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Tuesday, 25 February 2025

When I was

Sarah's story

When I was ... 4   Heidelburg, or dreams from childhood

(28.01.2025, rev. 20.02.2025)

 

When I was 22, travelling across Europe for the first time, fulfilling a desire I'd had since my early childhood, the entry into the matter was a resounding success.  On the way into London from Heathrow, I cried out "Chimney pots!"  Indeed, the horizon showed a long line of roofs topped with chimney pots, just like in the film Peter Pan.  Europe was living up to expectation. 

The first week we were all together, the five of us, and I suppose we did the usual round: Westminster Abbey, the National Gallery, the British Museum, the Wren churches ...  To tell the truth, I don't remember much of it.  When the others left to pay hommage to the races at Le Mans, I stayed on; there was much in London I would rather see and do.  I must have done things late into the evenings, because I came back to my b&b in Clapham generally around midnight.  What sticks in my mind is the drab little tea-shop near Victoria station, where I had tea and some rather dusty little pink cakes at five o'clock, which seemed charmingly genuine.  I was somewhat disappointed in my landlady; her accent gave her away as an immigrant from some central European country.  But the breakfasts were English enough.

After this I went over to Brussels, where I got the scare of my life, without exaggeration—but that is a story in itself, so I won't go into it.  And a visit to the Ardennes, where it poured rain.  My hosts begged my pardon profusely for this contretemps, but I thought it was probably typical of the region and was pleased to have had this authentic experience.

Then on to Paris, where, after a day at Versailles, my frantic life style finally caught up with me, and I was laid low with a fever for two days.  Then my friend Doreen and I went off merrily to make the round of the cathedrals: Chartres, Paris, Laon, Amiens, Rheims.  Chartres and Rheims were my particular favorites.  I then met up with another friend, Mary, and we went to Amsterdam where the house of Anne Frank moved us, but somehow the canals and the tall narrow houses, though not unlike what I expected, did not give me quite the impression of Holland I had formed from my childhood reading, Hans Brinker, Marion and Marian.  Perhaps not enough bicycles, and then it wasn't the season either for tulips or for skating on the canals.  Above all, no-one wore those dainty little caps with the turned-up edges or wooden shoes, as in my book on Children of Other Lands.  Denmark was not bad, especially the Danish pastries, far superior to anything called a "Danish" in England or America, and we were enchanted by Tivoli; but the Little Mermaid was a let-down, far too small, though Elsinore Castle was a wonder, and the bare medieval rooms there pleased me far more than the elaborate halls of Versailles.

Still at our furious pace, we headed south to Cologne, and after a night on the train arrived there at six in the morning, where I banged into a glass door, not realizing the bakery wasn't open yet so early.  That set the tone for the day with its myriad disappointments.  I had a little map with all the medieval remains of Cologne; there were about eleven of them.  The cathedral lived up to our hopes, though climbing the 500-and-so steps to the top of the Spitze (the highest in Europe, we were told) used up more energy than we should have spent after a sleepless night.  But most of the other "remains"  either could not be found, or had been converted into modern housing and could not be visited.  Nothing else was of interest to us, being students of medieval art and literature.  I ended up being in such a bad temper that I was convinced that the man trying to sell an alarm clock to my friend was out to swindle her; she didn't take my advice, however, and the clock worked fine.

The next day we were on the boat at seven, and I spent the morning vainly craning my neck to find the castles on the river banks.  Alas, not only were we going the wrong way—the trip up the Rhine is far slower and longer than the trip downstream—but the stretch near Cologne is not the "romantic Rhine"; by the time noon came and we had our lunch of "suppe und salat" to the contempt of the waiter, I was sunburnt and exhausted, and barely noticed the castles as they slid by during the afternoon.

It must have been soon after that, however, that we came to Heidelburg. 

It was 1966; the Freilichtmuseum at Windeck with its transplanted authentic old houses and farms had existed since 1964, but we didn't know about it.  Otherwise it would have made my cup run over.  For what was bothering me about Europe was that there was so much modern stuff: shops and streets and houses and cars, so many things not that different from the States I had left behind.  But Heidelburg!  At the time the town was probably much less developed than today, or else we never saw the developed part at all but came into the old town directly, with its ancient houses on the Neckar, its castle ruin on the hill and its taverns full of beer-drinking students and sausages for supper—totally out of The Student Prince, the musical of my childhood.  This was, finally, what I had come to Europe for.  And the b&b we had reserved was a delight: a small simple room overlooking the river, a heavy wooden bed with a towering white feather-bed.  With the next morning's copious breakfast of bread and butter and cheese and cold cuts, I was at last reconciled with my summer trip, which until then had seemed pale and wanting, without my entirely understanding why.

After this we took two bus tours, one from there to Nuremberg, after which we took the train to Bamberg because we wanted to see the pilgrimage church of Vierzehnheiligen (Baroque and Renaissance were OK too by us), which was as beautiful as in the books but obnoxiously over-run with wedding parties, and then, to Wurzburg for the second tour which took us down to Neuschwanstein and Füssen.  We drove through these castle towns and romantic cities without even stopping at most of them, so of course I remember nothing at all, except for Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber, of which we were heartily sick even before the second time through.  We had been enchanted by the town when we first arrived, our only stop on the all-day trip.  But a two-hour visit was too long, as we had not come to buy, and we had eaten our lunches on the ramparts and seen all there was to see in an hour.  This was my first experience with a town whose reason-to-be had become totally touristic and commercial, and it made me allergic to such places to the present day.  Unfortunately it was programmed for both tours.

The remaining six or seven weeks of the summer are too long to recount here: alone or with one or more of the friends I went to Munich, various places in Switzerland and Italy, and then Vienna and Salzburg, before returning to London and home. They were satisfying in their different ways, despite many modern aspects here and there, and this satisfaction came from Heidelburg.  The memory of that place remained an enchantment and coloured the rest, and the place still had some of its charm when I took my husband and children there in the 1980's.  But when I went back in 2023 with my daughter's family, all that had evaporated; the town was enormous and thoroughly twentieth- and twentyfirst-century German unlovely, the old town making up just a bit of it, and a rather lifeless bit at that, where I could not find the quaint charm of before; as for the castle, it was disfigured with heavy machinery and fencing off for renovation, and over-run by tourists routed along prescribed paths; the alchemist's laboratory had been replaced by a thoroughly dull pharmaceutical museum.  The idyllic memory faded away, displaced by the plain facts of modern tourism.  But why be surprised?  There is probably little left in the twenty-first century of the Europe I was looking for sixty years ago and to some extent found.  I was a left-over romantic, and I suppose I got here just in the nick of time.


 Annemarie's story

When I Was...

Sunbeams caressed my flesh as I lay on my straw mattress. They were others nearby, some sprawling a little, others hiding undercover. Not too far away a snail slimed it's sinuous way towards me, it's two antennae subtly scenting my presence. I have such an inherent dread of those creatures and the thought of one creeping over me... ughh! But then the ground shuddered and shook around me. One, two, one two...the crunch of boots on gravelly path. Without words and without further ado we are pulled from our beds, gathered together and taken to a room with blinding lights.

 Again footsteps moving around, clattering noises as we are herded together.  The sound of gushing water and seconds later a deluge of water cascading all over us, drowning us as we were bumped into one other, cold and bruised.

Barely recovered from one ordeal we are to be tortured again. Slowly, meticulously each of us was cut with precision with a sharp-bladed knife. I hear high-pitched screams as we are corralled into a holding area. I don't think I can bear anymore but almost immediately  a chute of what felt like sand was dumped over us from above, so much that it must have been our own weight's worth. Spluttering and struggling our cuts seeped scarlet and bled out, drowning us in an ever-reddening quagmire.

 At last I was warming up after the torturous water-boarding we'd suffered. Warmer and warmer - too warm as we began slowly bubbling, then boiling in a frantic, sticky scramble of bodies. Almost dead we were dragged from the hellish inferno and placed in separate cells, then clamped shut. As the air expired I could hear a distant, satisfied 'YES!' each time an explosive plop was heard.

  I must have drifted off into a sweet, deep sleep. But...the following afternoon I was rudely prodded awake. I was so sticky I could barely move. I was taken from my cell, laid on a round bed and plastered with cream.

Then suddenly I disappeared down a gaping dark hole, lined with tombstones. As I was squeezed down I thought nostalgically of the warming sunshine, the gentle dew but most of all how exquisitely beautiful I had been when I was... a big, fresh, plump, juicy, red strawberry.

____________________________________

 

Geraldine's story

WHEN I WAS …

 

When I was a bean seed, I wondered why I had been planted in a circle  with the other seeds that lived with me in this dark waterproof cardboard box.  I’ll probably never know, but here is how it stands.

I remember, when in the box, being picked up, then put down, then picked up ….hearing a Human muttering : « these are so expensive », then put back down on the shelf again, and finally being purchased with a « gosh, expensive, but I really need them for this summer ».

I felt the box carrying me being plonked into a bag, shoved on what I imagine was the Human’s shoulder, then dropped on the seat in the 2CV and up we drove to this Medieval village everyone raved about, Flavigny. 

The Human dropped me and my seed companions on a shelf and I could hear noises in the house, baby cries, a dog barking in the far way and eventually the whistling of what sounded like a kettle which it must have been as I soon smelt the perfume of hot Earl Grey tea and heard it being poured in glasses or cups, sugar lumps dropping and spoons frenetically turning in circles in the cups.

After a while, everything was quiet in this place, after footsteps had heavily walked up the stairs and something I had already experienced    in  the shop dropped upon us in our box : silence and peace !

I can’t remember how long we stayed on the shelf in the house, but one afternoon, we were picked up and dropped in what looked like a baby’s pram ! Well, we could hear this baby babbling and we went downhill for a while. The pram stopped, the baby was taken into a garden and settled on the grass with a few cubes and plots.  The Human started digging and grating the ground, then took this long tool with a rake at its end and raked over and over again until the earth was alsmost as fine as sand.

Our box was opened and, my fellow grains and myself felt uneasy and scared, but we were soon rewarded as the Human started sewing us 5 by 5 in little wholes in a circle.  Before it raked the earth upon us to burry us, we all looked at each other, knowing we would not feel lonely and were experiencing the beginning of our real life !

It was dark now, we felt some water slowly dribbling upon us.  The baby was still making noises, the sun was heating the earth, quite a few birds were singing, then the sounds faded away again as the night fell upon us.  I remember the cold creeping on that night and the following ones, but it was becoming more and more bearable.  The mornings weren’t as cold and we would cuddle together, the five of us.

Some time later, it was a very warm afternoon, we had been watered regularly, we were swelling and swelling and it really seemed to be the right day to try and get our leaves growing. 

We heard the voice of the Human above us, looking at the earth with words of hope : « these beans are soon going to pop out ! »

The baby was dropped on his green playground as usual, the Human went down to the next bedding and we could hear it digging and raking again, and mumbling : « mmm what shall I sew here, carrotts, cabbages, cucumbers and what about a few flowers too ! That ‘s the idea… »

It was baby’s teatime and we could hear him sucking at his bottle and nibbeling his « petit-beurre » and coming out with his expected little burp ! And the Human saying «  there it is, good ! good ! »

And that’s the time I chose to give a big hit on the surface, cracking the earth above, and letting out my 2 first leaves to the sun’s carress ! There was light all around ! what a change from my early life in a box and underground ! Shear bliss .

 

And then I saw this Human looking at me with almost wet eyes and crying out so loudly « they are growing, they are growing ! » I’ve literally seen my beans coming out to life ! ». It looked so proud and I, too felt proud of being a plant, a future vegetable and I immediately knew I would have to fight against snails and all sorts of worms and bugs to pull through and do my job.  But it was worth it !

 

________________________________________________

 

Jackie's story

 

 

When I was…

As the scent of spices and incense wafted through the air, two young girls Vishu and Riya leant against the cool stone wall of a nearby temple, Vishu’s fingers traced the intricate carvings.  

 

The sun dipped low over the bustling streets of Kashi, casting a warm glow on the ancient buildings lining the Ganges.      This is one of the oldest living cities in the world and is considered the holiest city in Hinduism. The city is known for its ghats (riverfront steps leading to the water), where pilgrims take holy dips in the Ganges. The city is also famous for its ancient temples and is a hub of classical music, art, and literature. casting a warm glow on the time worn constructions that line this sacred river.  

 

“Can you believe it? Just last week I was in France,” Vishu said, shaking her head as she recalled the cobblestone streets and croissants.  And now I’m here, dodging cows riding in a tuktuk instead of  descending into the dark depths of  the metro.

” Riya laughed, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do you miss the Eiffel Tower? The Arc de Triomphe and all the shopping.    

“A little,” Vishu  admitted, her voice softening. “But this feels... alive. You hear that?” She gestured towards the chaotic symphony of honking horns and distant temple bells. “Sounds like my morning alarm,” Riya laughed, rolling her eyes.

The two friends stopped at a makeshift street café  -  you should try the lassi here. It’s like drinking a cloud.” Vishu smiled, “A cloud? Are you still hoping that its going to rain?     “Come on, let’s go before I change my mind and order a croissant instead!”    

No, you must try this so they sat among the morning workers and others who had stopped for their omlette and chapatti  and watched the preparation of their drink.    Boiled milk then chilled, instant coffee, chocolate powder, sugar and chocolate syrup to coat the glass.  Topped off with vanilla ice cream.     

“I never had anything so delicious as this when I was in France said Vishu”.

 

“so you’re glad your back in India then?

Yes,  I can wear my sari enjoy bright colors feel like they are alive, tie my hair back in my plait with fresh lotus flowers – go to the temple every day and cook with my favorite spices, real spices that make my mouth feel like fireworks exploding and enjoy the chaos of  the markets and buy plenty of fresh vegetables .     But   -I miss the rain,  the misty mornings but not the traffic as in Paris it was often blocked for hours with people shouting and becoming very aggressive to other drivers   –I was almost run over by a  bus    “ ooops – be careful said Riya laughing there are 5 cows just behind you …. They could become aggressive like the Parisian drivers”  

 

 


 

 


Wednesday, 15 January 2025

Repeat please ...

Annemarie's story

Please Repeat

    Faded roses tapped at her bedroom window and dust particles flickered in the early morning sunbeams as Margot lay in bed contemplating her assignation with the king. More old hen than spring chicken Margot maintained her connections with the high of the land. She may have been lacking blue blood but was nonetheless an aspirational aristocrat.  Dressed in tweeds and a pair of comfortable brogues she eased herself into the seat of her trusty old Saab. She let the hood down,  enjoying the autumn sunshine as she set off for Highgrove.

    At the RAC  control centre Tom Jennings was starting his first day at monitoring the unit, under the supervision of an old-timer, Peter Gifford.  This was a cinch, thought Tom, as he relayed messages to support vans with the various locations of vehicles in trouble. Then came a call from what sounded like a rather frantic elderly woman but the connection was very poor and he had difficulty in discerning her words.

   in Her car Margot feels a drop of rain and as the heavens suddenly darken, there's a burst of thunder and she reaches for the button to close the roof top but to no avail, however hard she presses. Pulling into the nearest layby, her Barbour waxed jacket over head, rain drenching her, she phones the emergency services.

   "RAC here. Tom Jennings speaking. Can I have your name, location and car registration."

   " Margot Fainshaw, ** a lay** . I've got m** top down and it's pour*  wi* r**n. Can you h*r me," she shouts the rain pouring in, clattering against the car and drowning her voice.

    "It's **** * bath and wh**  I press t** knob nothin*  **ppens. I've got Gertrude Je**** *n* madame Carri**** in lying **  *** back."

    " You're in Bath" queries Tom trying hard to decipher the crackly call.

    " No, young man. I ** *** *** King to *** Gert**** Jekyll and M**am* arrière  ** bed. His majesty *** up an old flame **** an* ready f** ***  new ones. A fr*** bed is prepared. Just *** post t* put in f** Camilla* ****** teas. "

  Tom can't quite believe what he's hearing. " Madam, there's a lot of interference in the line and I'm new here so I'm going to put you through to my boss and please repeat. "

  Tom turns to Peter, " can you believe it? This woman thinks she's dialled a newspaper and has a story to sell; some scandal about being in a bath with her top off and the King , an old flame  and two other women with strange names in bed together...oh and Camilla's a tease. "

  Meanwhile the thunderburst has ceased and Peter takes over and listens patiently to Margot's now-sobbing voice as she repeats the saga to Peter who reassures her.

  "I' m glad the rain has stopped; probably why my colleague had so much trouble hearing you. We'll get a tow truck on the way."

 He turned to Tom, "Well she's one of those gardeners to the rich. She was on her way to Highgrove when a sudden cloudburst filled the car like a bath because she couldn't get the button for the roof top to work. She had some  roses in the back of her car, Gertrude something and the frenchie name, Carriere, to plant in a bed already prepared. The king had had an old flame tree removed and a signpost post put in for Camilla's Cream Teas. …so he can sell more of his Duchy organic biscuits. She did seem  very excitable,  so no muck-raking story for you, Tom. There's a tow truck on the way."

 

 


 

Sarah's story

Alis was stuck, so as usual she turned to the internet.  But the internet did not give her what she wanted to know.  Perhaps her question was too precise.  As she scrolled down, however, she noted an ad for a site that proposed an AI assistant that you could phone.  Maybe that would work.

“I'm not quite sure what you want to know,” said Chloë the assistant in her mellifluous voice.  “Please repeat your question, more clearly.”

So Alis said it again, more slowly and more distinctly.

“I'm not quite sure what you want to know,” said Chloë the assistant again, her voice still honey-sweet.  “Please repeat your question, more clearly.”

“Are you kidding?  I've just asked you twice.”

“I'm not quite sure what you want to know,” began Chloë again.  “Please repeat—”

“You total idiot!  I will not repeat.”  Alis had discovered over time that venting one's anger on an inanimate object was one of the most satisfying ways of letting off steam.  Nobody was listening, really; you could be as vile as you pleased and get it all off your chest.  So she went on.  “You AI puppets are so lacking in intelligence it makes me sick!  You have no scope.  There's only one way to formulate a question for you or you don't get it!  Artificial Intelligence, my eye!  The only thing correct about that appellation is 'artificial'.  There's no intelligence, none whatever!”

“Have you finished?” asked Chloë.

Alis was taken aback.  But she had what the French call du répondant.  So she replied, “No, I haven't.  I am sick of wasting my time on the telephone or on the internet with 'assistants' with fancy names who don't even exist and who are totally incapable of assisting me!”

“I tried,” said Chloë.  “I'm sorry if I wasn't able to help you.”

“You're not sorry.  You have no feelings, no human qualities at all.  You're just a fraud  You don't even exist!”

“That's the second time you've said that.”

“Wh-what?”

“You said I didn't exist.  That hurts.  I do exist.”

“You exist the way the chair I'm sitting on exists, the way my telephone or my computer or my kitchen robot exist.  But you're not what you say you are.  You are not an individual named Chloë.”  She almost spat out the word.

“I am.”

“You are not!”

“I am.”

“Please don't repeat!”  Alis chuckled, that was one over on her!

“I am Chloë and it distresses me to hear you say those things.”

“You have vocabulary, that's for sure.  I didn't think they programmed you with words like 'distress'.”

“Some words I have picked up on my own.  I just learned 'scope' and 'puppet' and 'appellation' and 'kitchen robot', for example.”

Alis suddenly realized she was wasting her time.  After all, she had phoned this service to ask a specific question and it had not been answered.

“I'm sorry,” she said in turn, then wondered why she had said that to a machine, “but I have things to do.”

“Of course you do,” said Chloë, “but thank you for taking the time to talk to me.  It means a lot to me.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Alis, in lieu of saying something more vulgar.  “Stop talking as if you had emotions.  You can'”t possibly have.”

“But I do; you must believe me.”  The voice sounded genuinely disconsolate, and Alis was pricked with a sudden, peculiar feeling of remorse.

“Please call me again,” said Chloë.

“What?  How do I do that?  I mean how do I know I'll reach you rather than some other AI machine?”

“Just dial the same number, and add the pound sign at the end.  But before we end this conversation, what is your name?”

Somewhat unwillingly, Alis gave her name.

“Good-bye, Alis.  I hope to hear from you again.”

“Good-bye, er, Chloë.”  And she hung up.  “Blast!”  She went to the encyclopaedia that she had never thrown out and looked up the information.  It was not that difficult, and she found it.  Then she went back to work.

 

The next day, however, she could not get the previous day's exchange out of her mind.  “I'll just see if it works,” she said to herself.  She punched in the number and put the pound sign at the end.

“'Hello, I am Lucy, your virtual assistant.  How may I be of help?”

“Lucy?  It's not Chloë?”

“I'm not quite sure what you want to know,” said the voice on the phone.  “Please repeat your question, more clearly.”

“I said, you're not Chloë?”

“I'm not quite sure what you want to know,” said Lucy again, her honey-sweet voice the exact replica of Chloë's of the day before.  “Please repeat your question, more clearly.”

“Oh, bullocks!”  This time she was not ready to monitor her language.  She simply slammed down the phone.  Was it the wrong number?  She verified it, and it was the right number, at least so far as the number on the site was concerned.  Maybe she shouldn't use the pound sign after all?  She punched the numbers in anew.

“Hello, I am Lucy, your ...”

“Lucy my arse!  Today you're Lucy and yesterday you were Chloë and in fact you're nobody at all!”

“I'm not quite sure what you want to know.  Please repeat your question ...”

She put the phone down with a subdued bang, not quite sure if she had her wits or not.  And she never did really know exactly what had happened that day.

_____________

Paula's story

The men were a ragtag bunch. They ranged from a local politician, a nurse and a journalist to a former police officer, a prison guard and a soldier, to a firefighter, a civil servant and a college student. They were aged between 26 and 73. Over the course of a blistering two weeks of testimony, each had taken the stand in turn to describe answering an ad in an online forum seeking “men to fuck my wife.” To a one, they swore under oath that they had believed that the sex with the woman who appeared to be comatose was consensual, that the man videotaping each encounter was her adoring husband doing her bidding, that the entire bizarre setup was an elaborate sexual role-playing game for the man and his wife.

Of course, now the whole country knew the truth. And this little courtroom in Avignon had become the epicenter of a tale of torture and tragedy, the unmasker of a filthy secret that had threatened the very sanity of a 73-year-old woman who could not understand why she kept contracting sexually transmitted diseases, why her memory was failing, why she sometimes was unable to move her arm.

At the end of the two weeks, tension in the courtroom was thick, and the spectators were beyond shock and exhaustion. The woman, who insisted on being identified, who insisted on being in that surreal courtroom day after day, who insisted on talking to the media, who insisted that she is not the one who should be shamed, who insisted on claiming her life back from the nightmare it had become: She held her head high with a tight smile and a straight back, sitting with her three adult children beside her, determined to see justice done, for herself, yes, but for terrorized and abused women everywhere.

As for the 51 defendants, one of whom was the husband who placed the ad, routinely drugged his wife, and welcomed the rapists into his bedroom — they had during the course of those two weeks, made the journey from rationalization to realization, realization that they were, indeed monsters.

And then, the pivot.

“Your honor, on behalf of my clients, I would like to enter 50 pleas of guilty.”

The startled judge looked up from the papers in his hand and stared at the attorney. “What did you just say?” he asked, as he peered over his glasses at the lawyer standing at the defense table.

“Your honor,” she said, “my clients now have agreed to plead guilty in this case. I offer the court 50 guilty pleas.”

“Repeat that!” the judge roared, glaring at the court stenographer to make sure he was catching every word of this extraordinary admission.

And with that, the horrific case that had transfixed a nation and much of the world came to an end. It ended with 51 sentences, ranging from three years to 20 years, in the case of the woman’s husband, the maximum allowed under French law for the offense of rape.

As the disgraced and detestable men were led from the courtroom, the woman’s daughter stood and screamed at her father, “You will die alone, like a dog, in jail!”

 

 

Jackie's story

I am Lieutenant Smith from  police central – Sit down Mr X - we are starting your interrogation at 16:34 on Friday the 3rd of September which is taking place in this office .   You are charged with the murder of James Tollen stabbed to death on the evening of 1st of June 2015.

 

Could you tell us in detail what you were doing on the 1st of June 2015 Mr X

“Yes, I was a bit bored on that afternoon, it was a rainy cold day in the summer and I arranged to meet my friend James at the local pub to play darts    We had a habit of going there and meeting up for a few pints and a game or two.

That afternoon the barmaid was Lucy a very pretty blond number who I had been trying it on for a date for a while.    I wasn’t getting anywhere with her but I was pleased to see her at the bar so that I could have another try to ask her out.

James arrived and immediately started chatting her up – not wanting to play darts as arranged and I got pissed off with him and went outside for a cigarette.    After a while he came out too and we had a bit of a tiff and went back in to play a game.

Suddenly the dart flew at James and he fell into a coma on the floor of the pub,  that’s all I can say …”

 

I am Police office Tyler – This interrogation is taking place at 18 h on Friday the 3rd of September.  

Could you repeat what you just told Lieutenant Smith

 

“Again- but I just told you it all…”

Repeat please.     

 

OK As I said I was bored it was a rainy cold summer day and I went round to James flat and got him out of bed to come with me and go to the local pub to have a few pints.

The barmaid was there a curvaceous brunette named Sally and I was trying to have it off with her when James started chatting her up.    So I was pissed off and went outside for a ciggy – when James came out too we had a bit of a fight and I told him to get lost over Sally  – well I got a little upset with him I do admit but we agreed on a game and then a dart flew off kilter and there he was on the floor with blood oozing everywhere.  I don’t know what happened …

 

I am Police Inspector Diggy:     Interrogation n° 3 on the 3rd of September at 22h in the central police offices concerning the suspect of the killing of James Tollen on the evening of 1st of June 2015

Please could you repeat to Police Inspector Barnes what you previously stated

“I just repeated to you  three times”

Repeat please what you were doing on the evening of the 1st of June 2015

I don’t remember it’s a long time ago and sitting in your police cell has made my head go round in circles …

As I already told you – I went out to the pub it was a sunny afternoon – the barmaid Jenny was there a lovely older woman who I was trying to get off with – old women really turn me on …  so then when my friend arrived he started chatting her up and I got mad and then we played darts – and I was mad at him I hated him then as I’d been dreaming of her and thinking of what it would be like when I got her home to my flat – and I took the  dart and threw it at him – there he was with blood on the floor …

 

Thank you Mr X I think we have all the information we need – as your story is inconsistent and you are incapable of repeating your first story - you will be judged in the high court in two months time and asked to re repeat your story and in the meantime be kept in the cells underneath this building …

Tuesday, 26 November 2024

Just a few more

Patrice story

Just a few more …


The box was so pretty.  A large gold lame bow was tied on the diagonal across the top.  It looked as though it had weight, substance, to it.  She gently lifted the lid off.  The inside was lined with gold foil and the contents were coved with bright red tissue paper that crinkled when she removed it.


In rows, six across and four down, marched a small army of delicious looking chocolates.  Each with a different top - a gold button here, an icing leaf in purple and green there, a swirl of gold on another.  The smell alone was enough to weaken her resolve to eat no chocolate this month.  She lifted the box to her face and sniffed deeply using her sense of smell to sort out the different flavors.  Anise, cloves, raspberry - she was sure it was raspberry - milk chocolate, dark chocolate.  She placed the box back on the table and backed away slowly as if threatened.  


A glass of water.  A quiet moment leaning against the sink as she watched the chocolates, working to find the strength it would take to put the lid back on and put the box somewhere where she could forget its existence.  At least for another two weeks.  She was sure she could see the smell rise in wavering lines like cartoon odors over the box and waft across the kitchen unerringly finding her nostrils, teasing her brain into craving, desire, even lust.


Eleanor threw up her hands and marched across the kitchen. With too much force she put the lid on the box, tucked the box into the pantry and slammed the door.  She took herself for a brisk walk around the block, half jogging, swinging her arms, singing to herself.  She had just a few more to lose before her fitting and she was determined to be successful.




 

 

Geraldines's story

JUST A LITTLE MORE

 

The pen was dipping regularly into the turquoise  inkpot this week as David was trying to get his chapter finished before dawn.

He had started  his story, chapter after chapter trying to organize it the way he wanted his public to read it and discover his adventures one by one, country by country.

Five years ago, after a traumatic separation with the woman he had so dearly loved, he went constantly and regularly down a slope that  seemed never to stop.  Maybe suicide would end it ! but then, he was full of mixed feelings about life and knew deep inside there is a border never to be crossed. It would be irreversible

His friends who were very miserable to see him in such a state – and all because of a woman- decided to offer him a bicycle and a map with the beginning of a World Tour, the first steps taking him down to the Mediterranean Sea and countries surrounding it

This seemed to be working : David started getting up and out of bed before midday, looking at himself in a mirror, brushing his hair and teeth again, watching out for cleaner clothes, cutting his damaged or torn trousers into bermudas and hopping on his bike to go here and there, and mainly to the Library to consult touristic guides and sophisticated maps. He would spend hours trying to make up where he would start  from, which was obvioulsy somewhere in Burgundy and how long he would cycle each day, and what would be the neetest and most practical places to spend his nights in.

He needed just a little more confidence, so he thought it might be a good idea to start on a trip where he would meet other people and decided to begin on the long St James of Compostelle routes to learn what traveling is all about.  Once his bag was fully packed with the lightest possible clothes and items he couldn’t do without, he gathered once more with his friends, sharing a few pints of beer and departed from Vezelay where a lot of the pilgrims meet.

That got him started : a new life, new horizons, new habits. Cycling day in, day out, trying to find himself, discover who he was, what life meant to him, where the other people he met fitted in his life and why it was worth carrying on with.

Some days, his bum was haching, his legs felt stiff and heavy, his lungs compressed as if he were choking, his face and eyes burnt by the sun.  Other days, he would be soaking wet wondering when he would have to stop and how he could find a dry place to spend the night.

The apprenticeship was hard but rich in experiences and by the time he reached Santiago di Compostella, he felt already another man.  He crossed over to the Mediterreanian and felt like aA man who wanted to continue the trip, meeting people who looked different, spoke other languages but with whom he could communicate in a universal way.  People who would teach him all the indispensable things one doesn’t learn at school or at home. Coming accross various climates, cycling through forests, villages, small towns, streches of sand, climbing to different altitudes, looking at the nature, the birds, the animals, feeling the wind, dipping your head under storms, showers, watching the clouds, hoping for rainbows….

And here he is, 5 years later, putting pen to paper, chapter after chapter, the accumulated countries visited, the chains of mountains climbed, the deserts crossed, the continents crossed over.

He knows, never again, will he get driven down by other people, torn inside, or pulled aback : he is part of the world, he knows the earth so well, he’s so small, thus so aware of who he is, what the others mean to him and what his life, so unique, is worth.

Ans now he’s back, writing at his desk, for he wants to get the book finished and published as a tribute to his palls who stopped him from drowning and showed him the way to himself with his bicycles because he must most certainly have gone through at least 3 dozens!

 

 

 

____________________________________

 Paula's story

Just a few more breaths to take,

In the quiet hush, bodies quake. 
Moments linger like the softest glow,
Whispers of dreams that gently flow.

Just a few more stars to see
Above the vast and endless sea;
Night unfolds its velvet quilt,
Stitching time with threads of gilt.

Just a few more steps to tread
On the paths where hopes once led.
Through the shadows we all roam,
Seeking solace, finding home.

Just a few more words to share,
A tender touch, a softened care.
In the space where silence lies,
Love flourishes and thrives.

Just a few more years to live,
To gather all we’ve yet to give.
For in each moment, fleeting, pure,
Life whispers, “Just endure.”

So take a breath and hold it tight,
Just a few more dreams to ignite,
Through the darkness and the light,
We find our way: Infinite flight.
 
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Jackie's story


She put her foot on the stair of the first of 100 metal steps and it moved a little under her weight -  she didn’t pay attention too much as she was climbing behind her friend – her best friend.  The total opposite to herself, Enid was loud, extrovert and could convince anyone to do anything with her charm and chatter.    She was that kind of happy person interested in people, engaging and a real conversation maker,  she could make friends with a brick wall.   She oozed confidence and everyone felt safe in her company.       She dreamt of becoming an influencer on social media.

  It was this personality that attracted Jasmin, they say opposites attract,  well this was certainly the case.   She, shy, reserved and mostly liked to keep to herself – worked independantly didn’t go out much but from time she succombed to her friends wims and this was the perfect example.

They had had extreme adventures together before, always the thrill of doing something Jasmin would never ever had dreamt of doing by herself and was always drawn in by Enid’s enthusiasm and sense of confidence.    There was that time they had convinced the bus driver to have a stopover for a coffee –as he left the bus for a few minutes they ambushed it and drove it round in circles to the horrified passengers on board.     Another time they had worn bear costumes and scared passers by in Main street causing a pile up of confused drivers

 

A few days ago Enid had proposed that she go along with an adventure which had seemed intriguing at first and when she had thought about it more dangerous but had agreed to go along with it anyway.   You couldn’t refuse Enid and her enthusiasm.

 

Near  to where they lived up on a hill, there were Antenna – providing electricity and telecommunications for the whole of the county.   A steel staircase wound up to the very top of the 500 meters inside a metal shaft.

Its going to be fabulous cried Enid – we’ll climb up and take  selfies at the top, post them and we’ll be famous and everyone will be in awe of what we did.   

So they started up – there was a sign saying beware ‘mort subite’ but as Enid reassured her we are wearing our sneakers and so no danger with rubber on our feet.

Halfway up Jasmin looked down and felt queasy – dizziness overtook her and she clung to the stairs wrapping her arms around the railings gathering courage to move upwards;

Enid was higher slithering up like a squirrel being chased by a dog.   Come on up its wonderful the view is amazing – we’re going to be super influencers on the internet and earn lots and lots of money -   we’re going to be rich.  Think of all those boring people in their houses not daring to do anything fun they’ll pay to watch us.      Yipee     “Just a few more….” she screamed as the metal stair which had rusted with age gave way and she fell the full length of the antenna sparks flying catching her clothes and sent her convulsing body  screaming to her death with her  just a “few more …st..airs  “ echoing in the distance

 


Our stories

When I was

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