by then that is."

The muscles in Jud's chest began to tighten again. It had after all been just too good to be true.

Ladies and gentleman, welcome to this week's 3WW writers podcast. Our guest this evening is Clint Knowall, who has just published to great critical acclaim the first of what we hope will be many academic tomes from his illustrious pen. Clint will be talking to us about his life as a writer and also about this week's key words: grave, lithe and offend.

Q. Clint, what made you decide to become a writer?

A. To show my kid brother, there was at least one thing in life I could do better than him. All my life I've suffered from being compared unfavourably to him. It all began with his having been born some three years after me. Because of that he became known as the patient one, the one who would take his time and see things through to a good end. I was the impetuous one in the family. You know the kind; lots of ideas and no results. And ever since my parents were always telling me to try and become a little more like my brother.

Q. So, your brother is also a writer?

A. Of sorts. It all started one day I visited him at our lakeside retreat only to disover he was writing a novel. He'd actually been at it for some three months and all he had was a pretty sketchy plot plan, a character who vaguely resembled our dad (not an original in any sense of the word) and a few odd paragraphs which would fit somewhere into his work. I didn't day much as I didn't want to offend him but there and then, I decided I would show him how it is done.

Q. And you succeeded?

A. Of course, I succeeded. You almost sound like my parents. I'll have you know that success is the one word they'll write on my grave.

Q. So, how many works have you actually published?

A. Publishing is for authors like my brother. Me, I'm a true artist, and like all true artists I'm not recognised by the public at large. That also includes publishers. Most publishers today, do not know what genius is. They turn down the work of a true genius like me, and put some rubbish inside a lithe paperback cover and there you are.

Q. So, is that why you turned to academic writing?

A. Yes well, we all have to pay the bills somehow, even a genius like me. Academic writing was the one way I found to be able to do this without selling my sould.

Q. And what is the title of your latest work?

A. A study in the semantics of rejection letters. Not exactly a fascinating topic. In fact, I only chose it because my tutor insisted I work from original sources. And like all geniuses, I had plenty of material with which to work from.

Q. And finally, what do you think about our this week's key words?

Well, usually I'm as lithe as a snake in getting out of questions like these, but as I don't want to offend you, I'll gave you a truly grave answer.

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."

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

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:

This week's Fiction Friday challenge has us sitting down to Christmas (actually it was Thanksgiving but seeing as I'm not American I've changed it to Christmas) dinner when an unexpected guest bursts in upon the scene. I've coupled this with a recent interest I've taken in dedications which we find at the front of so many books.

Janet felt a little overwhelmed as she looked around the oversized room that had served both as living and dining room. How on earth was she going to get everything ready before they arrived. She began to wish Scott was there to help her. He had offered, of course. But he'd been on the road so much these last few months, she'd not wanted to impose another eight hour drive on him. Besides, all she'd have to do was tidy the place up and make room for the bed. The ambulance people would carry the bed down from the bedroom when they arrived with her mother.

Four hours later she put the kettle on to afford herself a small break. The room had been cleaned out and a place made where the bed could go. She had even found a little corner for the bedside cabinet. This was the one secret in her mother's life. It always remained locked and Janet had never succeeded in bringing her mother to talk about whatever it contained. But she knew her mother would not want to be without it.

Some thirty minutes later the ambulance men arrived and not long after her mother was comfortably installed in her new surroundings. Janet sat down on a stool beside her. The time had come for a serious talk. This time things had turned out well. But next time... Janet braced herself. She knew her mother would never leave Scarborough to come and live with them. But if she didn't want that, then they'd have to get someone in. Janet braced herself and was just about to begin when she saw her mother holding out a little key. Janet stared then followed her mother's gaze to the little bedside cabinet. She took the key and placed it in the lock, glancing up to check this was really what her mother intended her to do. She opened it up and drew out a white metal document box. Her mother's eyes brightened as the box was placed on her lap. Her hands trembled as she opened it up and drew out a faded photo album of yesteryear. She looked her daughter in the eyes, inviting her, no entreating her to take a trip into a past which no one had ever talked about.

Yet, all the album contained were photographs of a Christmas party. Christmas 1925 the front cover announced. Her mother had been seventeen, just months before she had broken all contact with her family. Janet studied the photos carefully. It must have been a big party. There were well over fifty people present, and the table spreads must have taken days to prepare. All done by servants, of course.

Janet turned the pages slowly keeping one eye on her mother so as not to miss out on any reaction. Yet, nothing happened. Janet couldn't help feeling that all this was just the preliminary to something greater. It was not until she turned over the final page that she came to a photo she recognised.

"It's..." She hesitated. Only now did she realise she never knew the name of this boy. All she knew was that his appearance at that Christmas party so many years ago had been as unexpected as it was short-lived. She now saw her mother holding a book out to her which she had kept in the box. Janet glanced at the title and turned over the first page. The inscription caught her eye: