I'm sorry to trouble you ...

Sarah's story

(Sorry to trouble you ...) The Business School Address 

"Welcome, alla you to the Trusk-Mump Business School.  And congradulations!  'Cuz, y' know what, alla you are gonna be millionnaires, and summa you are gonna be billionnaires!  And lemme tell ya that whatever you learn here'll serve you also if you change your mind and wanna go into advertising or politics some day, botha which could help your business too, lemme tell ya.

"So, let's get started by establishing this very important basic point: the first thing you gotta learn is to lie.  Not just ta wanna do it but to do it well.  That is the fundamental technique in every profitable area today. 
"Lemme give you a case in point.  A brilliant case.  Last week President Trump met Ukrainian dictator Zelensky at the White House.  He gave him the facts for which Zelensky should be saying thank you.  Now Zelensky did say thank you, several times, but President Trump's staff repeatedly interrupted Zelensky telling him to just say thank you. That is one of the sub-techniques of lying: lying by implication, regardless of anything that has already gone before.  Your listeners will forget what's gone before and conclude that it did not happen, but that it should have.  Not to mention that interruption, which is another very basic technique, prevents your opponent, if it's continuous, from getting to say anything.

"In fact every time Zelensky opened his mouth, whatever he was trying to say was covered by interruptions from President Trump and his staff, who used still another essential technique: repetition.  If you don't have many accurate facts, just keep repeating the stuff you've said before, even if it's already been contradicted.
"But let's get back to the importance and the strategic effect of lying.  The facts which President Trump put forth were in fact a gross exaggeration, but because his followers implicitly believe everything President Trump says, that didn' make any difference.  Excuse me, somebody has a question?  Um, where's the question?  Oh, OK, you're so dark I didn't see you there.  So?"

"Yes, sir, I wanted to know what happens if you're called out on a lie?  Isn't it sort of risky?"

"No.  It is not!  And the story I'm telling you will prove my point.  President Macron of France contradicted President Trump in his meeting with him, on the very points that President Trump made to Zelensky, the one of the three hundred and fifty billion dollars of aid he said the US gave to Ukraine, which in fact was only 114 billion, saying that the US gave aid whereas the Europeans were going to get all of theirs back, and Prime Minister Starmer of Britain also disagreed.  But President Trump royally passed right over this, and said the same thing all over again.  I don't have to tell you who the President's followers are gonna believe.  And belief is everything.  Now lemme show you why this is so important.

"Some stupid presentator on MSNBC tried to say that President Trump was 'humiliated' by these contradictions.  But he was not!  That is the point!  You are humiliated when you bow your head and show shame.  President Trump did not show shame!  He simply carried on!  And if you can do that, gentlemen, you can—sorry?  Oh, there's women in this promotion?   Well, awright, ladies, though I doubt you could carry this sort of thing off so well as President Trump, but as I said, if you can carry your lies off like this, you will win every time.

"You gotta follow the Russians.  They're masters at this.  They're saying that that "pig" Zelensky was crushed by President Trump and his staff, and that he had got what he deserved.  That Zelensky dared to walk out on the President of the United States was not seen as a slap in the face to President Trump, no, if you say that Zelensky was humiliated, you've turned the situation around.  And anybody who was paying attention in 2022 knows that it was the Russians who first attacked Ukraine.  But they're re-writing the story, and President Trump has got on the band-wagon, and pretty soon the Americans are all gonna believe Ukraine started it and doesn't want peace and doesn't deserve to be part of the negotiations, that's what they're saying and just wait and see if it doesn't work.  Lemme tell you—  Er, another question?"

"Yes, sir, isn't it immoral to lie?  I thought truth was one of the virtues."

"Young man—oh, 'scuse me you're a female—young lady, I am sorry to trouble your convictions, but that idea is outta date and outta context in the business world, just like in advertising or politics.  I think you should go back to your kitchen.  And now, as I was saying, if you know how to lie you can run the world.  And if you don't know how to lie and lie well, you'll be the loser you deserve to be.  You'll be humiliated."

Enthusiastic applause.

 ______________________________________

Patrice's story

It began like this.  I was in my seat, my bag neatly stowed beneath the seat in front of me.  

My book was resting on my lap along with my sweater.  I was doing my best to breathe deeply to remain calm.  Flying was a nightmare, flying these days was a ring in Dante’s hell.  I closed my eyes working on magically making my seat companion either miss the flight or be a slender 20 something with AirPods and a clear desire to sleep off her night before.  I even crossed my fingers beneath my sweater.

The plane filled and there was the usual controlled mayhem, people looking for their seats, exclaiming with irritation, talking to people in front or behind them, haggling with strangers over changes, but so far nothing too unbearable - no one demanding a window seat or an aisle or that some poor soul give up their set so that they could sit with their husband, girlfriend, child, waning mother, and on and on and on.  I was feeling hopeful.

Excuse me, are you sure you are in the right seat?  A man’s voice. I turned to look at him, already resenting him because I had to crane my neck  to see him.    He looked pleasant enough though perhaps a bit of a “bro”.  A t-shirt with some logo I didn’t recognize underneath an open button up, jeans.  

Yes, I’m sure.  I should smile but it seemed too much.

He looked down at his ticket, Oh, really - how sure?  I  always book the window seat.  He continued to stand as if waiting for something.  

I took my boarding pass out of my book showing him the seat number.   I pointed up at the seat map on the overhead rail then settled back into my seat.  The one I chose, the one I paid extra for, the one I was comfortable in.  He continued to stand for a moment then opened the overhead bin and with a great deal of huffing stuffed his carry-on, and messenger bag, and denim jacket into the compartment.  Finally he sat.  Lifting up the armrest he dug around until he found one end of his seat belt and clasped himself in.  He did not return the armrest to its original position so I did.  Without looking at him I pushed it down between us feeling like this was the beginning of a long flight.  He looked at me then turned away.   It looked as if the plane was very nearly boarded.  

He made himself comfortable, spread his legs, one foot in the well in front of my seat.  His arm resting fully on the armrest, elbow digging into my side.  I wiggled a bit to let him know I was there.  Placed my foot firmly on his and repositioned myself in my seat using my feet for balance.  He looked at me quickly again then pulled his foot out from beneath mine and sat still for a moment.  

I smiled - I don’t want to trouble you but stay in your seat please.

________________________________________________

Geraldine's story

I DON’T WANT TO TROUBLE YOU

Christine was making her best to try and catch the metro as she had heard it was entering the station. Well, she thought, I'm over’80 now and can’t run as I could fourty years ago….But I must try catching it as I am already really late to honor my rendez-vous at the dentist who always makes a rude remark when we get there a few minutes overdue.

I made it, and of course, it was packed as usual and having to go 18 stations away, I knew it would be a 40 minute trip !  I uisually don’t mind standing for one or two stations, but not that far.

So I struggled to reach to the place where there’s this little pictogram featuring me with a bent back and a stick, under the notice « priority ».  There were bent heads with or without « hoods » all staring at this small screen , with agile fingers tapping ! 

As I approached, I very timidly said : « I don’t want to trouble you, but could one of you let me sit in this place reserved to us, the elderly ? ».  No ans<wer ! As I looked a little closer I saw they all had these little earplugs.  Was this a group of « death » young people ?  

I decided to try again ! A little louder ! « Please, I don’t want to trouble you but….. ».  None of the sitting youngsters moved, but a middle-aged rather handsome man stood in front of them and drew their attention : « Hey ! You mob ! Can’t you see this old woman needs a seat ! »

3 heads lifted, looked angry, and the young man with a black hood took out his earplugs and said :

« What’s the matter ! Do you want a punch in the face ? »

The man took his arm to make him stand up, he resisted with force, then the two other hoods raised : there was another guy with dark glasses and a young girl who couldn’t have been older that 16. 

They looked at the handsome man trying to help me get a seat.  By this time everybody was looking, as a riot had started.  

« Who do you think you are ? » to push us like this ? 

- Well ? can’t you see you are seated in  a place reserved for invalid or elderly people ?

- « We don’t care ! They shouldn’t take the metro at peak time » Who do they think they are ?

The handsome man had, by now, been joined by some other passengers who decided all this was enough ! As the metro stopped, they got hold of the 3 youngsters and shoved them off the metro onto the platform.  And made sure they didn’t get on again.

This, of course, opened a wide and loud conversation about how a generation had missed bringing up their children as being part of a community and acknowledging « others » existed, could be interesting to talk to, could be in need of some confort or were just like their grand’parents.

Also, how these electronic devices or cellular phones completely isolated them from anyone of any other generation : children, young, middle-aged or older people.  They were only involved with their sibblings, the reseau sociaux or the games they played together.

The 15 stations left seemed very short as there was this unusual discussion going on, where, for once, people lifted their heads up and talked to each other, unaware of the usual social distance and indifference generaly « de mise » in public places.

At her age and in her condition, Christine made the right decision : she would always start a sentence «by « I don’t want to trouble you » when getting on a public transport device : ferry, bus, metro, train, whatever.  So interresting and so much to learn about human behaviour!

______________________________________________________________

Annemarie's story

 

"....I Don't Want to Trouble You but.."

About seven years ago I was asked by the organiser of our patchwork club if I had any ideas re a celebration for Meg's eightieth birthday. She was the universally loved Englishwoman in this French club. They knew her passion was gardening, patchwork and cooking. 

"Mais oui, bien sûr," i replied. "Let's have a picnic in the Chateau Lantilly garden. The countess has always been very accommodating when I wanted to bring guests to the garden, I'm sure she will agree. We can all contribute towards cake, crémante etc." "Quelle bonne idée, " they chorused and, yes, my suggestion had been in French, they had understood.

 However, the next day they decided 'quelle problème' to bring 21 chairs, the cake, the glasses etc etc. It had never occurred to me that a picnic involved more than rugs on grass,  bottoms on rugs. 'So we thought the salle polyvalente in Flee - there were tables and chairs there.' I refrained from adding 'but no flowers, fresh air or views.' Two days later, 

"Flee was too expensive to hire but we've had a much better idea," they said.

"Ooh, c'est quoi?" I asked .

'We'll have it here in the patchwork room. There are tables, chairs and what's more we can wash up afterwards." I was hugely disappointed; yes, we had a good time celebrating our friend's 80th, chairs to spare,  sitting were we sat in the same places every Wednesday, discussing in detail each person's  recipe. I promised myself not to suggest anything to do with French celebrations/ meals or food again...

  ...until a month ago. We had sorely missed a member of my English conversation class after her husband had had a life-threatening fall from the mezzanine in their home. She had spent almost an entire year backwards and forwards to Dijon, not seeing friends, unable to participate in her many outside interests and barely two days a week at home to see to matters there. When her husband eventually came home three months ago she was still tied to the house in case he fell headlong from his wheelchair as had happened once. Unable to do anything for himself she was on the go all day. 

  One member of the class mentioned it was her 86th birthday in a weeks time, exactly one year after his fall. "Any suggestions, anyone?" Yes, in English - they are wonderful students! 

That's when I forgot my promise. 

"She has no family so why don't we make a meal and take it as a surprise on the day of her birthday."

"We'll make it teatime and each take a cake and we can celebrate with her," they suggested.

 'Hmm,' I thought, 'there's only one chair in the room, the rest of the space taken up with a huge hospital bed, wheel chair, walking frame and what will the two of them do with enough cake to last a month?'

The following day I WhatsApp-ed the group explaining how difficult it would be.. no chairs!.. and perhaps too many people for someone recovering from such an accident. I suggested the three course meal (my friend does not enjoy cooking), a centre piece of flowers/candle, some champagne; in this way the couple could enjoy a celebration together for the first time in over a year. The class could bring the prepared items to conversation to put in our fridge and the following day either John or I could deliver it in in the morning.

"Bonne idée, " said Michel, " je vais faire un tiramisu."

This was going well, each of us doing our part until...

... quite late that evening I received a worried phone call from Michel.

" I don't want to trouble you, je ne veux pas te déranger si tard, " he spoke in Franglais, "but si je fais le tiramisu Wednesday matin et mettre le chocolat au-dessus it will be a...une catastrophe... ze chocolat va disparaître ...une vraie catastrophe, " his voice raised in culinary anguish. 

I'm afraid I could hardly stop laughing to myself - the French and their cuisine!

" I have a suggestion, Michel."

 " She loves tiramisu so it's a shame not to make it. Leave the chocolate out and put it in a small container with instructions to sprinkle it on just before they eat."

" OK, d'accord, " Michel said hesitatingly. I was well aware of his lack of confidence in this English woman's advice re cooking.

Our friend celebrated with her husband the surprise romantic meal à deux from her conversation friends. She enjoyed sprinkling chocolate on the perfect tiramisu and Mylène had added a small jar of extra spice to sprinkle on the main dish - 'parce que Pascal a perdu son sens de goût.'

_____________________________________________________________

 Jackie's story

I was in London this past week.   My son lives in a pretty residential part of south London. It was very warm and Spring like with daffodils sprouting up everywhere and people in T shirts and shorts.       I was going along the street looking at everything around me and came across a lady with a walking frame  - she was stuck and looking around her in despair desperately trying to pull on the wheel of her walking frame from the slats of the gutter –she was struggling to move it.   Although I was quite a way away from her I could see her getting more and more frustrated by this and as I approached I heard her whisper

“could I trouble you to help me”… no trouble I replied and helped her out of her predicament.    I wondered about this word “trouble” as it’s asking for help and could be a sign of weakness implying a greater burden - which of course it isn’t.   

If I personally were to ask someone for help I would phrase it differently I would say “ I'm sorry to trouble you: sorry to inconvenience you, , sorry to bother you , sorry to impose, sorry to create difficulties, sorry to disturb, sorry to put you out sorry to hassle, incommode and the list goes on .

In a big city you become wary of people and hesitate to ask a complete stranger to help.    I had three heartfelt experiences that were very meaningful.     On the tube a young man got up the instant I got on the tube – I was hanging on to the overhead strap and he stood up and offered me his seat.   Of course I was grateful and thanked him for his trouble – no trouble at all Mam he said – I could see you were tired.   Another time an older man gave me his seat.    I couldn’t thank him enough as the day had been exhausting one way or another.     Another time a young girl this time stood for me and again I was so happy to sit down.   

No trouble she said as she happily stood for the next 6 stops before getting off. 

Well the world works in a funny way on one hand I was horrified that I looked old enough to stand up for but on the other hand if no one had stood up I’d have been disappointed in the human race.  You cannot win.________________________________________________

Paula's story

Raquel sat at a table in the window of a café on the Ile Saint-Louis in Paris, nursing a broken heart along with her chocolat chaud. She had bet on love, had flown across the ocean from her home in the farm lands of Iowa, to be with Jean-Jacques. And now, what? She was alone. It was her choice. Yet it would be understating it to say that Jean-Jacques on his home turf of France turned out to be very different from the Jean-Jacques she met and fell in love with at university in America.

Raquel was bewildered, hurt, uncertain as to her next move, determined to be strong, wary of flying home with her tail tucked between her legs, resolved to staying in Paris and making a go of it on her own. After all, Paris had always been a dream of hers. Had she used Jean-Jacques to get here? Had it really been love? But the heartache, it was so strong. She felt like she could barely breathe. How could she have misjudged someone so?

She looked up in her misery and noticed for the first time an elderly man sitting across the room, a cup of coffee and a half-eaten croissant on the table before him, engrossed in a book. The title was in English, and it was her favorite book: To Kill a Mockingbird.

Raquel’s breath caught. She was feeling so far from home, so wretched. Was this some kind of sign? She stood and walked to the man’s table.

“I don’t want to trouble you, but I noticed that you are reading my favorite book, ever,” she said to the man. “Would you mind if I sat down, just for a moment?”

The old man looked up at Raquel, smiled, and replied in English with a strong French accent, “Of course, my dear. I’d love a bit of company. I am just at the part where Jem gets into a spot of trouble, and even though I have read this several times, I could still use a little break.”

He rose from the table, stretched out his hand to clasp hers, and said, “Thierry. Enchanté.” She felt his rough, warm fingers around her own, and said, “Raquel.  Merci.”

He ordered another coffee for himself, and another chocolat chaud for Raquel, and the two of them spent the next hour talking about books. Travel. Life. Love. The hour passed quickly, and before she knew it, Raquel’s new friend had gathered his book, coat and scarf to go.

As he stood up, she plucked a novel from her bag and held it out to him. “Here,” she said. “My second favorite book: A Gentleman in Moscow. May I give it to you?”

The man bowed, and with a hint of tears in his eyes, he accepted her gift, tucking it under his arm alongside Mockingbird. “I’m honored,” he whispered. “Shall we meet here again tomorrow morning?”

As he walked to the counter, paid his bill, and left the café, Raquel was overcome with a   completely new and unexpected emotion: Hope.

She was reminded of the random wonders of life, how opening up to a new place meant opening your heart to new people. People who could become important in your life, for many reasons and in many ways. Yes, she had had her heart shattered by a man she thought she knew and loved. But by taking that risk, she had broken open something else: possibility. And now here was the universe, pointing to her reward.

She turned back to the window and watched the old man amble down the street. She was filled with gratitude, for the warm welcome of a stranger, for the unforeseen connection, for the possibility of a new friend. Maybe a life in Paris was possible, after all.

It had all started because she said she didn’t want to trouble him.  And his simple generosity and kindness had eased her own.  

_________________

K's story

“I don’t want to trouble you, but…”

The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light over the Johnson family's backyard. Billy, a bright-eyed ten-year-old, laughed as he tossed a rubber ball across the lush green lawn. His four loyal dogs—Max, a golden retriever; Daisy, a border collie; Rocky, a muscular Rottweiler; and Pippin, a small but feisty Jack Russell—chased after it, their tails wagging furiously.

Just as Max pounced on the ball, a shadow flickered at the edge of the yard. Pippin’s ears perked up first, his keen nose twitching. Before he could bark a warning, a pair of rough hands grabbed Billy from behind. A muffled cry escaped Billy’s lips as a man dressed in dark clothes hoisted him into a van idling at the curb. The dogs sprang into action, but the van’s tires screeched as it sped away.

Daisy let out a piercing howl. “They took Billy!”

Max growled. “We have to get him back.”

“But how?” Rocky rumbled, his deep voice laced with worry. “We’re just dogs.”

Pippin’s small body trembled, but his eyes were full of determination. “We’re not just dogs. We’re Billy’s family.”

Max took charge. “We need a plan.” He sniffed the ground where the van had been. “They left a scent trail. We follow it.”

The dogs raced down the sidewalk, noses to the ground. They weaved through backyards and darted across streets, narrowly avoiding honking cars. The scent led them to an old warehouse on the outskirts of town.

Daisy peered through a crack in the door. Inside, Billy was tied to a chair, his eyes wide with fear. Two men stood near him, arguing.

“I don’t want to trouble you, but kidnapping a kid? That’s way more serious than I signed up for,” one of the men muttered.

The other man, taller and meaner-looking, scoffed. “Relax. His parents will pay, and then we let him go.”

Outside, the dogs huddled together.

“We have to get inside,” Rocky said.

Pippin’s tail wagged. “I’m small enough to squeeze through the vent up there.”

Max nodded. “Good. Get inside and untie Billy.”

While Pippin slipped in through the vent, Max, Daisy, and Rocky crept around the building. Pippin landed softly on a stack of crates and made his way to Billy.

“Pippin!” Billy whispered. “You came!”

The little dog chewed at the ropes binding Billy’s hands. Outside, Max barked loudly, drawing the men’s attention.

“What was that?”

“I’ll check.” The taller man grabbed a flashlight and headed for the door.

Rocky sprang into action, charging at him just as he stepped outside. The man stumbled, dropping his flashlight. Daisy dashed inside and bit the second man’s pant leg, making him yelp. Max and Rocky pinned down the first man, growling menacingly.

Meanwhile, Pippin had freed Billy’s hands. The boy untied his feet and grabbed a nearby wooden plank. When the second man tried to shake Daisy off, Billy swung the plank, knocking him to the floor.

The men groaned, tangled in ropes and surrounded by four fierce dogs. Billy hugged each of them. “You saved me!”

Minutes later, the police arrived, alerted by a neighbor who had seen the commotion. The kidnappers were arrested, and Billy’s parents came running, tears in their eyes. “You’re safe!” his mother cried, hugging him tightly.

Billy grinned, ruffling Max’s fur. “Thanks to my best friends.”

The four dogs stood proudly, tails wagging. They might have been “just dogs,” but tonight they were heroes.

_________________

 

 

 

 

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”  

 

 

 

 

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 3^rd 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 1^st of June 2015.

 

Could you tell us in detail what you were doing on the 1^st 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 3^rd 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 3^rd of September at 22h in the central police offices concerning the suspect of the killing of James Tollen on the evening of 1^st 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 1^st 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 …