An alternative Christmas

I blame the reindeer.

For a start Rudolf was running in the lead on dipped headlights, something that is not allowed in the Sleigh: Lighting and speed limits when fully loaded. regulations from the DVLA in Swansea. He should have had his eponymous nose on full beam, especially as this was the night before Christmas Eve as Santa was trying to get ahead of himself. They were running late so were carelessly going too fast for the prevailing conditions and, it is thought, some of Santa’s sherry had been shared out a little too liberally between the too dear at the front. Santa was, of course in overall charge and responsible for the safe distribution of presents around the world but he had understandably delegated the responsibility to his lead reindeer during the long hop across the Atlantic so that he could get some rest.

They came to an abrupt halt above 22 Railway Terrace when Rudolf slipped on one of the solar panels and got his left ear lopped off by the wind turbine clamped to the chimney that was whizzing around in the East wind - the windmill that is, not the chimney. The solar panel now had a broken circuit so that cut the power to the ground source heat pump. The windmill blade was bent by its collision with Rudolf’s ear and was now making a strange noise as it rotated out of balance., so it had to be feathered and shut down.

Santa prepared to slide down the chimney when he realised that Dad was busy adjusting the feed of wood pellets to the eco boiler so the chimney route was out of the question. Santa consulted his year book for advice on an alternative route. The new health and safety advice precluded all roofly adventures and advised that the sack of presents should be left outside the front door. Santa was glad to comply as he now had a chance of catching up on his schedule - even with Rudolf’s medical problem - he navigated by eye, not ear. Rudolf didn’t want to be left ‘ear so he was chomping at his bit to get moving.

Santa yelled ‘giddup’ and the laden sleigh was on its way.

Dad finished setting up the eco boiler and then got a ladder from the shed to start repairing the solar panels. ‘Pesky reindeer,’ he muttered as he climbed the ladder. ‘ I don’t know why they don’t do away with powered transport and used gliding sleighs. Doesn’t Elf and Safety have anything to say about that?’

The older daughter, Daphne, came out to watch Dad. ‘Don’t jump off the roof, Dad. You’ll make a hole in the yard.’

‘Yes, I know, Mother’s been planting petunias.’ said Dad, looking for his pliers in his utility belt.

The solar panels were fixed and back to their winter output of 2 kilowatts, restoring power to the ground source heat pump so the house started warming up. This was the good news, as was the fact that the composting toilet was now back in use. The bad news was that the wind turbine was in a bad way and a new set of fan blades would be required.

Dad climbed down from the roof, just in time to see, and hear, the Salvation Army carol singers turn up - complete with their trademark oompah band. The were singing the pizza carol, you know, the one that has the line  ‘deep pan crisp and even’ - it always brought a tear to Dad’s eye, especially as he was feeling hungry after his high level work. Daphne put a penny in the old man’s - he was playing the euphonium - hat and they went in for their tea. This was a casserole that had been slowly cooking in the straw bain-marie all day - please don’t ask what meat it was, they were all feeling a little traumatised by the thought of the killing to come.

After dinner they all went out to do their allotted chores, feed and water the pigs and chickens, bring in some pellets for the eco boiler and kill the turkey that had been fattening up all year, ready for their Christmas Dinner. It was cold on the fingers harvesting the sprouts, as they were covered in ice. They had dug enough potatoes the previous week so now all they had to do was to pluck the turkey. It didn’t have a name as they knew from the previous year that that calling a turkey ‘Harriet’ made it too personal a killing - almost murder in fact. They set to, pretending this was just another turkey. The anonymous turkey was soon plucked, stuffed and ready for the oven. They spent the rest of the evening decorating the Christmas tree with paper chains carefully made from the paper strips with organic glue they had swapped at the WI sale for a bucket of sprouts. The tree, of course, was one carefully dug up from the garden, complete with roots. It had lasted for five years so far and soon would be too big to bring indoors. It was already a bit of a chore digging a hole big enough for it in the garden each January. It was also starting to encroach on the vegetable patch.

The presents then had to be wrapped, using the paper and string saved from last year of course - none of that new fangled sellotape stuff that stuck to everything, except the right thing in the right place. The family was tired by now so they trooped up to bed - leaving Dad to bring Santa’s sack in from the front porch and Mum to distribute the parcels under the tree.

Daphne was woken first by the two younger children, Elf and Safe who were very excited and clamoured to be allowed downstairs to see if Santa had been. Daphne negotiated with them; they could go downstairs and look at their presents but none could be opened until the morning chores had been completed and breakfast had been fully eaten.

They quickly hoovered up their porridge and home made yogurt and then renewed their demands to open their presents. Mum and Dad had sleepily stumbled downstairs by this time. Dad pleaded for time to make some of their coffee substitute, made from the acorns from five acre wood - the pannage pigs didn’t approve - then gave in to the children’s demands.

There were soon the sounds of cutting of string and tearing of paper, in spite of the parent’s pleas to carefully fold up the paper for next year. What five year old concerns themselves with next year? It is so far in the future that it doesn’t exist.

What delights lay in store for them, hidden within the folds of recycled, battered, Christmas wrapping paper. Miniature garden implements were greeted with squeals of delight, packets of seed were discovered with joyous cries and as for recipes for ‘ delicious dishes created from your garden harvest’! There could be nothing better.

Mum was pleased with her wool vouchers and Dad was delighted with his farm shop vouchers. that entitled him to ‘pick your own manure.’

It was now time to embark on the Six Days of Turkey. Christmas day - turkey giblet soup, roast turkey of course, the plates piled high with home grown most things, potatoes, sprouts, chestnut stuffing, home made miniature sausages wrapped in home cure bacon followed by Mum’s special Christmas pudding and sips of the sloe gin that was now coming up to ten years old.

Tomorrow would be cold turkey cuts, home made pickles, beetroot and walnut, and cold roasties.

The third day of turkey would be the same, except with mash potatoes , as would be the fourth.

The fifth day of turkey would be the trimmings from the carcass made into a curry and the grande finale on the sixth day of turkey would be the bones, boiled up all day then strained off to give a wonderful turkey stock which was added to a vegetable casserole.

The turkey bones were then ground up as bone meal fertiliser for next years vegetables. The turkey feathers were, of course used in the home made duvets. The family said that the only thing that wasn’t wasted from the turkey was its gobble - and they all missed that until the fertilised turkey eggs hatched and a dozen chicks started their year-long journey to next Christmas through the cycle of the year.

Alice

I was surprised when my promotion came through as I had been Princess of Shovels for so long that I had got comfortable in the role, used to shopping in Sainsburys etc. That is not to say I wasn’t grateful, my elevation to the aristocracy years before had been more of a jump. It suited me very well. Coming from the superior Spades family I was used to being treated well, even though I did do most of my shopping in Aldi. It took me a long time to shuffle up through the suit from number two.

It took me some time to settle in to my new role. I was now Queen of Spades, not the top of the suit, that belonged to Ace of course, but I was well on the way. I think the main thing that took me a while to get used to was shopping in Waitrose. It wasn’t just the general obsequiousness of the staff or even the ridiculous prices, it was mainly the other customers - what a stuck up pack! All picture cards and the occasional Ace. I quite fancy some of the Aces but that is another story - do you really think I am a bungalow?

Anyway, as I had nearly filled my twee little trolley with gazpacho, halloumi, Italian black olives, smoked salmon, freshly baked Focaccia, Manuka honey and few other essentials, I headed for the checkout, looking very smart in his apron printed with black and white squares. It must have been cold sitting there among all those draughts and he looked a little board.

He beeped all my shopping before packing it into my trendy hessian recyclable shopping bag and I handed over my card. By some strange coincidence it was the Queen of Clubs, one of the lower suits but I am broad minded, I’ll talk to anyone. There was to be no cashback for me today. We now had a pear, avocado of course, so I took the complimentary partridge from the tree, collected my little green tokens and dropped them in the box for the undeserving poor - one of my favourite charities.

The automatic doors chuffed back at me as I walked out into the street, they must have got them second-hand from Captain Kirk - very enterprising.

The game had been set for that afternoon, poets and peasants alliteration at the Peardrop, so the pear of us hopped aboard a chicken and chooked on our way. It wasn’t far, just a couple of furlongs up the hill past the Strangled Ferret. We passed two fur shorts on the way, probably German. We decided to pay by the perch as the rod and pole were both busy and the chicken was happier with the perch anyway because it was quite a jolly fish. She carped on quite a lot about some of the salmon rods  but, strangely enough, she never mentioned the Poles during the ride. She had a lot to say about the Latvians though - typical cabbie gossip. I made small talk with the other Queen, well, one has to make an effort with one’s social inferiors doesn’t one? She had been a Queen for a long time, passed over by now probably, so she was well used to playing the game. I picked up some good tips from her without letting her know that I hadn’t played before.

I chose my cue carefully as it doesn’t pay to get there too early. We did the usual test to see who would break, it was the other Queen of course, she had more experience. She potted a Spot with the break so I helped her out of the pool and then repaired the break. It was a Gloucester Old one so I had the choice of the piglets. I picked up a couple because we were having bacon and egg for supper. I had only decided this on the ride up the hill. Luckily the chicken decided to cooperate. She would probably dine out on that story for donkey’s years. ‘I laid an egg for the Queen of Spades,’ making a right ass of herself, as no one then believed her. Have you ever seen an ass lay an egg?

I managed to get the piglets in the Waitrose bag and got a lift from the donkey back to the castle. I had tried to get some ham from the Gloucester Old Spot but she wasn’t committed enough to contribute to our meal so I had to make do with smoked salmon sausages. The piglets were feeling a little cold by now so I wrapped them in a duvet as a substitute for pigs in blankets and put them in the oven to keep warm; on the top shelf; on Gas Mark 7. What did I do with the donkey? I got very annoyed as it started to ‘Eee Aaw’ very loudly so I went to the local church at Brambletye to see the Vicar of Bray, who lived in Lewisham. He suggested that I paint its fur so that it looked like a zebra and then hide it on a crossing. This didn’t work as I got the stripes the wrong way round and so the donkey stood out on the crossing, looking like a draughts board. Luckily a woman from Waitrose’s Human Resource department was passing at the time and offered it a job on the checkout. ‘Well, I suppose that will have to do till I can get a proper job,’ sighed the donkey.

‘Ungrateful creature, it ill behooved him to complain after all I had done for him,’ I thought.

I checked on the piglets to see if they were warm enough. They were now crackling nicely so I stuffed an apple in each of their mouths ready for the table. The cat was by now looking interested and stared at me. ‘A cat may look at a king,’ I said, ‘but I am a queen so you may not look at me.’ The cat smiled and slowly faded away to Aintree, leaving its smile behind.

I left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the castle’s parapets, which were kept on the roof. There were several dogs, tortoises and goldfish up there. It was very unusual to have so many disabled animals to care for but I suppose if you are a dog, a tortoise or a goldfish and fall off a castle, there is a good chance that you will get injured. One poor tortoise, ‘Falling George’, took so long to climb all the stone steps back up again that, as soon as he got there, it was time for him to fall off again. Because of all his injuries, he took to drink and now has the hare of the dog each morning after his porridge. The dog wasn’t too keen as he was going bald but George was usually too quick for him and if he didn’t quite make it, the hare would pluck one for him. All the animals seemed ok, except for George so I headed for the counting house where my husband, the King, had the spreadsheets open on his iMac. As usual, he ignored me at first, engrossed in his calculations. 

‘Did you have a good day, dear?’ I asked

‘Not three bad,’ he said, but I’m having trouble thinking because I’m hungry. ‘ I hope you’re making a blackbird pie for my supper tonight.’

‘I couldn't get any blackbirds in Waitrose and I couldn’t go into that common Sainsburys now, so I got two dozen frozen robins instead. I know Sainsburys have their uses now, not just for keeping the scum out of Waitrose.’

‘I don’t know, what is the world coming to? Did you complain in Waitrose?

‘Yes, I saw the manager and they are flying 144 blackbirds in next week.’

‘Good, but that will be too many for us, gross incompetence if you ask me,’

‘Yes, dear,’ I murmured placatorily as I backed out and fled to the parlour where I knew my Focaccia and Manuka were waiting for me.

I never did get to the parlour to eat my bread and honey as a blackbird in the garden had pecked off the maid’s nose. Luckily I found a jenny wren to put it back on again.

Then there was a knock on the portcullis, it was the queen of clubs wondering if I would like a game of golf. I could think of no excuse but I clearly didn’t want one of the lower order suits as a friend, even if she was a queen-I had plans. I put her off by saying that I had to think of a new way of making a pie for my husbands supper as I had run out of blackbirds and only had robins. She was a little upset and thought she had been dealt as part of a bad hand as she had gone to the trouble of carrying two full suits of clubs up the hill and she was a now a little red faced - a royal flush.

I quickly pulled up the drawbridge, crayoned it brown, bid three hearts and went to see the children, Prince and Princess Trowel. I could never remember their names, in fact, only the maid nose them… er that was until that dastardly blackbird did it’s evil work. Now I will have to call them ‘U’ and ‘U2’. They were the two princes in the tower, except that one was a princess.

I was now very pressed for time as I had to be in the Faery Forest during the afternoon. It was where I played out my Lady Bountiful role by volunteering for the Tree Watch foundation. We had found that, if no one was in the forest, then no trees fell and so it soon got badly overgrown. We had had notice of several incipient tree protofalls but, of course, nothing would happen unless someone was there. I had already asked my groom to saddle my horse for me. I had asked, and got, a horse for my last birthday by sighing to my husband, ‘ a horse, a horse, my queendom for a horse.’ He gave in and got me one, only 14 hands of course, he didn’t want me getting on my high horse, as the tree branches would knock me off. When my horse, Rover, saw me coming, he croaked at me in greeting. He had a sore throat and was a little horse - remember, 14 hands, huh?

We galloped off into the forest. It was badly overgrown so we couldn’t see the wood for the trees. Rover asked the way and the trees barked back in the same language - Timber sappiness. We soon arrived at the agreed meeting point which was as far as you could go in the forest - halfway in, as any further you were going out. We all watched in different directions while the trees  silently fell around us. The old story was at least half true.The waiting elephants gathered up the trunks and put them on, ready for a swim in the river.

Rover was quite tired by now so I got a lift back to castle with Dumbo, the brightest of the elephants. He couldn’t swim though, so had left his trunks behind. It was a rough ride as the Howdah was too tall to get under the trees so we had to activate the miniaturisation facility. Dumbo shrunk to about three inches tall and I was in proportion to him.This meant that we had great problems getting over the moat because the drawbridge was up and I couldn’t reach the intercom button to call the King. The portcullis was no obstacle as we just walked through one of the gaps. I got hit on the head by Falling George just when I thought I was safely inside. I don’t know if you have ever been hit on the head by a drunken tortoise falling from a great height but I can tell you it was no ride in the park, or in the forest, or to Waitrose. I took him back up to the roof, of course, where he was reunited with the other parapets. It took me a long time to get up the stairs, each step was like a cliff, 15 feet high to me - I had lost the miniaturisation reset button.

I struggled back down to the parlour where I enjoyed the Focaccia and Manuka - there was a lot so I couldn’t manage all of it.

I then struggled up to the counting house where the sheets were spread all over the floor with blankets on top and the King snoring mightily under both of them. Even Kings need to sleep, I thought to myself.

I decided to retrace my steps to see if I could find the miniaturisation reset button so squeezed through the bars of the portcullis - I didn’t see Falling George come hurtling down towards m…

A Dream Journey

The sun is hot. I am sweating. The saddle is hard. The road narrows. I don’t know the landmarks. Ruts approach. Green appears between the ruts. The tarmac surface disappears. The surface is stoney muddy and unflat. Flints like acne pop up in the thinly soiled fields each side of the track. I keep pedalling. The track winds around the stump of a very old, very circumferated tree. The track comes to an end. I am outside a flint-built farmhouse. Part of the house has knapped flints but in the older part they are left rounded with a slight imbrication to  the east, seemingly leaning because of the keening west wind up here on the dry hill.

There is a well in the courtyard in front of the building. I wind up the bucket, hoping for a drink. It is a long wind up. A long way down to the water table. A long way through this hill of well drained chalk. The bucket appears. It is half full of water. I take a long grateful drink. I pour the rest of the cool water over my head - a welcome wet chill. I look around, no people. No way, out except the way I came; in. I prop my bike against the parapet of the well. I drop to the ground to prop my back against it. I am too weary to search for a prop, a seat. I doze in the shadow of the well roof until a dream comes, of speedy pedalling along these old trading trackways.

The sun moves around. The shade moves away from my face. I wake in the sun - burning light. The dream retreats. The nightmare advances. I mount the hot saddle and free wheel down the track. The temperature drops. Grey clouds appear on the horizon. The clouds travel nearer. Wind comes from nowhere. The clouds arrive, now darker and thicker. Rain switches on, large thundery drops. It is cold, it is wet, Wind whips at my summer club top. I pedal faster to create warmth. The rain roars and hammers the ground. White rivulets form in the chalk ruts, turn to milk, race me down the track, looking for but not finding, a drain. It is a cross wind. I don’t know why. I am happy. It pushes me sideways. I keep on the bike, just. I follow the furrows. The tyres plough through the rivulets, competing to speed to the lower ground. The squall passes. Rain stops. Sun emerges from the clouds. A miraculous rainbow forms. I pedal faster, try to get to the illusory pot of gold. It moves away from me. the rainbow fades. Nothing lasts.

The rivulets chuckle and gurgle, not knowing that their life is nearly over. Twigs and leaves debris dam the bends. Clouded, milky water rushes down the straights. The ruts deepen, washed out to small river beds. The track flattens, the ruts fill with watery chalky mush. The green centre of the track changes to tarmac. A tee junction ahead, no coffee here. The rivulets meet their nemesis, a black drain grid, hellespont on speed as they rush to a certain death in the dark unknown depths below. I pedal faster, aiming for dryness and warmth. I start to steam. The tyres sing on the tarmac. A spray of droplets from the rear tyre form a wet line up my back. This is cycling. This is how it should be. I sing back to the tyres in happy harmony.

I look up to the side of the road, houses, shops and pubs appear - each side. I am entering a town. No reception committee. Where am I? What is the name of this town. I know I am in South East England because of the chalk downs, vernacular buildings of flint, lopped ends and tile hung fronts. All towns have a name. If a town had no name, no one would know of it because no one could refer to it. I see a church, built of red stone - is this possible? It is but parish churches are always built of local stone. Only cathedrals could afford to import stone because they had more tithes ground from the poor. I stop. I prop the bike against a gravestone to ‘tuts’ from purple and lavender clad ladies with large-brimmed hats who chat in the sunlit graveyard. Who will object to my bike? They are too late. I walk up to the war memorial. Names written in cyrillic script in columns down the five faces. Five fold symmetry, must be crinoidal. Why cyrillic? I go in the church. I pick up a hymnal, It is English, I recognise some of the words. I put it down. I walk out through the heavy door to the sunny graveyard. The lavender ladies have dispersed but my bike is still there. The gravestone has gone. Other gravestones have english names, Henry Edwards, George Kent… The church is now vernacular, flints and bricks. The war memorial has four sides, english names in english script. I look at the notice in the church porch, St Ethelburgh’s dates and times of services. The town has a name, Tenterton. I don’t know it.

I wake and stretch. My legs ache from all that pedalling. I dress. My cycle top is still sweaty, with a muddy line up the back.

Scenes of Autumn

The darkness expands, consumes the day.

Cloud low on the hill, wraiths in the trees.

Aspens tremble in the piercing winds,

sycamore first to shed its leaves

Trees unbutton ready for storms.

Twigs let fly leaves into the wind to

a fiery death on the forest floor, or

slicking the wet road, skids on the line

Make much mulch with the mudding earth

The warmth awakens the early spring bulbs.

Catkins exposed on naked trees,

spring is ready, but winter comes first

Starlings flock in many murmurations.

They wheel and swoop through the sky,

await the signal to leave these shores.

Empty cold wires, swallows all flown.

Children in wellies and warm winter woolies

gambol in parks like early spring lambs.

Squadrons of parents cluster to chat,

coated and scarfed ‘gainst the westerly wind 

Puddles in gutters reflect the weather,

Nested in potholes, wets the walkers boots.

Cyclists pedal, their lives on the line

Buses hide people behind steamy windows

Frontier between summer and winter

Insulates summer’s warmth from winter’s cold.

Too cold for summer, too warm for winter

My favourite season, Autumn.

Common cold

H5N1 - 0075 looked thoughtfully at his companion, he was small for a virus but purposeful and very adaptable. He was called SARS - 0213. His campaign has very nearly been successful. He and his family had moved through the population quite slowly and stealthily but the humans had reacted quickly, using all their skill and cunning to put their hygiene and infection protocols to best use and so they had defeated the spread of SARS. The family had been new to this war and so had not fully used their natural evolutionary ability to mutate. They were now reduced to a residual infection that now stayed at a low level in spite of all their best efforts. They were now regrouping and honing their mutation strategy to equip themselves better for the new outbreak in the human herd. They were now thinking of copying the very successful flu virus system of mutating during each summer and infecting the humans as the temperatures started dropping in late autumn. They had been very successful in 1918 with some 20 million human deaths but most viruses thought they were a spent force now that the humans had their adaptive flu vaccine in place for each season and so had gained the holy grail of herd immunity.

A breakaway group of SARS had looked at the possibility of mutating such that they could infect poultry, especially chickens, so that cross species infection could occur. This was, of course, possible and fairly easy but the avian flu viruses were well organised and their union was strongly against any other virus moving in on their territory. If the SARS tried this they would be up against a group of battle hardened avian flu warriors and they knew they could not infect dead chickens - the avianers were that ruthless, egged on as they were by the union coop stewards.

All this went through H5N1 - 0075’s brain as he considered and then rejected the idea of recruiting the SARS as allies in the continuing fight against the humans.

He had been given a free rein by the Virus Organising Body ( VOB ) so his next idea was to move up market and try to arrange an alliance with the bacteria. He knew this would be difficult because, although they had been badly affected by the use of antibiotics, their research scientists were now winning the war and breeding resistance to antibiotics in most of the eukaryotes. This meant they were getting more confident of victory and so, typically, they were reluctant to negotiate - seeing no need of alliances with what they considered to be inferior life forms. Some of them did not think viruses were life forms at all. He felt very small when he thought about this on his way to the meeting he had set up.

He was ushered into the throat of the meeting rooms, where he was kept waiting for 23 minutes before being shown into the presence of MRCA - 00995. They didn’t shake hands - too much risk of infection - and sat down across a table. The MRCA bacterium opened by saying that he thought the viruses had no more weapons in their locker so why should the eukaryotes be interested in a deal? The H5N1 responded by describing in detail the Ebola virus and how successful it had been so far and its plans for the future. ‘We see this as one of the viruses for the future as it has plans to use the human’s transport system to move and proliferate around the world. We really believe this could be an existential moment for the human race. Bacteria will then become irrelevant as far as the human war issue is concerned,’ he opined. ‘The MRCA family can, after all, be defeated merely by hand washing and a simple hygiene regime,’

The MRCA looked uncomfortable but riposted that they were working on resistant strains.

‘Well, it isn’t working well is it? The latest I heard was that you are in full retreat.’

‘Just as you are with the HIV virus.’

They batted back and forth for a while before agreeing a loose alliance between them. They agreed to not to attack the same humans and would not fight each other.

The H5N1 hurried off, he had a case of warts to encourage and had a meeting planned with a group of HPVs to show them how to best exploit the human vulnerability to porcine originated warts - or hogwarts as they were known.

The viruses had their own aristocracy and lower orders, similar to the human class system. The novo viruses were at the top of the tree of course but some of the others were sick of this and wanted the role of the lower classes of viruses to be more fully recognised. The ringleaders in this insurgency were the rhino viruses - they were ideally suited for this role as they were pachydermic anyway. Chief among these was the common cold - CC-0001. He was deeply resentful of his name - ‘We have probably caused more human misery than the rest of you lot,’ he said as he made his leader’s speech to the annual conference - held during the summer in Margate while the rhinos had very little to do. ‘Just because we are common, not to say ubiquitous, doesn't mean that we are not very effective. We fight the humans on the handkerchiefs, on the sniffing grounds - we will never surrender to the aspirin or the paracetamol. We will always be a headache to the human race.’

This speech started a revolution as the contribution to human misery by the Common Colds was finally recognised by the other viruses. The phage was set for the phinal confrontation with the human race. The common colds were not to be sneezed at in future.

A-Tishoo. ‘Excuse me.’

The Storm

The caterpillar was climbing up the twig that protruded from the trunk of the Flamboyant tree, almost to the wall of Alexander’s hut, munching the edges of the sweet leaves as it went. It ate continuously, only stopping when it got too dark to see the leaf. Dawn saw it start eating again. It rained, the caterpillar didn’t stop eating. The wind blew, the caterpillar didn’t stop eating. The sun shone, making the middle of the day very hot until the leaves started to wilt but still the caterpillar carried on eating. 

It didn’t stop eating until,one day, it felt a different urge come upon it. It stopped eating. It extruded a thread and then dangled from the twig. It dangled, dangled and waited as its body absorbed the nutrients from all those leaves and, as it did, it slowly changed form inside its protective case. 

*

Andrew Higginson was a meteorologist at the Woods Hole Marine Oceanographic Institute on Cape Cod. Today was a big day for him. A tropical storm had been forming for several days in the Caribbean and today there was a meeting of the specialists, with Andrew in the chair, in room 115C to discuss the issue and the storm prognosis. 

Andrew had worn a suit and tie as he was the chairman but the other six men were dressed in ‘student shabby’ with overtones of ‘tropical indolence.’ This meant that they all wore sandals or flip flops, surfers shorts and Tee shirts. A couple went even further and had the 70’s haircut, which meant a pigtail. ‘A right bunch of scruffy pirates,’ thought Andrew. They certainly didn’t look like dedicated scientists at the top of their field, as they unarguably were. 

The exception was the smartly dressed woman sitting at the end of the tale. She wore a black, all-encompassing dress with vivid red geometric patterns embossed on it, all topped off by a long,  flowing golden scarf. No one knew who she was and why she was here. She was Dr Constanza Grant-Price, ‘Connie’ to her friends. She said nothing, but listened intently to what the others reported and jotted neat notes on her A4 pad with a 0.5 mm fine-point drawing pen.

It was the 15th August, right in the middle of the North Atlantic hurricane season so a rapidly forming tropical cyclone was not unexpected, but this one seemed to be getting larger than normal but still didn’t seem to be building with the usual speed.

Once they were all seated, the coffee machine severely depleted, Andrew stood up and pointed to the first Keynote slide showing on the screen, shone from the projector mounted in the ceiling.

‘This satellite picture shows tropical storm “Ira”. You can see the anticlockwise swirl and the size across the centre. It is a larger than average storm and its parameter ratio is within normal limits but there is one strange thing in its development.

As you know, these storms normally follow a similar pattern even though they vary in the quantity of entrained energy so they grow at a daily, known, rate. This one is different however. “Ira” is growing more slowly than normal and the rate of change is slowing down. If this rate continues on its present path, it will stop growing in six days time.

I’ll now go around the table asking each of you to give your view of your own specialist area as it relates to this incipient . After we have all the data from each of you, I will open and chair a free discussion to try and get to the bottom of this.

Shall we start with you Tom? ‘

‘OK. As you know, my speciality is ocean water temperature. Our measurements show that the upper 50 metres of the ocean under the developing cyclone is, at 28^oC, well above the cyclone genesis minimum of 26.5^oC. This means that, from my point of view, the cyclone should be developing, driven by the energy it is gaining from the warm ocean,’

‘Thank you, Tom. You next David.’

‘Using the Emmanuel model of Maximum Potential Intensity I have found that the limit of intensity, using the ocean temperatures that Tom has given me, is very high so we potentially have here a very intense storm - “Ira” should be a big one! If it slowing down and appears to be heading for a zero-growth stasis, then that is very strange and outside of our normal parameters.’

‘OK, thanks David, do you have any ideas James?’

‘Well, err, as you all know, I deal with the Coriolis force and its effect on the tropical cyclogenesis. In this case, the storm centre or the surface expression of the storm centre - the epi centre if you will - is about 1900 km North of the equator. This easily meets the need for the epicentre to be at least 500 km from the equator to allow tropical cyclogenesis, so there is nothing unusual there - in my field anyway.’

‘Thanks for that contribution James.’ said Andrew. ‘Have you managed to identify the low level disturbance that set ‘Ira” off in the first place, Paul?’

‘There is nothing of note, Andrew, so we have to assume as usual that it was the depression last week in the ITC.’

‘In English, please Paul.

‘Oh, sorry - ITC is just a TLA ( three letter abbreviation ). It means Intertropical convergence zone.’

‘Now we come to the vertical wind shear. Anything unusual that you have seen recently? Viv?’

‘No, the vertical wind shear has been fairly weak over the last couple of weeks between the tropopause and the ocean surface so ‘Ira” should have been free to develop massively upwards.’Just the normal temperatures and pressures, I’m afraid, nothing unusual.’

‘Well Graham, we are all relying on you to come up with something surprising, you are least representative of the six parameters required for a tropical cyclone generation. What have you got for us?’

‘At first I thought it must be the upper level jet stream that was slowing down the storm’s development but that was normal for this time of year. I then checked the data for weaker wind speeds and higher minimum pressures - a baroclinic initiation, we call it. That was also normal.So I have to tell you that there is no favourable trough interaction that I could see.’ 

Andrew stood up and used his laser pointer to set a red dot on the screen. He highlighted the six parameters in turn and checked each one of as being within the normal range and so could not account for the slow and about to stop, development of the storm. The six specialist storm scientists started volubly defending their positions, each saying that one of the others must have got their data wrong, each defended their own numbers until there was quite a hubbub in the room and there was no resolution in sight.

The meeting wasn’t coming up with any solutions so he decided to close it and regroup at 1000 the following morning. ‘Have a think about it overnight and hopefully we will come to a conclusion tomorrow’ he half shouted at their departing backs. ‘Will you be here tomorrow Connie? he asked.

‘Yes, of course, I am just as puzzled as anyone but I am sure we will get it sorted out tomorrow.’

*

The dangle was coming to an end, there was movement inside the case. The case split at the bottom, the end furthest from the thread that was supporting it from the branch of the flamboyant tree. The tree had stood for many years on the headland overlooking Nelson’s Dockyard in Antigua. 

The caterpillar wasn’t interested in the history of the place. In fact the caterpillar had disappeared. It had metamorphosed into a different creature, one that was slowly easing itself moistly from the confines of its home. It managed to emerge fully and then carefully stretched out its long, weak legs. It stood there for some moments still folded up, as it had been made. Eventually the creature realised that it had wings and experienced an irresistible desire to stretch them out. It slowly and carefully did so. Its wings were revealed in all their black, gold and red glory, vivid patterns embossed on them. The creature waited, the wings drying and stiffening in the tropical sun.

After five short minutes the wings were dry and ready to use. The creature knew the time had come but was not aware of the consequences so it gave into its need. It jumped into the warm, gentle breeze. The butterfly flapped its wings and fluttered by the flamboyant tree that was its birthplace. It now had to search for a mate among the myriad others from the same tree, family tree, and lay the eggs that would be the start of the next cycle, the next generation.

*

It was five minutes past ten the next morning. All were there in the meeting room except Connie.

Andrew said,’Does anyone have any suggestions as to why ‘Ira’s” development is so slow and looks like it will not develop into a full cyclone?’

‘I do,’ said a voice from the opening door. ‘I have just come from the zoo physics department and we are fairly sure we have got the answer.’ Constanza walked to her seat at her accustomed place at the end of the table and sat down, arranging her notes neatly on the table in front of her.

Seven pairs of eyes followed her progress, all agog to see what she had found that they couldn’t unearth from all their data.

‘If I may explain Andrew?’ He just nodded, impatient to hear the denouement of the mystery.

‘You probably don't know either me or my department. My speciality is chaos theory as it applies to the living world. I study things like shoals of fish and flocks of birds and how they manage to fly or swim as a coherent swarm or shoal with no communication between the individuals.

I had a hunch last evening so I telephoned my colleague who is doing some field research on cyclical metamorphism, especially as it applies to butterflies on Antigua. He told me that the 13 year cycle butterflies were all emerging from their cases over the last few days. Their wing flapping has resulted in the effect, predicted by chaos theory, that it would have on the weather. They only live for three days, just long enough to mate and lay their eggs so I predict that ‘Ira’ will resume its development tomorrow and turn into a large tropical cyclone.’

The windows rattled in the increasing wind as Connie gathered up her notes and fluttered out of the room, leaving behind seven incredulous - and seriously miffed - meteorologists.

Council cuts

‘Dear Mr Scott, I have some news

that will not accord with your views.

Gardening is a low priority

within this urban local authority.’

This was written in the letter

that triggered off a bitter vendetta

between the council and Gilbert S,

who spent his spare time growing filbert - s

His allotment is in the city centre,

he doesn’t own it, just a renter.

It’s full of catkins, leafs and nuts

surrounding two green water butts

Hazel bushes are all very well

but don’t give very much to sell.

‘Gilbert isn’t economic,

merely mildly gastronomic.’

Times are hard,’ the letter said.

‘All our books are in the red.

We badly need to save some money,

we have no cash for milk and honey.

Children’s services have been cut

We had to sell the scouting hut,

stop filling potholes in the road,

cannot afford the high workload.

We’ve even sold the old folk’s homes.

The library has lost many tomes,

every youth club has been closed,

we voted for it unopposed

Everyone has to do their bit,

so now’s the time to take your hit.

We’re very sorry Gilbert Scott,

to have to say you’ve lost the plot.’

*

This news hit Gilbert very badly

He looked at his hazel bushes - sadly

He thought it unlikely, with no conviction,

Surely the council would not use eviction?

Where could he go, what could he grow

Hazel grows so very slow, you know.

Could he have another plot?

He asked the council, could they allot?

‘We have no land, no plots to spare

I know it isn’t very fair

But you should see our waiting list

You should have a lobbyist.’

Gilbert had to change his plan

he had an idea, he knew a man

At the zoo, just down the hill

They were always looking for his skill

The animals were counted every night

But the birds were difficult, when in flight

So that’s why Gilbert, a polymath

is counting parrots along the flight path.

The council is in private session

Alderman Smith had a confession.

‘We have to close the zoo,’ he said.

‘There, I’ve said it, I’ve made my bed.

Why should a council own a zoo?

It always loses money too.

Those pesky parrots make a noise

Though they are pretty, all turquoise.

We will save a hefty sum.’

He thought a bit and sucked his thumb…

‘Gilbert Scott will lose his job,

That will save us quite a few bob.

Why is Gilbert counting parrots?

What brought him in, what were the carrots?

Did he only need the money,

to live his life with milk and honey?

So they sacked poor Gilbert S.,

No more dreams of growing filbert - s

They sold the zoo, elephants and rats,

Now it’s just a block of flats.

Then Gilbert had a great insight

He would plant his trees at night

He collected all his nutty stocks

Planted them out, emptied his box

Now walk and see the hazel trees

Waving gently in the breeze

and marvel at the name they’ve got:

Gilbert Scott has got his plot.

Dreams

‘The sun was hovering low above the horizon. The air was clear and still. There was no red in the evening sky. The red was concentrated in the desert sand and the rocky banks of the wadi that led to the sea, many miles away to the South East. The wadi was dry of any water. The only sign that water was involved in it’s creation was the drifts of pebbles across a point bar and the dunes that looked half finished in its bed. They had been cut by further currents at the base of the water column, imbricating the flat rocks with the speed and force of the flow, saltating the smaller ones, clouding the water with sandy drifts until it was opaque.

It had been a hot day, no clouds. This was normal here, it had been normal for many days, years, millennia. It had been many thousand years since it had rained here. There was no shade, nothing to cast shadows until the planet cast its own over itself as the sun deserted this barren place at the end of each day. It felt ironic that this desert was in the rain shadow of the vast, craggy, knife edged mountains to the North West. The mountains had been thrown up into the sky by the mighty clash of the crustal plates. The movement was slow but neither plate would yield, the only way was up. These were mighty mountains, deep - rooted in the continental crust. They were tall, tall enough to spear into the circling clouds until they leaked and let water drop from their icy upper reaches. 

The water hit the mountain tops, washing down the fragments released by the expanding ice. The torrents increased in size as they merged and flowed faster down the flanks of the giants utill the gradient eased and the streams formed great outwash fans of rocks, boulders, pebbles and sand. The torrents joined as they slowed, joined with their cousins from other familial mountains. The increased volume of water was able to move huge volumes of material downstream. Some was deposited in the bed, other, smaller grained material was carried within the water column, deposited on the inside of bends then eroded away again, building and destroying dunes. 

The flood reached the wadi formed from the last flood, and the flood before that. It deepened and was channelled by the rocky banks, its speed increased, it roared and growled, fought with itself, humped up in great waves and was a reddish brown with its load of sediments. Nothing stood in its way but there were no floaters, no tree trunks, plants had not yet established, the desert was barren. The flash flood reached the end of the wadi, the flood dispersed, fed into a braided river system moving lazily across a vast plain. The larger boulders were dropped, pebbles were still carried on until they too were dropped as the flow slowed. The cloudy water sluggished and then came to a stop. This time it had not reached the sea but there would be other floods. The remaining water in the playa lakes soaked into the ground and what was left evaporated, leaving white minerals behind. 

All was now quiet, all was calm, peace spread across the plain and the sun went to her rest. No animals stirred. There were no animals, only a few dead, toothless, armoured  fish that had been marooned in the playas by the retreating water. They died, suffocated in the muddy, fine-grained sediments, ready to take their place in the fossil record, to wait for 400 million years until plucked out of the red cliffs by bright eyed students.

'I keep on having this dream, Doctor. Why is it always the same time, why always a flood and then a sunset?’

‘That is certainly a lot of whys,’ said Dr Williams. ‘We will have to check you out physically, check your medications and see if we can find a cause. In the meantime, your hour is up and we can continue next time. Please see your GP for a full physical and bring a list and samples of all your meds next time.’

‘OK Doc,’ I said as I levered myself off the couch which squeaked as my body surfed the worn leather. ‘I’ll make an appointment for a couple of week’s time. See you then. I’d better get back to work now.’ I picked up my helmet and clamped it onto my suit to form an air tight seal before reaching the door that the doctor held open for me.

The doctor let his patient out of the door, closed it firmly, set the clamps and then went over to the window. He twisted the control to allow him to see out. He looked at the red surface of the desert, the ragged mountains in the distance, the dry wadi heading down to the South East, the sun low in the sky. ‘Why had his patient dreamed of water? There had been no rivers on Mars for millions of years.’ He sighed, walked back to his desk to write up the report, before unclamping the air tight door, ready for his next patient.

Life - A Poem in Tanka form

Everest sunrise

Looking up and looking down.

Think forward, look back

In frozen eternity

All possible lives ahead.

Kala Pattar peak,

Air is cold but sun is hot.

Living not enough,

Must have mountains and music,

Must have freedom and fresh air.

Questions - A poem in Fibonacci Form

Questions

How,

what,

where, when,

who, why not?

Use all these questions.

You have all the answers; the meaning of life?

Life has no meaning, it just is. All the answers have no meaning.

The logic then is that the questions are also meaningless. Therefore you know not of what you speak. Reset to default.

After 13.8 billion years you are born, you live for 100 years, then you die. Does this twinkle of time have meaning in the universe? Does the universe notice that you have existed? No.

Identity - A poem in Etheree form

I

am me.

You are one

of the many

others of the they.

Who are the many thems?

Looking over all the world,

where is the brotherhood of man?

Where is the sisterhood of women?

We are one family so should not fight.

Who

Am I?

My mother’s son

and my father’s son.

My grandmothers’ grandson

and my grandfathers’ grandson.

My great grandmothers’ great grandson

and my great grandfathers’ great grandson.

More generations into the past,

we are all the family of mankind.

What

colour

is your skin?

What shape are you?

Why does it matter?

Where are you coming from?

Do we not all have two legs?

Do we not all have ten fingers?

Are we not more alike than different?

Embrace your world; your brothers and sisters

Shine

Jessica is dead.

            I cannot say these words out loud, because that would make it so, engrave her death into the indelible history of our family, just as the date will be goldly engraved forever into the black shiny granite of her waiting headstone. They circle around inside my head with no escape, polishing the inside of my skull to a head-aching shine. I can change where I live, change where I work, even change from being alive, but I cannot change the truth of those words. I would do anything that would allow me to.

            ‘Bring her back, Jack,’ Diane begs.

            ‘Bring her back, Dad,’ Amanda begs.

            ‘Bring her back, God,’ I beg. ‘Take me instead’. There is no answer.

            We will bury her today but it doesn’t help; talk of closure is nonsense. It pushes Jessica further away from us. It is all too predictable. Family and friends come and talk, offer to help, ‘anything I can do, just ask’.

            ‘Bring her back,’ I reply. They look down and shuffle their newly-shined shoes in the dust like guilty children, refusing to meet my entreating eye, shiny with yet more, unshed tears.

            ‘Why didn’t you save her?’ accuses Diane. ‘You’re her father, it’s your job to protect her. You failed her.’

            I think, but dare not say, ‘you are her mother, you failed her too.’ She knows this, I know this, we will both know this for our separate, eternal, purgatories.

            We did the tumbler test. We raced her to hospital. We screamed at the doctors, ‘Help her, help her, please. Do something, anything, quickly, now.’

            The heart has gone from our family. This will surely destroy us as we try to apportion the available blame. Without Jess we don’t have a family. We are now just individuals. Diane is Jessica’s ex mother, Amanda, her ex sister, I am her ex father. We are now just extras in the short story of her life. At night, I turn over and clasp Diane’s hand but she tugs it back, turns and shrivels away from me. There is no sleep or comfort here.

            Diane blames me but blames herself more. A mother should not allow her child to die before her. We always thought that it would be Jess who would look after us in our old age, she is was – why do we have to change the words? - the caring one. Amanda is the practical one, always looking to fix things. She has now found something that she cannot fix. Her sister is dead, she cannot allow it, we cannot allow it. What can we do?

*

We drive in a shiny black convoy through the South Downs, to Pyecombe, to the Church of the Transfiguration. We slowly climb the gentle dip slope of the chalk hills. We suddenly drop down the steep scarp at Dale Hill; like the story of Jessica’s life - a long slow learning and growth to near adulthood and then a sudden crash into death. 

            We don’t talk during the drive. Diane keeps her hands clamped around mine. They slowly whiten.

            The car stops outside the church and I help Diane out. She moves slowly, like an old woman bent under an unbearable burden. We walk through the rows of ancient headstones that carry faded, forgotten names, to meet the waiting vicar. He is new, not the one who christened Jessica here nineteen years ago in August ’95.  The polished silica surfaces of the knapped flints in the ancient walls glint the sunshine back at us, guarding against any entry of cheerfulness or warmth.

            Diane refuses to enter the church. Everyone waits. I sit with her in the porch and clasp her to me.

            ‘Come on Di, we need to do this for Jess. She is waiting for us.’

            ‘I… I just can’t do it, Jack.’

            Amanda kneels on the worn flags and strokes her mother’s hands. ‘We can do it Mum, just like we always do, the four of us, together.’ She wipes away her mother’s tears with her thumbs and helps her to her feet.

            ‘You’ve torn your tights Mandy.’

            ‘Doesn’t matter Mum, come on, hold on tight.’

            We inch into the church, Amanda on her left, me to her right and take our places in the front pews where the sidesman silently indicates. We are helping Diane but who is going to help me? Why do men always have to pretend to be strong? ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’

            We sit in the cold, shiny wooden pew in this old, cold church. We listen to cold comfort from the vicar. I try to pray, but God coldly turns his face from me. Is it guilt or is he just laughing at us all, with our tiny, pathetic, human emotions? If anyone knows how we feel, it should be him, so why does he turn away from us when we are in most need of his comfort? Does he care? Does he exist?

            I gaze at the oaken coffin, polished to a shine that reflects the slow burning candles, on its oh-so-practical stands in the aisle. I insisted that it should have rounded ends so that there would be no corners; I know that evil lurks in corners. I had to do something for her. How can it be Jess in there? Will she suddenly pop the lid, jump out, skip over and tell us it was just one of her silly jokes and laugh with us?

            I don’t think I will ever laugh again.

            I swivel round on the oak bench, polished to a dull, smooth shine by a thousand backsides, to look at my lifelong friend, Bill. He returns my look, expressionless. He knows what I am thinking, just as I know what he is thinking. ‘Is it because of all the things we have done and left undone over the years of Jessica’s life?’ He slowly shakes his head at me, ‘No,’ he is saying, ‘it is nothing to do with that, there is no cause and effect.’ How does he know?  He doesn’t even believe in God.

            It has always been this way, we used to say that we were telepathetic. When we met a few minutes ago, he said nothing, just clasped me in an unmanly hug and looked me directly in the eye, which I know is difficult for him, he says that he cannot collimate. He is a typical architect, mildly autistic. No one else did that. Everyone else looked sheepish, didn’t know what to say, except to murmur, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and then quickly flock to the back of the church, just in case death is contagious and takes a shine to anyone who lingers.

            The organ has been playing, but I only notice it when it stops. The vicar rises from his  oaken chair, using the shiny armrests to lever himself upright, prepares to start the final rituals. I want to stand up and tell him to wait, perhaps Jessica isn’t dead after all; how foolish would he feel if he started too early and Jessica was to live for another seventy years? It’s too final. Please wait. Perhaps she is outside, she never liked being inside churches.

            ‘Why would God want to come in here, when all His creation, birds and flowers, are outside in the sunshine?’ she used to say to me.

            I don’t stand of course, so the vicar starts. I don’t listen. Why would I want to hear any of this? There are meaningless phrases and platitudes that God must hear a thousand times each day, in different languages, with ethnic variations, and some that pass him by because they are addressed to one of the myriad other gods. The vicar winds down.

            The undertaker’s men slowly file in to take up their places and lift the coffin onto their shoulders with a practised heft. One even remembers to fold away the oh-so-practical stands, so that no one trips over them. Heaven forfend that anyone should get hurt and die at a funeral; too convenient.

            We file out and approach the waiting hole in the ground. Diane wanted cremation, but obviously I couldn’t even consider that, it would be too final and my thoughts would visualise too clearly what was happening in the hidden furnace. The grave is deep, deeper than I imagined, a black hole in the white chalk of the Sussex downland. I am having second thoughts about cremation, too late, my thoughts race around seeking scenes I refuse to visualise. How long will it take for the damp earth to remove the shine from the coffin, how long will it take the coffin to rot away, how long before…?

            I realise that the shine has been taken from our life forever, no amount of regretful polishing will ever bring it back.

Why are the birds singing? Has no one told them that Jessica is dead?

            There; I almost said the unsayable words.

1500 words