55 °

	Paula's story

At 55 degrees latitude south, there exists a whole world that few people know about or understand.  It is the extraordinary world of the albatross.

The albatross is a large, magnificent seabird that is capable of soaring incredible distances without rest.  Long viewed with superstitious awe by sailors — haven’t we all read Samuel Coleridge’s poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner? — these birds spend most of their lives in the air, gliding over the open Southern Ocean. 

 Most people around the world have never caught even a glimpse of these unusual birds, because when the albatross does visit dry land, it often is on Campbell Island, a remote, uninhabited place south of the South Island of New Zealand, in the Southern Ocean. The birds come here to breed year after year, free from predators, before going back out to sea. On New Zealand’s South Island itself, a smaller colony of albatrosses started a breeding colony when one albatross couple got lost by accident on their way to Campbell Island, and others soon followed. The colony sits on a forbidding, windy promontory maintained by the country’s national park service, where the staff protects them from predators, and where a colony of Royal albatrosses returns year after year to lay and nurture their eggs.

By the way, albatrosses mate for life. They form a long-term bond with one partner, and usually the only thing that can separate them is death.  Yet, they spend limited time together, meeting up only briefly once a year at their annual breeding grounds until their one egg for that year is laid. They then take turns incubating the egg and foraging for food. Eventually, both birds must search for food to keep their growing chick fed. Once their chick leaves the nest, the parents separate for the rest of the year, flying alone out to sea, and reuniting only when it's time to breed again.

Once a young albatross leaves its nest, at about 165 days, it may spend a year or more at sea without touching down on land. Because of the risk of shark attacks, they touch down in the water only briefly, to feed.

And about that feeding: The albatross has an amazing sense of smell, and can smell food in the water from up to 20 kilometers away. But following a scent trail on the open ocean isn’t easy. In 2008, researchers fitted 19 wandering albatrosses with GPS sensors and found that they often approach food by flying upwind in a zigzag pattern, which seems to improve their chances of tracing an intermittent odor plume to its source. And how is it that they can fly upwind so easily?

 

The wingspan of a wandering albatross measures up to four meters across, which makes it the largest bird on Earth in terms of wingspan. The albatross can soar 800 kilometers in a day, and can maintain speeds of nearly 130 kilometers per hour for eight hours straight without ever having to flap its wings. Part of the secret is locking joints, which let the birds keep its wings extended for long periods with no energy cost from its muscles. In addition, the birds have mastered something called dynamic soaring, which means they can fly along a continuously curved path in a way that takes energy from the wind, giving them, basically, an unlimited external energy source.

 

Albatrosses can be found in the Southern Ocean and the North Pacific. They prefer Antarctic, sub-Antarctic, and sub-tropical waters. They primarily are found in the Southern Hemisphere with a few exceptions, such as a colony that returns every year to Oahu, in Hawaii. The albatrosses that breed in New Zealand often cross the planet to feed at the tip of South America, at 55 degrees latitude south.

 

Albatrosses live long lives. They can survive for many decades, some well beyond 50 years. The best-known example is a bird first banded by scientists at Midway Atoll in 1956, and named Wisdom by the researchers. Wisdom continued returning to Midway for more than 50 years, raising about 3 dozen chicks during her life. At 70, she was still breeding.

 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner goes on for days, as you probably know, but I’ll end with a very abbreviated few verses taken from different parts of the poem.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks 

Had I from old and young! 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 

About my neck was hung.

           *****

The self-same moment I could pray; 

And from my neck so free 

The Albatross fell off, and sank 

Like lead into the sea.

           *****

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 

Both man and bird and beast. 

 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 

All things both great and small; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all.

_________________________________

Jackie

The villagers in Viserny, a small village in Burgundy, woke one morning to the sound of tractors, cranes and electric saws

Alarmed, they gathered together and walked up the hill to see what was causing this noise.   To their horror, trees had been cut, paths excavated leaving great tire imprints creating troughs of mud making it impossible to walk.    Someone had been clearing the land cutting trees and plants directly behind their precious natural spring.   The land had been sold to a Belgian company for wood.

There was never a water shortage even on the hottest days of summer, even during the drought of 1976 which caused hundreds of skeleton like cattle lowing in their fields.

The natural spring was located on a hill just above the small town.    For centuries water has gushed out of the ground into the well providing  the whole village with delicious fresh water and never the need to buy bottles.

Every morning Michel trundled up the hill to inspect the spring  with his thermometer .

55 degrees was the perfect water temperature keeping bacteria at bay .  Drinking this water gave the villagers a rosy complexion and no one ever had any problems with sciatica or arthritis.       The doctors in the big town nearby had no patients from this village and most people had never been to the local hospital and some didn’t even know where it was .

That particular year Mme Barnier  started to get peculiar aches and pains in her joints groaning each time she got up from her chair – 88 year old Raymond Berthier had a strange soreness in his stomach and admitted that he should go see a doctor for the first time in his life.   Jojo had an argument with next door, became aggressive and tried to shoot his neighbor.

The newly weds Tim and Julia argued all day long – slept apart and generally started to hate each other .    The children in the village school became unruly, distracted and uncontrollable – lessons had to be stopped.    The teacher abandoned the class .    Nobody turned up to the few gatherings planned and generally a very morose atmosphere hung over the village.    Something was amiss.

Michel went as usual to check on the spring waters.   He first took a sample and was horrified to discover that there were bacteria in his pipette – then he took the temperature of the water and discovered that it was above normal, well above normal in fact 60° instead of 55°.  Just a few degrees more changed the nature of the water from transparent to yellow

What has happened to our water the villagers cried -     and realized that the destruction of the trees was causing havoc to their precious spring.

Armed with axes, screwdrivers, knives and even scissors  they descended on the tractors and vehicles left overnight and dismantled engines, cut tires rendering them useless.   They worked all night and the following morning the Belgian workmen unable to cut down any more trees limped dejectedly out of the village and were never seen again.   New trees were planted and grew the water gradually descended to its normal temperature of 55° and bacteria disappeared,  villagers enjoyed health and happiness once again.

I’m not suggesting that we should take things this far when we have a case of environmental destruction, as we could rapidly all find us in prison.     But, this is just a reminder that we can act and should act accordingly trying our best to save our forests and our planet.

 

_______________________________________________________________

Sarah's post

55° 3  –  Christmas party
(02.12.2023)

The Christmas party at the firm has never been one of my favourite events.  Some of the staff put up what they esteem to be attractive decorations, destined to make us all feel cheerful.  They serve a small assortment of things that pass for food and there’s an open bar.  And they get in a small band that plays a variety of dance music interspersed with Christmas carols.  Maybe it gets more lively if you stay long enough.  But for the time I usually stay, there are only a few couples out on the dance floor, plus a few of the single female staff, and most everybody else is just hanging around the bar.  They call me the Lone Ranger, but I don’t mind.  That’s the way I’ve always been.  Besides, I’m a little too old for all that; I’d rather be at home in my armchair with my pipe, listening to Schubert.  At these company socials, there’s no Schubert and you can’t smoke.  But the fête can be helpful to some people.
For instance, last year I was sitting there, nursing my drink and trying to calculate how much longer I had to stay before I could decently leave, when a young co-worker from the meteorology department came and sat down next to me.  
“Ho!  Something not right, Greg?” I asked, at the sight of his woebegone countenance.
He just nodded, but appeared even more dejected than before.  I looked round the room, and a little further off I spied a colleague on whom, I was pretty sure, my friend Greg had a crush.
“Say,” I said.  “There’s Sharon sitting over there, and all you fellows are neglecting the women.  Why don’t you go over and speak to her.”
“I have.”
“Don’t tell me she didn’t respond.”
He looked wretched, but he consented to explain though it was clearly torture to him.
“I went over and tapped her on the shoulder.  She turned round and gave me such a smile I was thrown for a loop.  All I could think to say was, ‘You’re sitting on my coat.’  Which she was, by the way.  Just like that her expression changed.  ‘By all means, take your coat,’ she said, moving over, and her smile had gone to about 55°.”
“Fahrenheit or Celsius?” I asked trying to lighten the atmosphere.
“Fahrenheit of course.  Not exactly frosty, but like the hostess who says ‘How delightful to see you’ when you can tell she’d rather you hadn’t come.  I’ve blown it, totally.”
“Hmm,” I said.  “I’d suggest you go right back there, put your coat down again where you picked it up, and when she looks at you again, as she will, you give her a smile of 55° Celsius and you ask her to dance.”
“I can’t dance,” he said.  “I don’t know any of these new dances, only the waltz I learnt when I was ten and my mother forced me to go to dancing lessons.”
And the next number, which started at that very moment, was as it happened, a waltz.
He looked at me doubtfully, so I just pushed him in the right direction and turned my back on him, so as not to give him a chance to protest or make him feel he was watched.  When I glanced back a few minutes later, I saw the two of the moving awkwardly to the rhythm of the music.  But as I continued to look, their  movements grew more and more fluid and relaxed, and soon they swirled gracefully out of sight.
I turned away again, but I suddenly felt rather jolly.  Not to spoil things, I downed the rest of my Scotch and left the party before my mood changed again.
This year I’m almost looking forward to the Christmas festivities.  Greg stopped by my desk the other day and said he and Sharon were having a few friends in after the party, and would I come?
“Don’t worry,” he said, “we’ll leave early.”  Such tact!  He knows me well.            + 675 wds

 

If I were a man

If I Were a Man by Annemarie

 

If I were  a man I’d have  first been a boy ,

With football and cricket, air guns and toys.

Teenager days I would be croaking and squeaking

With  baffling bulges happening below.

My feet would be smelly, and a beard I’d grow.

 

If I were a man I could pump iron each day

Have a laudable six-pack, a chest to display,

Wear budgie smugglers down on the beach.

My teeth would be straightened and whitened with bleach.

I’d drive a Ferrari and attract all the girls.

 

If I were man with a wife and a family

I could do all the shopping in Lidl or Aldi;

There’s the wonderful aisle right in the middle,

Full of those items, essential and handy

So I suddenly realise ‘they’re just what I need!'

 

 I’d wear baggy shorts and a horrible vest;

Hairs would be  sprouting from my nose and my chest;

I'd sit on the couch with my big beer belly

With packets of crisps, watching the telly.

I’d shout at the match while slurping my beers.

 

Of the males above I would elect none of these.

Today we can be any gender we please.

 Captains of industry or leaders of states

Women  can do whatever men can…

….Except pee in a bottle?

 

But if I were a man none of this would you hear;

No eating fine food, no champagne or good cheer;

No books to discuss, no stories to share;

Let’s face it ladies, I just wouldn’t be here

As men are not welcome in our feminine lair.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Jackie

If I were a man I would make a plan

To drive a van?

With a girl called Ann

I would become a jazzman, clergyman or fisherman

Buy a frying pan in Kazakhstan

 

If I were a man

I could become a businessman

Make a masterplan

Drive a sedan like a madman

Say hello to Peterpan

 

If I were a man

I could get a suntan in Afghanistan

Wear a kaftan

Go to Hindustan

 

But man to man

I would most like to go to Japan

Maybe in a catamaran

Walk the streets that are spick and span

 

But as I said to the milkman

All this is beyond my attention span

I’ll be the middleman

And have fun as a ladiesman

-----------------------------------------------

Geraldine's story

IF I WERE A MAN

 

 

If I were a man, I think I would look at women differently : not just according to their appareance, the way they dress, their looks, their figure, but maybe to find out what they have inside and I could well be surprised.

If I were a man, maybe I would be pleasently surprised by what I would find, this means leaving my masculine culture behind and entering a new world.  But how could I leave all those centuries of masculine domination behind without having intense feelings  of loss ?  I would try and work and find out about how this domination took over, beyond just the physical strenght there is between us.

This could be an excellent arena for action, correlated with environmental protection for the following decades and before it’s too late.

If I were a man, I would think twice about engaging wars in which our children would have to be involved.  I would try to truly understand mother’s reactions to the loss of children they have brought into the world.

If I were a man, I would be very receptive to the reaction women have just had in Island when they recently went on strike, including the Prime Minister to require at last  equal pay between men and women.

If I were a man, I would try and find out how I could really and efficiently take my part of the mental load involved in childcare and housecare.  Maybe by switching roles for a couple of months, which could probably help me realizing all I never thought about around these chores !

If I were a man with daughters, I would definitly make sure I’m bringing them up as I would boys, never making them feel they could be « behind » « weaker » « diminished » or « just girls » « only girls » !

If I were a man, I would NEVER interfere or take part in decisions concerning nothing but the woman’s body : abortion, painful periods, but also what to look like, how to dress etc…

 

 

But fortunately I’m not a man and as we, women, mainly occidental ones, have already recently made steps towards our emancipation, I shall continue talking to men, convincing them that the path they have been on for so many years has to change, and trying to help them do so.

And dreaming of emancipation for all the woman who are still so far from it, supporting them and helping make steps towards it.

---------------------------------------------------------

Sarah's story

If I were a man – 1 revised4
(27.10.2023)

“If I were a man,” said Zera, “I would have one of those things hanging down in front.  Yuck!”
“Well, being a woman you’ve got two things hanging down in front,” countered Maya.
“Speak for yourself!  My boobs are still firm.  They stick right out.”
And this was patently true, as they could both see, even if it was also true that Maya, though more rounded than her chum, and with heavier breasts, was still quite firm herself.  But adolescents will parry and thrust, especially when they have nothing else to do, as was the case this warm November morning.
“I love November!” said Maya, caressing her skin which was soaking in the oblique rays of the sun.
“You know, in the old days,” mused Zera, “November was a cold month, people didn’t like it.”
“I know.  And now it’s our best month; so much better than summer!  We can stay outside nearly all day long.  Though the days are shorter, of course.”
“What’s the point of long days if you never see the sun?  I get so bored underground, living by artificial light, though we hardly have that any more, now that there’s no electricity.  November is so much nicer!”
“Yes, but in those days, they didn’t like it, they stayed indoors and made a fire.”
“No, they didn’t.  They had central heating.”
“What’s that?”
“Something that came from petroleum, and you didn’t have to make a fire to keep warm.”
“What’s petroleum?”
“You never heard of petroleum?  That was something essential in the old days.  People couldn’t live without it.  They used it to run their cars, and don’t tell me you don’t know what cars were, they used it for heating, they used it to make plastics—“
“I know what plastics are.”
“Yeah, there are still some of those around.  But people didn’t hoard them like treasures in the old days.  Plastic objects were cheap then and they threw them away constantly.  That’s how we are still able to find some in the excavations.  But that’s not the only thing they made with petroleum; they made the cloth for people’s clothes.  You do know that people used to wear something they called clothes?”
“Yes, I know.  But I thought they made them out of animal skins and plants they spun and wove, like cotton and silk and hemp.”
“That was in our great-great-grandparents’ time, before the animal rights people took over and forbade using anything that came from animals, like fur or leather or wool.”
“You don’t agree?”  Zera sounded shocked.
“Yes, of course.  I respect animals.  But it complicated things.  Not so much at first, that’s why everybody agreed.  People made do, because there was still petroleum in those days.  And they could make nylon and rayon and acrylic fibre.  But when the petroleum ran out, that’s when people went back to weaving natural things, until the heat of the planet made all the cotton plantations dry up and made the silkworms die, and hemp production became impossible because it used so much water, and so on.”
“Well anyway, we don’t need clothes any more.”
“True, but the fact is we don’t wear clothes any more by law, by necessity.  It would be wrong, or impossible.  But it’s dog in the manger to say we don’t need them.  I would like to have clothes, I think it’s a fun idea.”
“Maybe.  You could choose what you looked like.  And then too, maybe we wouldn’t have so much hair growing on our bodies.”
“That’s for a fact.  I sure wish we could go back to the old days!”               

"September"

 Geraldine's poem

SEPTEMBER

 

 

Summer melting in September

As autumnal equinox approaches

Winds blow and rains fall

As the days shorten to  equivalent length

As sun dims from bright to pale yellow.

 

September brings harvest days

From vegetables to fruit

From potatoes to pumpkins

Some need canning or freezing

Others straight down the cellar.

 

Grapes are picked to change to juice or wine

Pears and apples get stacked on wooden racks

Peaches and plums undergo transformations

For the long coming  winter chutneys and deserts

Summer is behind and winter is ahead !

 

The rising sun, shines gently through the morning mist

The setting sun plays  with orange or pink cows in the fields

The birds gather to fly to milder shores

The leaves turn gold for their October show

And the first logs glow in the fireplaces.

 

Annemarie's story

September

Valerie put the pleated grey pinafore, the crisp white blouse and French navy cardigan on the chair and kissed her daughter goodnight. Tomorrow, the 3rd September, she would walk her daughter to school for her first day. A special day for her daughter, bittersweet for herself as it brought back long-forgotten memories of her own first day.

  For Valerie school had meant going away from the family for the first time at the age of six. She would not see them again for three months.  Although her life up country had been idyllic it was remote and the thought of meeting so many other children like herself had filled her with eager anticipation. And what about the train journey, her father had said. Two days chugging past wild animals, past lakes and jungles; bunk beds which folded down for the night, and a bag which her mother had filled with tangerines - naartjes she’d called them, a tube of Nestlé's condensed milk, and two bars of Turkish Delight, her favourite sweet. So young she hadn't, couldn’t, imagine three months without seeing them.

  Her excitement was clouded when on the day of departure their nearest neighbour had climbed into the car beside her. As he had business in town her father had offered him a lift. Sandy Wilson, or Mr Wilson as she called him. She still remembered his dark hair, straight dark eyebrows and his pursed round mouth but most of all she remembered the day after her sixth birthday. She had spied him talking to her father and had asked if it was necessary to write him a thank you letter for her present.  Just like the time when he’d seen her playing by herself under the jacaranda tree he said, “just give me a kiss.” She had run away then and had done so again.

   On the big day she recalled getting up very early, her father loading her new school tin trunk with her name stencilled in white across the top, into the boot. Mr Wilson had manoeuvred his big body into the car right next to her;  he had been wearing khaki shorts and khaki shirt, his pink legs close to hers; she had propped her toy gentleman rabbit between them.

   No aircon in those days it had been a long, dusty journey from the lush mountain foothills of the Mountains of the Moon to the bustling town of Kampala and Mr Wilson had kept talking to her about learning maths and geography until she pretended to be asleep. She could still recollect his Scottish burr, his rolling r's, his ruddy face and beetle brows bent towards her. It should have been a special day with her parents; instead she had listened to the murmured talk of the adults and flinched when Mr. Wilson stroked her head or put his hot hand on her knee. He had even joined them for a grownup  lunch at Chez Joseph, and had accompanied them to the railway station - after all, he had said, he was still due a kiss.

   Looking back Valerie was surprised  her parents hadn’t registered her disquietude. Perhaps they’d attributed it to her trepidation about leaving home for the first time.

   At the station children of all ages, dressed in checked blue dresses or shirts and grey shorts milled around their parents, the young ones grasping parental hands. Valerie had been so happy, so relieved, to see one of her friends who was also starting school so far away and had dragged her mother to follow them into the same compartment.

   Once there she had remained firmly ensconced in her seat clutching her rabbit. Beside her, still reclining on a bed of white tissue paper lay an exquisite doll, dressed as a Spanish dancer, which her parents had given her. She had stubbornly refused to come out again even to say goodbye to her father because Mr Wilson was still there, still demanding a kiss. She had sobbed as her father came into the compartment to give her a last cuddle before the whistle sounded and the train chugged off with its cargo of children through the African savannah. The worst September of her young life.

 

 

Jackie:   

September

 

Excuse me Sir, 

Yes, Madam,

 

I think you’ve made a mistake with my bill

Oh how is that? I very much doubt it

Lets have a look

 

Well you see,  I received this bill from you dated 09/25/2023

 and I am sorry to tell you that I don’t understand the date of your invoice.   Did you put the month before the day? There are only a maximum of months in a year in my understanding, and here you are exceeding the amount by 13 months of which in fact do not exist.   No calendars in the world have 25 months in a year.    Today is the 25^th of September 2023 and your bill states that it is the 9^th of the 25^h which is ridiculous.  This bill should be  written as 25/09/2023.  

 

No Sir, In America, I might remind you, we write the month first so 09/25/2023 is totally correct.      In America we put the month first so 09 is the month of September of course and 25 is the day. 

 

If you were writing it out in letters in Europe and the rest of the world it would 25^th of September 2023.  25/09/2023 Not the 9^th of the 25^th day.  

Yes Sir, but you see in this country we put the month before the day, it is quite logical you know our very sophisticated computer only understands this and that is the way it is. 

Yes, but I am British you see and I don’t understand your method. Your computer should adjust to all types of people, in fact the rest of the world – those of us coming from another country cannot spend hours trying to work out the date of an invoice.   You must inform your computer person to correct this and then I can pay your bill – maybe giving me a discount too as  it is you who have made a mistake.   Making a mistake on an invoice is

 an official error and I regret to tell you that I cannot pay this bill as it is not conform to the normal.  

 

 

Excuse me Sir, but I have completed the work and now you must pay the bill otherwise…

I have a family to feed and cannot wait to get paid.

 

Yes, but let’s face it, you must admit its weird.   Despite the variety of date formats used around the world, the US is the only country to insist on using month/day/year.  

 

As an American, I've wondered this myself. Here is my thought on why we do it.

Because context is king here. And the month is the most contextual part of the date info, among day, month and year. Here's how I mean.

If I were to give just one part of the date, how much emotion, memory and sense of "what's going on" would each evoke?

The Month/Day/Year format definitely goes back a very, very long way, as you can see by the original Declaration of Independence:

The month-day-year format, or mm/dd/yy matches the way that we verbally cite dates. We rarely say “the ninth of May, twenty-nineteen.” It is far more common for us to recite the date as “May ninth, twenty-nineteen.” If you write down that almost universal (in the US) way of citing the date using numerals instead of words, it is directly rendered as “5/9/2019,” or “05/09/2019” if you insist on using leading zeroes. This way of writing the date out using numerals simply mirrors the way that we verbally cite dates. This style seems natural and intuitive to most Americans.

Clearly Americans prefer things that are irrational, jumbled and confusing

 That is just the way we like it.”

 

 

Six words for a story

Sarah's story

Gold/batter/lugubrious/sex/vanquish/bandage 3 – Quaityle
(14.08.2023)


“And what again is the name of this place?” asked the newcomer.  There were many newcomers to this island, for it was advertised as a paradise; what they did not know in advance was that it was in fact a very lugubrious place, in that all of the islanders were at least 50% dissatisfied, without knowing why.
“”Quaityle” said the islander.
“”Plaît-il?” asked the newcomer, because he was French.
But the islander did not reply because he did not speak French.  Foreign language study and even the use of foreign languages were forbidden on the island, on the grounds that some people did not understand them and that made them feel inferior.  Only English was therefore allowed, but nobody who came to the island ever left there to go anywhere else, so English was sufficient.  The country had been recently founded by a small and very progressive group of thinkers.
The constitution of this new republic consisted in a single sentence: “No-one shall be or have any more than anyone else.”
The place was indeed a natural paradise.  Though of course the sea water could not be used for drinking, it rained every night and recipients were left out so that fresh water was never  lacking.  The sea was stocked with savory fish, luscious fruits grew on the trees in all seasons, a sort of tuberose grew in the soil and when dug up could be pounded into a meal that, when mixed with water, made a sort of batter that could be fried into a delicious pancake.  
Gold and silver were not needed, because nothing was bought and sold: everything was there for the taking.
There were problems, however.  The fruits on the trees grew on very high branches, so only the tall islanders could reach them, and the short islanders had to go without.  A short-lived proposal was to cut the legs of the tall islanders, but that would have deprived everyone of fruit, so the idea was abandoned and the short islanders were therefore supplied with wooden stilts.  But not all of them were able to manage these, and very few of them were able to walk on the stilts and pick the fruit at the same time.  As for the fishing, many of the islanders could not swim, and therefore it was the swimmers that had all the fish.  It was therefore decreed that fish could be eaten only on Mondays and Fridays, lessening the number of days on which the non-swimmers would feel deprived..  
Other problems were solved in the same way.  In the schools only a certain amount of knowledge was allowed to be acquired every day.  When the brighter pupils had mastered this, which was very quickly, they were banished from the classroom and sent out to play.  The slower pupils were kept in and the masters tried vainly to drum this knowledge into their recalcitrant heads.  For they too would have liked to go out and play, and they resented being kept in to do something they were not really very good at.  And the brighter pupils were frustrated, for they would have liked to go on learning.
As for health and medicine, it was decided that drugs and operations were against nature, and therefore they were no longer given or practised.  Besides, those things cost money, and money was no longer in fashion.  In these ways the republic hoped to  vanquish inequality.
There was more of a problem with sex, however.  Naturally, the more beautiful women were the most in demand, and got the most handsome men.  The heads of the beautiful women were therefore shaved and they were forbidden to wear makeup and made to wear shapeless brown sack dresses.  That did not really deter the men from preferring them, however.  So the less beautiful women were advised to become lesbians, and the less handsome men were told to be gays among themselves.  Most of these women, however, did not want to be lesbians, and the men in question, if they did not object to becoming gay, wanted the more handsome men.
One day an islander cut a gash in his leg.  According to the rules of medicine of the place, a nurse put a bandage on it.  But the blood soaked through and was running all over the ground.  The man in question suddenly cried out, “This is not the way!  I am going to bleed to death, and that is not necessary.  I need stitches and disinfectant!”  For he remembered a few things from his life before, and he had seen too many people on the island die unnecessarily.  
A woman in the crowd, to whom this remark seemed brilliant, cried out in turn, “Hear, hear!”  And soon a former doctor came up, made a needle out of a thorn and some thread from some vine tendrils, bathed the wound with sea-water and sewed it up.  The man got better in no time, and everyone, awed by this miracle, elected him president.  Not that there had been a president before, but they now decided it was a good idea to have one.
He told them, “We could have different rules.  We could say that those who collect the fruits and those who catch the fish must put them in common and we all share them.  We could furnish beauty aids and sex counsellors to the less favoured to increase their chances in the pursuit of love.  We could say that everyone can and should learn all that he can and wants to but no more, and help him to find an activity that suits his abilities and taste.”
Everyone agreed, but then someone suggested, “And the constitution?”
“Yes,” said the new president, “we shall change that too.  From now on it will say, everyone shall have, as far as possible, as much as he needs or wants, without depriving other people.”
And after that, the island really began to deserve its name, which was an anagram of “Equality.”

 

 

Geraldine's story

GOLD –BATTER – LUGUBRIOUS – SEX – BANDAGE – VANQUISH

 

I think I must vanquish the heat-wave and accept my grandaughter’s invitation to see the play she has worked on and is performing in Rocamadour.  But oh ! it’s so hot ! so terribly weakening!  And just to think of the six hour drive to get there with a sun like gold in the face and over 35°C heat !

My last niece and her family were leaving that day, so we decided Michel would stay cool in the house, tidying up, watering the garden and looking after Naïka, the dog.

As for me, I would set off at 5 a.m. long before day-time, even if the driving through the Morvan would sound a bit lugubrious at the end of the night.  This could let me reach Malinalli’s home around 11 in the morning , before the heat crushes hard on you.

My alarm went off at half past four, and I made myself a coffee and started putting my suitcase and a basket of veggies from the garden in the boot.  Plus an extra pair of walking shoes and sandals.  I shut the boot very slowly : everyone was still fast alseep at home or, who knows, maybe very discretely having sex….  But not to be revealed !

And, as programmed, off I started driving towards the West, looking forward to the evening where the show was to take place.  The play was called « Watson meets Sherlock » and with Arsène Lupin’s help, they  elucidate how MonaLisa was robbed from the Louvre.

After a few emptying and filling stops during the trip, I finally arrived at Reilhaguet around 11 o’clock as  planned.  My son had texted me nobody was there before noon, but I got a lovely greating by Néou, the big white dog with almost green eyes.

« Hello Néou » I patted him while he was waggling his tail and pushing his head against me.  How are you doing ?  Sorry, I’ve not brought your friend Naïka this time.  I walked into the house, got myself a large glass of fresh water, put my bag down and back to the car for the veggies and my suitcase.  I opened the boot, started taking my suitcase out, turned back to watch Néou, and believe who he was playing with now : NAIKA !!!

-       What ! How did you get here ! I screamed surprised !

So, I realized she had jumped into the the car boot like a clandestine passenger…  « Oh dear !  I didn’t want you with me as I know Mariana doesn’t really appreciate dogs in the house.  And of course, I didn’t bring your basked, your food, your leash and your eating and drinking bowls…Naughty girl ! »

After a good cool long siesta, we set off to Rocamadour.  As we reached the place outdoors where the Show was due to take place, in the ruins of an old castle, we saw a big group of priests and young people singing psalms in front of the church just opposite.

-       « Oh ! are these the people involved in the Play ? I asked » 

-       No, there is a religious procession starting from here, so they’ve postponed the play for half an hour….

-       One of the participants doesn’t look that bright.  He’s got a big bandage on his left ankle….  Hope he’ll be able to walk the whole procession I thought.

 

The night was setting.  We were all sitting on the benches waiting for the show.  The church clock chimed 9 times – twice – and it began.

Malinalli was the first one on the stage and was introducing the Art pieces that had got stolen – Milo’s Venus,  The Raft of the Medusa, Touthankamon and Mona Lisa.  And then, the Theater Troup gathered in front of us and started singing an introduction on the « Threepenny Opera » aria. 

The performance was really very good, with sequences of dancing, circus arts, text, pantomime etc…  Loads of well-deserved applauses at the end with an encore for a scene.

The young ones were very happy with such a numerous public and such strong encouragements. Then came the time for the theatre troup to dislocate, every member  going back home to their parents after that exciting and fulfiling 9 day  experience.  A few tears were shed, addresses were exchanged, shadows moved away one by one or two by two into the night.

We found the car, started driving home through the winding roads and talking about the play, the characters, the songs, the way they chose their parts, what seamed easy, what had been difficult and Malinalli making arrangements already to go back next year.

As we reached home, I had a feeling I had forgotten something….I had this weird sensation of something missing, but yet what could it be ?  Alzheimer, Alzheimer, I do so hate you !

And oh yes ! I knew now what it was !

I had forgotten to make the batter for the doughnuts I had promised to cook for us all when returning home. !

 

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Annemarie's story

What? Six Words!

The summer has been exceedingly hot. We have had many visitors. And like the garden my brain is drying out. Could I remember the words for our next writing club story… at the moment, which is more important, I cannot even recall the way to Paula's, let alone Jackie's six writing words.  What better opportunity to use ‘What3words’ the new app on my phone, that finds every 3metres square in the world with three words. I’m sitting on my sofa  (involves.widely.flapper.) - that must be me! I punch the three words I think I remember for Paula’s  address into my phone. For some reason only the sound is working - no visuals.

Gold.bandage.butter. and off I go. It’s a long way. I’m surprised nobody mentioned that Paula was hosting whilst on one of her jaunts.  536 kilometres later and I hear “You have arrived at your destination”. As I said it’s a very long drive to a very flat and can I say, a rather boring location in the middle of a country road. I exit the car, really needing a wee…and some lunch and, of course, a glass of wine but I haven’t a clue where I am until an old man appears out of nowhere.

“Kan ik u helpen, mevrouw? je ziet er verloren en verlaten uit.”

Fortunately I understand he is asking, in a polite manner,  ' can he help me and that I’m looking lost and frazzled, perhaps a little mad'.  It turns out the three words have sent me to the mouse-sounding town of Eeklo in Flanders and the only thing I know about Eeklo is about emperor Charles V who was known for his sexual appetite. The story goes that when he travelled through the region people hid their daughters and their attractive young women, making emperor Charles think this region was full of old women. Perhaps that’s why I can’t find Paula here - James has hidden her!

I must have put in the wrong words.  Gold.bandage.hatter. Yes, of course it was hatter not butter. It appears I will need a plane for this trip - ttzt, ttzt, ttzt…Paula and her holidays. Leaving my car at the airport I manage, incredibly,  to grab a seat at the last moment on a flight to Maquehue airport in Chile. Scrunched up in a short-legged seat with nothing to see but oceans of blue ocean I settle down to a good long rest. I awake  to dense, verdant views over jungles, glimpses of the muddy, winding Amazon river, followed by the  savannah grasslands and flooded swamps of Bolivia, before finally lofting over the soaring Andes to arrive in Chile.  Once I have hired a rather ramshackle car I’m back back on the road with my three words and at last I hear  “ You have arrived at your destination”. So a mere 12,214 kilometres. Distance is obviously  nothing to the O'Byrnes!

I'm in the middle of a forest clearing near Temuco,  where a group of indigenous people are dressing what looks like a dead person in brightly woven clothes and adorning them with silver jewellery.

“Mary mary wenul” , spoken in a friendly manner to me by one of the women and I understand it to be a welcome. Fortunately one of the men speaks a little English. He explains that I have arrived during the preparations for the traditional Mapuche burial ceremony of their  people, people who resisted three and half centuries of conquest, and never quite vanquished by Spanish invaders and Chilean colonisation. It’s highly unlikely  and, I think  in rather poor taste, that Paula would have arranged this; why would a Chilean tribe want to hear some nonsense stories in English during their burial funeral? I cannot see any of the others. I am bewildered … and frazzled, perhaps a little mad. The  tribe invite me to stay, to participate with the loan of a colourful woven poncho. I'm really quite sad to refuse such an invitation but I am already extremely late for Paula’s lunch so with lugubrious face I give my thanks, wave goodbye and retrace my wandering voyage.

 My memory has obviously been obliterated by the summer sun. Now what were the words for Paula’s address? I batter my brain - think! think! She oozes charm, her glass must never be void of champagne and there’s no tobacco in her home. Of course, now I remember- oozes.void.tobacco. Yes! They take me right to the door …but I can’t park. 

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Jackie

 I have to tell you about a very bad dream I had.    It felt like it had lasted a week – a long hot breathless week.  In my dream it was 34.5 degrees outside.  All was calm but a certain heavy oppressiveness reigned and gave the impression of being on a different planet.   

 

It was impossible to go outside during the day so I was taking out the dogs earlier than usual to avoid the excessive warmth.      But where were the animals I usually met?   The sly fox over the hill, cows , usually alert and searching the best grass, now in the corner of the field already sheltering under trees – the quiet of the woods was eerie as there was no bird song.   Had they flown away to cooler weather – they might have to go far now or perhaps just over the channel to England where it was raining all week and chilly.  Or perhaps nestling down into cool leaves and branches saving their energy.   Nothing stirred –dizzy waves of heat washed over me as I emerged from the woods.  

 

IN my dream my sunglasses were slipping off my nose as sweat poured off my forehead (I never sweat) and upon returning home which became as hot as outside

the ventilator started its interminable sound of swishing, wishing the air to respite.   The colony of bees who have lived under my roof for decades were buzzing listlessly and few ventured out into the sunshine.

 

The sky had a golden hue and gave the impression that it was wrapped in a white bandage.

Hugging my sofa, fan blasting unable to do anything else, I watched a film

 

The couple on screen were having sex, probably in an air conditioned film set.  battering each other into submission determined to vanquish one another.

 

Too hot for that I thought and fell into a languorous sleep waking to the sound of rain pattering on my windowpanes – going outside I drenched myself in the relief of cool fresh air. This past heat wave felt like a bad dream but it had been real and was definitely one I hope never to have again.  

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 Paula's story

“I guess no life can ever be perfect,” Patricia sighed, as she gazed out of the window of the tiny bistro where she had met her old friends Lisbeth and Valerie for lunch on a blustery Saturday.

 

“If you have your health, you have everything!” Lisbeth chirped, then ducked her head as her two friends scowled at her. “Well, you know what I mean,” she said defensively.

 

“I have my health, but my sex life sucks,” the lugubrious Valerie muttered glumly.

 

The three women lifted their wine glasses, but none could think of one good thing to toast to.

 

“Well,” Lisbeth said. “I guess the weather has affected all of our moods…”

 

“No,” Patricia murmured. “It’s not the gloomy weather, although it certainly doesn’t help. I just can’t stop thinking about how our lives are defined by our relationships, and how you never can really know a person. Someone does good deeds, but isn’t really a good person. Someone acts like he cares deeply, but deep down, he’s shallow. I just don’t know who to trust, anymore.”

 

“Oh, Patsy,“ Lisbeth turned to her friend. “What’s happened? You’re usually such an optimist! What has happened to vanquish your normally sunny outlook?”

 

Patricia smoothed the tablecloth in front of her, then lifted her wine glass to take another sip. “It’s just that, well, not all that glitters is gold,” she said.

 

Valerie and Lisbeth exchanged a glance. “Sounds like someone needs to tear off the bandage and expose the wound,” Valerie said, placing her hand softly on Patricia’s. “Talk to us. We’re your oldest and dearest friends, and we just want you to be happy.”

 

Patricia sighed again. How could she begin to explain?

 

‘I’ll try,” she murmured, with a slight smile. “Say you’re making a batter for a cake. You have all the ingredients you need for yummy deliciousness: the butter, the milk, the flour, the salt, the vanilla … but something is missing. And you just can’t put your finger on it.”

 

“The baking powder?” Lisbeth piped up, as Valerie kicked her under the table.

 

“Maybe,” Valerie said softly, “it’s not a matter of ingredients. Maybe, it’s a matter of baking time.”

 

Patricia, startled, stared at her old friend, and said, “My god, I think that’s it, Val. He just doesn’t have the staying power!”

 

“Well, good riddance, I say,” Valerie laughed, as the three friends finally toasted to friendship and the uncanny ability to finish each other’s thoughts. “But, Patsy,” she whispered with a grin as she leaned forward toward her friend. “Could you send him my way? I’m not so picky.”

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