Roll of the die

Theme words

Abbeyshrule

Winter

Freddie Miles

Clara Graham

Black cardigan
Cycle helmet

Sloth

Wrath.

Roll of the die.

Uncle Declan was late. He should have been here by now. Clara had been waiting for him by the gate ready to claim him as soon as the taxi from the airport rolled up but she had come in because of the cold. It was unusual to have much snow in Abbeyshrule, but this winter there had been about ten normal year’s worth in one month. The ‘plane from Paris Beauvaix was a little one and so had to take its turn after the other planes waiting for clearance from the air traffic control. There was also the ritual deicing of the wings before taking off into the cold French sky, about three hours late.

‘I’m bored,’ she told her Aunt Mary, who was busy cooking a celebratory meal to welcome her husband home. ‘What can I do?’ 

‘Why don’t you do some drawing here in the kitchen with Niamh and me until your Uncle gets home? You can talk to us at the same time.’

Clara ran upstairs to get her pencils, crayons and the roll of white lining wallpaper that her Aunt had got for her to save buying small sheets of drawing paper. Clara enjoyed drawing and colouring and so got through a lot of paper.

‘Why are you so eager to see your Uncle anyway?’

‘When he was last home, he said he would take me riding when he was here next’

‘You’re horse mad, you,’ Mary laughed, ’I wonder if I can guess what you are going to draw now.’

‘Horses!’ they chorussed.

*****

Clara had travelled over the previous week from her home in Exeter with her Mum, Susan. They both enjoyed spending time in Ireland and Mary was always glad to see her older sister and niece. It broke up the lonely weeks when Declan was away on circus business, arranging gigs across Europe for the next summer. Clara liked it in Abbeyshrule, especially when her cousin Niamh was home from school. Clara’s school was still shut for the Christmas holidays and she didn’t like moping around the caravan they lived in at the circus’s winter quarters outside Exeter. Her father was always busy with repairs after the summer touring season so had little spare time for her.

It was a very quiet village and Clara enjoyed wandering around exploring. She liked the ruins of the abbey on the banks of the River Inny. She especially enjoyed looking at the tourist boats on Royal Canal and talking to the tourists in the summer. Clara thought of County Longford as her second home now as they had been over most summers and for lots of visits in the winter. The only thing she really missed about being here was being separated from the circus horses in Exeter. The best thing, of course, was that she had her cousin, Niamh, who was her age, to play with.

‘Why do you always draw brown horses, Clara Graham,’ asked Mary, when she looked at the horses galloping along the wallpaper.

‘They aren’t brown, Aunty,’ said Clara, scornfully. ‘They are chestnut. I just like chestnut horses, the greys and bays frighten me a little but chestnuts are always friendly.’

Clara was mad about horses but Niamh didn’t like them much and preferred cycling. They often had friendly arguments about which was best.

*****

There was a toot of a car horn outside the front door. It was the taxi bringing Declan from the airport.

The two girls rushed out to greet him and to argue over who was going to carry his case in. Niamh won, she was Declan’s daughter after all. ‘Will you take me riding tomorrow Uncle Declan?’ clamoured Clara.

‘Will you take me cycling Dad?’ insisted Niamh, not to be left out.

‘Give Declan a chance to get in the door, girls,’ laughed Mary. ‘I expect he is ready for his supper after such a long journey.’

‘I am that, to be sure.’ said Declan as they all sat down to eat around the big kitchen table.

‘How long are you home for this time, Declan,’asked Mary

‘I think I can manage a couple of weeks now,’ he said, ‘they can cope without me for a few days, don’tcha think now?’

‘You can stay as long as they will let you, Declan, you’ll get no argument from me,’   said Mary.

‘Same goes for us, doesn’t it Clara?’

‘It really does, I like having you here Uncle. Does that mean you’ll have time to take us horse riding?’

‘And cycling,’ said Niamh.

‘OK,’ laughed Declan, ‘I give in. I’ll take the both of you tomorrow.’

There were squeals of delight from the girls.

*****

‘Are you ready Uncle Declan?’ said Clara as he wandered down stairs, half asleep.

‘Can I have some breakfast first?’

‘If you hurry,’said Niamh.

‘I can see that it’s going to be two against one all day. What are you two having for breakfast?’

‘Oh, we’ve had ours ages ago.’

‘I’d better hurry then, hadn’t I.’

*****

Declan finished his breakfast and managed to keep the girls still long enough for him to gulp down a cup of coffee. They piled into his car and they were off. It wasn’t far, about twenty miles through the narrow Irish lanes and then they were there.

They climbed up and walked over to the horse, Clara stroked it. It was a chestnut, of course. Niamh looked at it scornfully as she put on her cycle helmet and clipped the strap under her chin.  ‘I’m sure I can cycle faster than that thing,’ she declared. ‘We’ll see,’ said Clara, determinedly. Declan helped them up on to their respective mounts.  They were off, slowly at first and then getting faster. Niamh was just behind Clara’s right shoulder when she took a quick glance behind her, her black cardigan streaming out in the wind. ‘I’m catching you up,’ shouted Niamh, over the wind rushing past them. ‘I don’t think so,’ yelled back Clara as the chestnut galloped on, faster and faster. ‘Beauty here is a fast horse.’ They rushed on neck and neck laughing as they sped on. They were both enjoying the speeding exhilaration -  no sloth or wrath here. Niamh couldn’t quite manage to catch up with Beauty and Clara, however much effort she put into pushing the pedals around.

After a while, both Clara and Niamh were getting tired so they slowed down a little and then Declan’s cousin, Freddie Miles, shouted that time was up. Beauty slowed from a gallop to a canter, to a trot and then finally stopped. Niamh stopped pedalling and came to a halt at the same time as Clara. They agreed to call the race a draw.

They got off their mounts and wandered over to Declan who was chatting to Freddie. The girls thanked both of them and asked if they could have another ride on the carousel tomorrow.

New book published

I have finally made the leap and published a book on Amazon.

The book is called:-

ENTERTAINMENT ON THE TRAIN

It is a collection of short stories, a couple of poems and one script for a play.

Now comes the harder part, learning how to promote it. This announcement is one small part of it!

The Amazon link is:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=richard+kefford

or just search for my name in Amazon books.

Voices

Voices

A medical student popped his head around the door and looked over the people sat in rows in the over-heated waiting room in the surgery, of the pretty village on the A47, five miles from Acle in Norfolk, as if he was picking out the best prospect for an interesting disease. 

‘Mr Sinclair?’ he enquired, with the air of someone who could not believe that the appointment system had brought together the right patient with the right doctor at the right place and at the right time.

‘Excellent, please follow me,’ he said as he saw a man stand up. He marched down the corridor to room six at the end. ‘Come in, come in,’ he invited briskly. ‘Please sit down. How can I help you today?’

Clive realised that this was indeed a doctor sitting at the desk, he looked young only because he himself was getting older and that the doctor was waiting for him to tell him all about his potentially embarrassing problem.

‘First of all, I would like to assure you that I am not mad, doctor.’ The doctor nodded reassuringly, he had heard this preamble many times before. He edged closer to the desk so that he could reach the telephone quickly, if necessary. He switched on his false, bedside smile, which he had practiced at home in front of his bathroom mirror.

‘Of course you’re not. Why have you come to see me today?’

‘Err, well, err, it’s because I hear voices in my head.’ There he had said it. He expected a posse of white coated musclemen to burst through the door, strap him into the canvas jacket one of them carried, before marching him out backwards to a waiting ambulance to be driven off, never to be seen in polite society again. He would then be incarcerated in an old stately home that had recently fitted bars over all the windows and high end locks on the solid doors. It would be called something that sounded pleasantly rural like, The Willows to hide its true purpose. It wouldn’t do to call it Bedlam No. 5 would it?

No one rushed through the door. The doctor looked at him with an encouraging smile. ‘How long has this been going on. Tell me more about the voices and what they want you to do.’ “Just another poor wage slave pushed beyond his coping limits into psychosis,” he thought. “Schizophrenia probably,” he diagnosed to himself against all his mental health training. “ A standard issue nutcase. I must check the valium stocks with the pharmacy.”

‘Well, they don’t want me to do anything. They don’t talk to me directly. It is more as if I am listening in on other people’s conversation. They vary during the day with different people but they are usually similar at the same times of day. They aren’t aloud, just in my head. I have tried wearing headphones and they make no difference.’

‘Do you recognise any of the voices?’ asked Dr O’Neill

‘Oh yes, they are usually radio programme presenters. I often hear John Humphries, for example.’ Sean was now getting interested. This was not the common, run of the mill nutcase, as the medical profession was wont to call them between themselves when they thought no patients were listening. They used longer, often latin, names in front of the patients. They didn’t want the patients to know as much as they did as that was often very little and seldom enough to cure the disease. It was also bad for the patients morale.

‘I suppose John  Humphries is better than Napoleon,’ said Sean. ‘That was a joke by the way. To help me with the diagnosis, I would like you to keep a diary of the voices for a month. Note down the day, time and the identity if you know it of anyone who is speaking. I’m sure this something we can easily sort out for you.’

‘Thank you doctor,’ said Clive, as he got up from the chair to leave. After he had left and the door was tightly closed, Sean brought up Clive’s medical notes on the screen. There was no history of mental illness, stress or anything obvious that could lead to hearing voices. He typed in a few notes on their conversation and finished them off with a “NFN?” ( Normal for Norfolk ) He had come across several people, during his time at the practice, with webs between their fingers, for example, so the variations in the  make up of the human body in this part of the country no longer surprised him.

*****

Clive edged nervously into the reception area of the surgery. He checked in with the hatchet - faced receptionist who looked as if she would only allow a set number of patients to be ill each week. What happened if the quota was reached before you phoned up for an appointment? Were you just expected to get better on your own or perhaps go and find a deep ditch somewhere and quietly expire with no fuss?

He passed that first hurdle and was ordered to take a seat. He did think of enquiring where he should take the seat and was it far but, probably wisely, decided to say nothing except a meek ‘Thank you.’

The same procedure as last time followed so he was soon sitting at the side of Dr O’Neill’s desk. He had a spreadsheet of the voice times on a spreadsheet - Clive was good with spreadsheets - covering the complete month. Every day was shown from eight o’clock in the morning until ten at night. Sean could see that Clive had done little else over the month except to populate the spreadsheet. 

The list of names struck a chord with Sean. Where would you come across the voices of John Humphries, Sarah Montague, Melvin Bragg, Laura Kuensberg, Dara O’Braine, Prof. Brian Cox…Suddenly he had it! They were all presenters on BBC Radio 4. He picked up the phone on his desk and demanded of the receptionist that she get him a copy of last week’s Radio Times or one of last week’s Sunday papers. ‘When Dr ?’ she asked. 

‘Any time within the next five minutes,’ demanded Sean in as commanding a tone he could muster without his voice ‘morphing into a shriek.

The harridan on reception was shocked into action. Dr O’Neill had never acted like this before so it must indeed be an emergency. ‘Should I send for an ambulance doctor?, she asked nervously.

‘Of course not, just run up to Mr Patel’s on the corner and bring me back the paper as soon as you can.’

‘Poor Dr Sean must have gone mad,’ she decided, but cantered off the the shop on the corner as that seemed to be the safest thing to do. She returned after about five minutes and knocked on Dr O’Neill’s door. She was commanded to enter by the good doctor and she handed him a copy of the Radio Times before backing out of his consulting room and hurrying back to the safety of her normal working location at her command post. She felt a lot better and more in control there.

Sean opened the magazine at random and compared the day’s predicted programmes on Radio 4 with the same date page on Clive’s spreadsheet. They matched exactly. What was going on? Sean asked Clive to come back and see him in a week’s time. That would give him an opportunity to investigate further and, hopefully, come up with some sort of answer for the worried Clive. He was not just worried about the voice of Kirsty Young in his head introducing that week’s castaway, his major concern was escaping the surgery without being captured and interrogated by Miss Hagan from her control centre.

*****

Sean wandered into the Mucky Duck, an ancient but scruffy pub which he had adopted as his local. It had its name changed from the Wensum Arms to the White Swan a few years before by some marketing genius at the head office of the owners, Pink King Brewery in Acle. It was now known by the locals as the Mucky Duck, much to the owners chagrin. In the corner, near the fireplace he spotted his colleague from the practice, Doctor Roger Price. He wandered over to the bar to collect a couple of pints of the famous Acle beer, ‘Old Mouldy’ and took them over to Roger and sipped a welcome mouthful before greeting him.

‘Kill any of your patients today, Rog?’ he casually asked as a way of getting a conversation going.

‘Not as far as I know, Sean. How about you? Any interesting diseases today?’ As was obvious by now, they were friends as well as colleagues and were far too used to the everyday little problems of their patients so it was good news for them when a patient wandered in with an interesting problem. Not so good for the patient tho’. They used the pub as a place to meet and discuss any problems they had with patients so Sean soon got around to talking about Clive and his voices. As Sean explained the problems that Clive had, he could see Roger’s growing interest.

‘I had a patient last month that had a similar sort of delusion. He reckoned he could see things in a different way, much like bees could see flowers for example. He had researched this and done some experiments and eventually decided that he could see ultra violet light. He had got one of those UV torches that they use to check markings on valuables that fluoresce when exposed to UV light and he could see the light from it. He went out in the country one night when there was no moon or starlight because of the clouds and he could see his way by using the UV, ‘dark light’ torch. I tested him of course in the surgery with the curtains closed and the light off and found that he could read a newspaper by using the torch. I had to agree with him that he wasn’t mad or deluded but that his vision system - eyes and brain had changed to extend his view of the electromagnetic spectrum into the ultra violet. Do you think something similar is happening to your patient Sean?’

‘Possibly, but it would have to be a totally different method of detecting the radio frequency of the electromagnetic spectrum as he appears to be receiving radio waves and they are a longer wavelength than infra red at the opposite end of the visible spectrum. He is not receiving the signals via his eyes so he must have developed a different receiving system.’

‘Doesn’t radio four transmit on VHF  FM?’

‘Yes, I looked it up. It transmits on 92 - 95 megahertz but it also transmits on DAB using COFDM technology - can you tell I looked it up? This transmits on one of a number of multiplex’s between 217.5 and 239 MHz. I think it is more likely that he is receiving somehow on DAB because how would a biological organism be able to decode FM?’

‘I know a guy who is an expert o radio physics. Why don’t I contact him and you two can have a chat about it?’

‘Yeah, OK, what’s to lose? I might learn something.’

*****

Professor James Maxwell strode over to the ginger figure hunched over his pint and writing furiously in a notebook on the table. He guessed, correctly, that this  was the man he had come to meet, Dr Sean O’Neill. 

‘You must be Sean,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Sean, ‘would you like a beer?’

‘No, just a small glass of Merlot please.’

Sean came back to the table with the glass of wine for James and a refilled pint glass of Old Mouldy for him.

‘So James, you are an expert on the electromagnetic spectrum?’ asked Sean

‘Not really an expert but I have been studying it for some thirty seven years so I do know a little about it. Call me Jim by the way, everyone does.’

OK Jim. Well, I’m sure Roger has a told you a little about my patient? I can’t tell you his name due to doctor / patient confidentiality of course.’

‘That’s no problem, just tell me what is happening to him.’

Sean went through the whole Colin saga and as he talked, he could see Jim get more and more interested.

‘If what you say is true, do you understand the implications of this, Sean?’

‘Do you mean for the health of my patient or wider implications?’

‘I mean both. I am sure you can help your patient with, for example Cognitive Behavioural Therapy so helping him to tune out the voices when he needs to. That will put him back in control of his mental health. The other implication is that, if indeed he is hearing Radio Four in his head, then he must have a centre in his brain that is receiving and decoding their DAB or FM transmissions. The most likely is Digital Audio Broadcasting as I cannot see how an organism could possibly decode Frequency Modulation. This we can easily prove by screening out each system in turn to see which he is receiving. I have heard rumours of this happening before but not of a provable event. Do you think he will be agreeable to come and do some research work in our labs with us once you have taught him how to switch off his voices when he needs to and reassured him that he is not mad?’

‘Yes, I think so. He is an intelligent man, just worried that he is going round the bend. That is a technical term we doctors use by the way. Thanks for all your help, Jim. I’ll send you an e mail once he is sorted out and if he is willing to work with you on this to look further into his amazing ability.’

‘OK, I’ll wait to hear from you once you have got his Maxwell demons out of his head. See you then.’

‘I like that. Do you ever get called Clarke?’

‘Frequently, I just try to ignore it. Do you ever get asked where you have parked your C5?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ They both laughed and walked out of the pub together.

*****

It was a year later, Jim had invited Sean to his lab to talk about the progress they had made with subject ‘C’.

‘Well Sean, I have to thank you for passing your patient on to me. We taught him how to deal with his stress and the voices by the use of CBT. He responded well to that and, once he accepted that they weren’t the voice of the devil and he wasn’t nuts he was cured of all his angst. I suppose you could say that we did your work for you but I am still glad you referred him to us because we have had an amazing year and have come up with a major discovery.

‘Well, if you have done my job for me I suppose you don’t want any more referrals like Colin?’

‘Why, have you come across any more patients with the same problem?’

‘Not quite, no more who can hear Radio 4 but I now have a couple who can tune in to Classic FM. The good thing for them is that they didn’t need CBT as they can control the phenomenon. They had a sort of neural volume control in their head so, once I reassured them that they were ‘normal’, they didn’t need any further treatment. Should I send them along to you to have their heads examined, Jim?’

‘Yes, I would love to see them, it would make a change to hear some decent music instead of some idiot called Melvin wittering on about ancient Roman painters or some such rubbish. In the meantime, shall I bring you up to date with where we are so far?’

‘Yes, ok Jim, my life has been too exciting recently, I could do with a dose of boredom,’ smiled Sean

‘I can certainly manage that,’ said Jim. ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll start from where we had completed training Clive in CBT techniques. We then wired him up to an encephalograph to monitor his brainwaves to see if we could see which part of his brain was receiving the signals and which part was decoding them. It turns out that it was being received in the left side of the brain, near the surface in the Auditory cortex for the right ear. When he allowed himself to hear the voices, he was a little deaf in the right ear. It makes sense that the signal was being received in this part of the brain as it is near the surface and our measurements showed that radio signal of that frequency are severely attenuated by passing through the skull and brain matter. The received signals are then passed to the General Interpretive Centre which is also located on the left side of the brain responsible for language and mathematical calculation and is close to the receiving Auditory cortex.

This all makes sense. We now had to establish how Colin’s brain came to be receiving these signals.

Our first hypothesis was that a part of his skull was acting as a rectifier and so decoding the signals just as some people have been known to do by the mercury amalgam in their teeth in the early twentieth century. The sound was then transported via bone conduction through the skull to the auditory processes in the ears. We soon discounted this theory as Colin had no fillings in his teeth and any fillings would not work on the new DAB system.

We then carried out an MRI scan on Colin’s head and found something remarkable. His auditory cortex was about 12% larger than normal. We the set up a DAB low power transmitter with Colin in Faraday cage so that he was isolated from all electromagnetic fields except those being transmitted from the DAB transmitter. We found that Colin could ‘hear’ radio Four frequencies very well but also other stations using the DAB system if the transmitter power was increased by about 50%. 

I think, if we carry out MRI scans on your ‘Classic FM’ patients we will find that their Auditory cortexes are also of an unusually large size.

Our current findings suggest that human brains are responding to being soaked in the radio and maybe ultraviolet and infra red, frequencies of the electromagnetic spectrum during the twentieth and early twenty first centuries by creating a capacity to respond to these signals. This fits well with the research in neuroscience over the last decade or so that shows the remarkable ability of the brain to modify and rewire itself - the emerging science of brain plasticity.

It also shows the possible way forward to research the clinical uses of this remarkable response in the fields of recovery from stroke, parkinson’s disease, motor neurone disease, multiple sclerosis etc.’

‘Wow,’ said Sean.’All this from Colin hearing voices.’

‘Yes, this is the first confirmation we have had that the human race is still evolving and will eventually be a new species. We have provisionally called this new species Homo Radiolarensis. We are looking forward to the day when we find not only a receiver, like Colin but a transmitter. That will be a major leap forward in communication. It will be very close to the telepathy that has been the stuff of science fiction for a couple of hundred years. 

We will have to change Descartes’ saying from ‘I think therefore I am’ to ‘Think and the world thinks with you.’

Janus

Janus

I stop on the path that leads back to the road-head at Blairmore from Sandwood Bay and look across the the magical, mirroring surface of the loch. The wind has dropped, all is calm, not even a wandering zephyr ruffles  the surface of the water. A soft white feather seems to float above the surface on a reflection of itself, not daring to enter the unknown world beneath. The bright, white clouds drift slowly across the cerulean sky as their twins swim in the loch below, exact inverted images framed by the rocky shores.

The clouds move on the water but do not disturb it. Which is real, the cloud in the sky or the inverted reflection in the water? Does it matter? If I took away the picture, by tossing a stone into the loch, the cloud in the sky would still be there if I looked up; but if the cloud in the sky was moved away by a gentle breeze, the cloud in the water would disappear, it cannot survive alone, it needs its skybourne sibling.

Which am I, the cloud in the sky or the image in the water? Does it matter? Yes, I need to know.  Can I exist alone in this universe or do I need something else to reflect me into existence?

I cannot stand to think about this, I must sit to contemplate. I slip off my rucksack, enjoying its heft as I swing it off my shoulder. I sit on a rock worn smooth by the passing eons of deep time, waiting and willing to be my seat for a minute fraction of its vast age. It is a block of Lewisian GneissI that has lived for three billion years longer than me. It has contributed to two thirds of the history of this planet.  I respect its seniority. 

The thermos waits with sweet, warm coffee. How does it know to keep it hot or cold? Where is the changeover switch?

The encompassing silence wraps itself around me like a blank canvas on an artist’s easel. Miniature  dabs of the artist’s brush produce small sounds; a guttural grunt of a sheep, a sibilant shriek of a seagull, on the pale background whispering  wash of the breakers on the shore.

I am in the moment, wanting this day never to end. I’ll bring the tent next time, lay cosy in my sleeping bag, lulled to sleep by the endless crashing of the Atlantic breakers on the sand.

I pour coffee into the plastic cup, luckily the flask has decided to keep it hot -must be set to ‘automatic’. I fold my hands around the cup to enjoy the warmth. I shake a handful of nuts and raisins into my palm and hoover them up with lips that are chilled by the winter air but comforted by the warmth of the coffee and munch with great satisfaction. I munch with savouring satisfaction as I relish the reassuring squelch of water in my boots that have been over topped by the sea racing across the silent sweep of singing sands. A tangible memory of a wonderful place. I will always remember sliding down the ten metre dunes, built by the genius of the marram grass, as if I was equipped with seven league boots, then looking up to see the majestic sea stack, Am Buachaille, pointing defiantly to the heavens. 

I decide I cannot survive alone and compose my life mantra. 

Just living is not enough, I must have fresh air, freedom, mountains and music.

I repack the rucksack, shrug it onto my shoulders, check the rock is well and thank it for its hospitality. I leave it for its journey onwards through the next billion years of space and time. It will be here long after I am worn to dust and recycled into Mother Earth. I have a feeling of great privilege to be here, in this instant of time and place, as I wander along the path through this ancient ice - scoured landscape.

*****

My feet hurt. My boots have leaked so my wet socks are busy rubbing a blister on each of my heels. They hurt with each step. This path seems never ending. It was only supposed to be a short stroll but it has turned into a hike. The path is longer than I thought. I have been hurrying to get back in time and to keep warm so now I have a sweaty patch on my back under the bulky, uncomfortable rucksack. It is too heavy and rubs my shoulders. I forgot my gloves so my hands are cold and stiff.

I look up and see the clouds rolling in. I’ll have to hurry as I think my waterproof isn’t. I don’t want to get caught in the rain. If I had more time I would stop for a rest and a cup of coffee but there is nothing to sit on, just a few rocks along the side of the pond. I need to try and catch hime up, but he walks so fast. The coffee will probably be cold by now anyway, these flasks aren’t much good at keeping things warm. I’m getting hungry, but I didn’t think to bring any decent food, just some bags of mixed nuts and raisins, the ones that get stuck in your teeth as you chew  and chew then try to swallow the resulting dry bolus.

Why did we have to come all this way anyway? There is nothing here, no trees, just heather, some wispy marsh grass and a few angrey looking sheep. It is so deadly quiet here. I should have brought my i pod with perhaps a track or two of Iron Maiden - that would liven it up a bit.

The beach we came to see was just another empty beach, not even a cafe to get so,me decent food, just big mounds of sand with a bit of wispy grass. The pond near the path is full. It overflows on to the the path in places so I cannot avoid getting my feet even more wet. Perhaps they should drain the pond, get rid of the rocks and then put down a nice smooth bit of tarmac. I could walk in my trainers then rather than these ridiculous, heavy, leaky boots. Maybe even drive to a decent car park on the beach, near a cafe.

He is walking too fast now. Just because I said I wanted to get back before it rained. Can’t he see I am struggling in these boots? The blisters are hurting more now, they must have burst. I dread taking the boots off when we finally get back to the car but at least we can get the engine going so that I can warm up.

‘Come with me to see the most beautiful beach in the British Isles,’ he said.

‘It’s only a short walk,’ he said.

‘The weather looks good,’ he said.

‘A once in a lifetime experience,’ he said.

Never again.

*****

Critique.

This is a piece written from two contrasting points of view.

It starts with an attempted piece of euphonic writing that is seemingly intended to be poetic with its pseudo philosophical musings, comparing the lyrical beauty of the place with the existential pondering of the first character.

The intrusion of the very old rock sets the scene in time and place.

The mood is interrupted by odd thoughts about the thermos and this should probably be left out - it doesn’t add anything to the narrative except to set the senses of the characters in a season.

There are too many adjectives included, possibly in an attempt to better set the scene and increase the poetic descriptions. These tend to be alliterative, some are a little forced and so could be left out. This author seems to have a little too much affection for alliteration, puns and the use of portmanteau words. This may be seen as a little irritating for some readers.

I am not sure that the conflation of an artist painting the sounds works but it does add to the feeling of small ‘sounds of silence’ against the murmuring backdrop of a restless ocean.

The comparison of the cold winter air with the warmth of the coffee is a welcome addition to the undescribed character of the first person as is his life mantra.

The second character is also described by his reaction to the place and the weather conditions. His view is diametrically opposed to that of the first character.

Overall, this is a plot driven piece that aims to describe the two characters purely by their differing reactions to the same place.

As it relies so strongly on the description of the place and then the two character’s reaction to it, the description of the scene at the start of the piece could be less euphonic and poetic with a more straightforwardly description. 

It is left to the reader to decide whether the two characters are separate people or the opposing facings of the one Janus figure of the title. I think this conceit works well.

A patent application

Patent application

To/  Mr One Biertankard

        Patent office

        Planck Centre

        Zurich

        Switzerland.

From/  A Kranc

Dear Sir

I hereby apply for a patent that will result in an increased capacity of any car park.

Einstein’s general relativity theory states that the universe is a space time continuum. This means that a change in time can affect space and vice versa.

At present each car park in a city takes up a great deal of space,such that it is often necessary to create several levels. This is called a multi story car park, I believe.

My idea is to utilise time rather than space to increase the size of any car park.

To explain how this would work I will utilise Einstein’s way of thinking. This is the use of a very simple thought experiment. 

This involves visualising just one parking space. This space will aways be either empty or full. If it is full, there is no way of quickly increasing the available space so that another car can be accommodated. The other parameter in the continuum, however is time. As this parking space is not always full, another car can be accommodated at the times when the parking space is empty. Using today’s terminology, this would be called a ‘time share.’

This helps a little but one car can only use the space when the other car decides not to. This is a little inconvenient and it only doubles the available space, so why not use the time that the space is empty -  the future?

This would involve, for example, letting a car use the time tomorrow when it would be empty all day; as that time has not arrived, no car would be using it.

If tomorrow is booked then simply use the following day, and so on ad infinitum.

At the entry to this car parking space there would be a ticket machine as at present but as each car arrives, it would be transported forward in time to the next free day. The use of this space would be limited only by the future use of this space - perhaps an Aldi Supermarket is being planned to be built on it in 5 years time. In this case, only the future five years would be used. This however is equal to 1,825 car parking days that can be provided by one parking space.

A car parking space is not normally used for the whole 24 hour period, the average time required is 2 hours 21 minutes. I therefore suggest that parking is charged by the minute. The other part of the 24 hours can, of course be used by other cars. A quick calculation shows that  that about 12,500 cars can be accommodated in this one parking space that has a life of five years. The entry and exit delays will be no different from the present as the time ‘location’ for each car will be controlled by a simple Euclidian algorithm on a computer.

The number of cars that can be accommodated can be doubled by finding just one more parking space.

The same principle could, of course, be used to solve the housing crisis. This would, of course involve people making journeys through time to visit their friends and relatives but I have an idea about that….

Thank you for your consideration.

Autoplex  Kranc – ITCV consultant.

Murder in the churchyard - A Gothic story

Murder in the churchyard.

The church clock chimes  languidly twice, an apparent insomniac.  A cock crows, the full moon comes from behind an errant, wandering patch of cloud. It illuminates the carved limestone gargoyle waterspouts on the corners of the church roof. They have their mouths stretched open to release the rainwater deposited on the leaded slate roof, their tongues fully extended, screaming in their silent, unending torment to carry their message of memento mori, reminding everyone that life is short, everyone will die and then everything will get a lot worse than this life has been.

The roof has recently been repaired as most of the previously fitted  lead had been purloined one dark, moonless night by a group of men, desperate to sell the lead for money that would go some way towards feeding their starving families. The roof five had been caught when one of their number slithered off the roof in the dark, wrenching his back as he rebounded off a flying buttress and broke his resulting vertical fall onto the stone flags in front of the West Door  with his legs. He broke both of his legs in the process, the ends of his shin bones protruding through the flesh. The other four tried to help him but were apprehended by the peelers. All five perpetrators were publicly hanged of course, pour encourager les autres.

The roof is safe tonight, there is too much moonlight to hide any skullduggery being perpetrated, even if anyone dared to challenge the hangman’s noose. As the moon rises higher in the night sky, the liquid shadow inside the West porch, black as a raven’s wing, starts to retreat and the silvery selenic light reveals a recumbent body slumped across the threshold, a line of crumb-carrying ants marching across the fedora covering its face. The clock is now silent, resting for the next hour, relishing the thought of the day to come when it would have the chance to chime to mark each of the quarter hours.

The peeler on duty, Sergeant Doodlgregg, had found the body on his beat by happenstance whilst navigating towards the church porch for his customary nighttime clay pipe of tobacco. After ensuring that the man had indeed departed this life, he made haste to the local hostelry where he knew the Exeter coach had staged overnight to rest the horses. The two gentlemen passengers were abed but his lively banging on the door soon roused them from their slumber together with mine host who was mightily displeased at the interruption to his repose.

The two gentlemen hurriedly dressed in casual, but elegant clothes, given the time of the morning and the urgency of the summons it was no time to be fastidious, and followed the good sergeant to the church. A minister clad in a chasuble complete with a blue stole was there before them, standing over the body, clutching a comely maiden by the hand,

‘Are you the Vicar of this church?’ demanded Holmes

‘I am indeed, I am the Reverend Ernest Cholmondly-Smythe.’ I have been the incumbent here for some seven years. This lady, who has been constantly at my side as my life partner is the honourable Rebecca Winstanley of Cortlesham Hall, on the hill overlooking the village.’

‘Are you married?’ asked Holmes, somewhat impertinently.

‘No, but we have been betrothed for many a year.

‘Are you either of you acquainted with this man?’

‘We have never seen him before.’

‘Then I shall use my powers of deduction. I fear we have a cereal killer here, Watson.’

‘How do you deduce that Holmes, old boy?’ asked a surprised and incredulous Watson.

‘You see those crumbs the ants are carrying? They appear to be from a brand of breakfast cereal made from maize. I think you will find that the body is that of a foreign gentleman from Cincinnati; only an American would wear a fedora in a churchyard at this time in the morning, and, what is even more incredible, he is wearing brown shoes. This means that there is a possibility that this could be a crime of fashion. Please be so kind as to check his pockets for any identification, Watson.

‘That is amaizing Holmes, his business introduction card shows he is a Dr Kellogg from Cincinnati.’

‘Thank you my dear chap but please leave the puns to me.’

‘Righto, Holmes, old boy, but where does the early cock crow come in?’

‘I would be very surprised that, when we turn the body over, if we do not find a cornflake packet there with the famous image of the ubiquitous cockerel on the front.’

‘Would you help me roll the body over please, Sergeant Doodlgregg, my good fellow? asked Watson.

‘Certainly Sir,’ said the sergeant, unchaining his cape, removing it from his shoulders with an effort and laying it on the dew laden-grass. They rolled the body over, with a great deal of puffing from the Sergeant.

‘Why are you so out of breath sergeant?’ asked the good doctor with his usual professional curiosity.

‘Oi’ve been getting rather a large belly recently, sir so I’ve been on one of those new-fangled low carbohydrate diets.’

‘Those diets are a waist of time, if you ask me,’ affirmed Watson

‘ No one is Watson and I’ve told you before about those puns.’

‘Sorry Holmes, we’ve found the cereal packet that you predicted, I assume that confirms your deductions?’

   Well, partly, but I am wondering if there have been any other suspicious deaths in the village recently Sergeant?’ enquired Holmes.

‘Not really Sir, there was old Mrs Weetabix of course, who was found dead at her home in Alpen Crescent last week with seven stab wounds in her back. A clear case of suicide we decided. Ten days ago we found the bodies of three patients in the local bedlam. We put that down as a random nut cluster at the time. We also found two gentlemen who had apparently shot each other from twenty two paces. We assumed they had fought a duel to the death by chocolate. The fact that no ferrero rocher were found at the scene puzzled us until we realised that some ruffians from the village had probably made off with the praline confectionary. I suppose we should include All-Bran Stoker’s family who disappeared last year. That case kept us going down at the station for a while, I can tell you. We even followed a lead to the Abbey on the East Cliff above Whitby, alas without success.’

‘Thank you Sergeant. Wait! Can you hear that noise?’

‘Do you mean that snapping?’ asked Watson.

‘No, you fool, that is just the crack of dawn. Listen carefully; unless I am very much mistaken, that is the call of a Corvus albicollis – the white-necked raven. That is an indication of thaumaturgy being practiced near here.

‘Thaumaturgy? Heaven forfend, what is that?

‘It is the practice of magic, either black or white, it’s use is usually accompanied by the appearance of a raven. Ah, there’s one over on that gravestone. Let’s have a closer look.’

‘It’s the red sandstone gravestone of a vicar, Rev. E.C. Smythe, the inscription states that he died two hundred years ago today. Why, that’s…’ Watson turned quickly to look at where the priest had been a few moments before, there was no sign of him. ‘What’s going on Holmes, I don’t think I understand any of this, I don’t like it either, I tell you. Where have they both gone?’

Relax, Watson, it was just the the unquiet spirit of the vicar visiting his old ministry  on the anniversary of his death. I think you will also find the grave, somewhere in this churchyard, of the Lady Rebecca who died before the estimable E. C. Smythe. He was following the ley lines to his ancient church here, St Quiricus and St Julietta, which is built at the crossing of two lines. I deduced the possibility of him being in spirit when I saw him robed ready for a service at this time of the morning. He has been searching for his lost love across the years. He was also probably here to point us in the right direction to help solve all these murders in the village over the last few weeks. He meant us no harm, it was a white necked raven after all, which usually means that white magic is being practised.

‘How will we ever find out who killed all those people, Holmes?’

‘I think that you will find that our sergeant here has a lot to answer for in this case. Please check his breath. Because of his low carbohydrate diet, I expect him to have a bad case of halitosis caused by his body burning fat and going into ketosis. His breath will smell of acetone but you will understand this better than me Watson, being a medical man. His name, with a missing ‘e’, means that he is a Walloon from  southern Belgium with a de haut en bas attitude . Never trust a policeman from Belgium unless he is called Poirot, Watson. I think this is an opportune time to offer him this bowl of muesli which will force a confession from him.’

‘You are an incredible detective, Holmes,’ muttered Watson as he poured half a pint of best semi skim into the cereal bowl.