Seeing as how I've nearly frozen my chewbies off waiting for a bus that's not giving any sign of wanting to show up, I've no choice but to unlimber my handy-dandy foldaway totally-undetectable-in-normal-use Poetry Unicycle!
This week's wobble was written in 1985. I wanted to use it on da bus when we had the Ted Hughes thing going on, but it was too much like his poem, so I didn't.
I still sort of like it though, so here it is.
The Horses
They come every morning
Galloping from the far downs,
Drawn in charcoal with precise even strokes
Onto a parchment sky.
They run ahead of the dawn light,
Lest its radiance catch them
And pain their night-black bodies
With day's lesser colours.
Their hooves, lost in the haze
Of the early morning mist,
Do not touch this earth.
The horses themselves breathe
The air of some other world
Or some other time.
Before man came to this place
With fence, crop and bridle
The horses were here,
Rolling the round green world
Like a huge circus ball
Under their ebony hooves.
Now they only come at dawn
To look upon the world of man
Before it stirs to wakefulness.
Then, tossing their ancient heads,
They leave with spirited dignity.
When men have all gone
And the timeless downs are free again
The horses will be here.
Monday, 16 November 2009
Saturday, 14 November 2009
Saturday Wordzzle 89
Each week, Raven gives us a set of 15 words - 5 for the mini, 10 for the 10-worder or all 15 for the mega challenge. The idea is to create a passage which includes the words
You can go to Raven's Nest for the original rules of the game and some excellent advice.
This week's words were a mixed bag. Worst one: cats-in-the-cradle.
The Mini (paragon of virtue, cats-in-the-cradle, swamp, sprinkles, garbage)
I ran my fingers over the Braille message, the dots feeling like tiny sprinkles all over the card. I was unsure whether or not to throw it in the garbage. I thought it might be a promo for some ultra-trendy downtown restaurant, like the one sent out by the Cats-in-the-Cradle bar last year – a cute little ceramic cat in, guess what, a cradle. I gave mine to my little niece, as I recall. But what if it wasn't that? Maybe it was an awareness-raiser for some blind people's charity or something – at least it wasn't a crappy pen or set of address labels like they usually liked to swamp me with. Now, I'm no paragon of virtue where it comes to charitable giving, but I do my bit and I don't like to be badgered into it. The card dangled from my fingers over the garbage bin, but I hesitated. What the heck, I might as well try to find out what the message said - I had nothing better to do, after all.
The 10-worder (officer, candid, drowning, turtles, sugar-coated, prospecting, shame on you, recliner, luggage, brains)
New to Harold's story? The summary is here
Director Opal regarded the hand-held GPS tracker with its steadily glowing red dot.
"Turtles Wood Heights." he mused, "Nice address these black Sheep have. Good work, Agent."
As India's supposed superior officer, Agent Mercury felt mildly envious of the praise India was getting. As a far more experienced agent, he should have thought about the tracker himself, but hadn't. He shook off the unworthy bad feeling with a finger-wagging mental reprimand: shame on you, you know she deserves it, now learn from it and move on.
"We'll need to move quickly," said India, "the battery in the Ladybird won't last forever,"
"Indeed," agreed Opal. "We'll need a different approach this time, though: we can't just bust into a private residence – especially one in that particular neighbourhood. They'll probably have private security and everything. Thinking caps, people!"
"So," said Harold, now ensconced comfortably in one of Ray and Nicole's expensive electric recliner chairs, "If you're on a mission and I'm supposed to be helping you, why did I have to waste my time working in a bar all those weeks, why didn't we meet sooner? And what was that all about me finding a job and slumming it when we could have been as snug as bugs here all the time?"
So many questions, thought Teatime, as he wracked his brains for a quick answer. He had not been completely candid with Harold about the latter's purpose on Earth. Oh, yes, it was true he was here to assist Teatime in a way, but (and there really was no way this could be sugar-coated) he was here because his father considered him completely expendable.
The original plan had been for Teatime to follow and observe Harold covertly to see if his naive bumbling about on the Brightside would attract the attentions of whoever (or whatever) was making demons disappear. When, after a few weeks, this hadn't happened, Teatime had decided to make himself known to Harold and encourage him to be a bit more proactive to see if that would do the trick. It was still early days on that one, and the run-in with OGS hadn't helped matters. He had to admit, though, a charismatic "human" would probably be useful in the investigation for the reasons he had told Harold earlier, so if the plan didn't work out it didn't really matter, and if it did, well... Having never once come close to drowning in the milk of human kindness, Teatime was not the most soft-hearted of creatures, but even so, he couldn't really bring himself to tell Harold that he had been basically set up as bait.
"I was busy with other matters, old sock," he prevaricated, "Took a while to sort things out, but I came as quickly as I could."
"But why didn't you tell me straight away that all this stuff was going on?" persisted Harold,
"Er, well, I wanted to see what you were like for a bit first." replied Teatime, wishing the demon would just let it go. "Getting to know someone is a bit like prospecting for gold: not to be rushed into without a proper survey, as it were."
Harold shrugged and was silent for some time after that, but Teatime could see that he was not altogether satisfied by the answers he'd been given. Perhaps he wasn't as big a duffer as Teatime had previously thought.
"Right, well, anyway," declared Teatime brightly, "I think it's time we packed our luggage and made a move. I think we should go and take a look at the crime scene, so to speak. What say we go and have a look around Baron Samedi's?"
You can go to Raven's Nest for the original rules of the game and some excellent advice.
This week's words were a mixed bag. Worst one: cats-in-the-cradle.
The Mini (paragon of virtue, cats-in-the-cradle, swamp, sprinkles, garbage)
I ran my fingers over the Braille message, the dots feeling like tiny sprinkles all over the card. I was unsure whether or not to throw it in the garbage. I thought it might be a promo for some ultra-trendy downtown restaurant, like the one sent out by the Cats-in-the-Cradle bar last year – a cute little ceramic cat in, guess what, a cradle. I gave mine to my little niece, as I recall. But what if it wasn't that? Maybe it was an awareness-raiser for some blind people's charity or something – at least it wasn't a crappy pen or set of address labels like they usually liked to swamp me with. Now, I'm no paragon of virtue where it comes to charitable giving, but I do my bit and I don't like to be badgered into it. The card dangled from my fingers over the garbage bin, but I hesitated. What the heck, I might as well try to find out what the message said - I had nothing better to do, after all.
The 10-worder (officer, candid, drowning, turtles, sugar-coated, prospecting, shame on you, recliner, luggage, brains)
New to Harold's story? The summary is here
Director Opal regarded the hand-held GPS tracker with its steadily glowing red dot.
"Turtles Wood Heights." he mused, "Nice address these black Sheep have. Good work, Agent."
As India's supposed superior officer, Agent Mercury felt mildly envious of the praise India was getting. As a far more experienced agent, he should have thought about the tracker himself, but hadn't. He shook off the unworthy bad feeling with a finger-wagging mental reprimand: shame on you, you know she deserves it, now learn from it and move on.
"We'll need to move quickly," said India, "the battery in the Ladybird won't last forever,"
"Indeed," agreed Opal. "We'll need a different approach this time, though: we can't just bust into a private residence – especially one in that particular neighbourhood. They'll probably have private security and everything. Thinking caps, people!"
"So," said Harold, now ensconced comfortably in one of Ray and Nicole's expensive electric recliner chairs, "If you're on a mission and I'm supposed to be helping you, why did I have to waste my time working in a bar all those weeks, why didn't we meet sooner? And what was that all about me finding a job and slumming it when we could have been as snug as bugs here all the time?"
So many questions, thought Teatime, as he wracked his brains for a quick answer. He had not been completely candid with Harold about the latter's purpose on Earth. Oh, yes, it was true he was here to assist Teatime in a way, but (and there really was no way this could be sugar-coated) he was here because his father considered him completely expendable.
The original plan had been for Teatime to follow and observe Harold covertly to see if his naive bumbling about on the Brightside would attract the attentions of whoever (or whatever) was making demons disappear. When, after a few weeks, this hadn't happened, Teatime had decided to make himself known to Harold and encourage him to be a bit more proactive to see if that would do the trick. It was still early days on that one, and the run-in with OGS hadn't helped matters. He had to admit, though, a charismatic "human" would probably be useful in the investigation for the reasons he had told Harold earlier, so if the plan didn't work out it didn't really matter, and if it did, well... Having never once come close to drowning in the milk of human kindness, Teatime was not the most soft-hearted of creatures, but even so, he couldn't really bring himself to tell Harold that he had been basically set up as bait.
"I was busy with other matters, old sock," he prevaricated, "Took a while to sort things out, but I came as quickly as I could."
"But why didn't you tell me straight away that all this stuff was going on?" persisted Harold,
"Er, well, I wanted to see what you were like for a bit first." replied Teatime, wishing the demon would just let it go. "Getting to know someone is a bit like prospecting for gold: not to be rushed into without a proper survey, as it were."
Harold shrugged and was silent for some time after that, but Teatime could see that he was not altogether satisfied by the answers he'd been given. Perhaps he wasn't as big a duffer as Teatime had previously thought.
"Right, well, anyway," declared Teatime brightly, "I think it's time we packed our luggage and made a move. I think we should go and take a look at the crime scene, so to speak. What say we go and have a look around Baron Samedi's?"
Friday, 6 November 2009
Saturday Wordzzle 88
Each week, Raven gives us a set of 15 words - 5 for the mini, 10 for the 10-worder or all 15 for the mega challenge. The idea is to create a passage which includes the words
You can go to Raven's Nest for the original rules of the game and some excellent advice.
This week's words were quite diverse and challenging as a result.
Most awkward: Canada Geese
The Mini (curiosity killed the cat, charming Victorian, railroad tracks, tower, salt and pepper)
I wonder what he will make of the message I sent him. I daresay he'll be interested to know why he's been sent a message in Braille – it's not like he's blind or anything. He doesn't know me – has never seen me to my knowledge. Nor I him for that matter, not physically, anyway. Curiosity killed the cat, they say, but as kids we used to add "yeah, but satisfaction brought it back again!" Silly, really. I just hope he's cat enough to decipher the message. I just had to let him know, let him know what I've seen for him: the charming Victorian tower, the old man with the salt-and-pepper beard, Oh, beware of him, beware! The future's not fixed, you know. We're not running into it on railroad tracks, we can change direction. Cliche? Yes, of course, but no more so than the cliche of a blind seer like me.
The 10-worder (Cute, come with me to the Casbah, bloodhound, respiration, Facebook, Canada Geese, modern, gravity, spider webs, sea shells)
New to Harold's story? The quick summary is here
Harold stared up at the bathroom ceiling, marvelling at the rather bizarre repeating seashells-spiderwebs-canada geese decorative motif running around the edges. He wanted to slide down under the water and fully immerse himself, just to see what it felt like. Needing no oxygen for respiration, he could submerge himself for as long as he liked. Teatime wanted to tell him something, though, so he had to content himself with floating in the hot scented water, deliciously defying gravity.
"You're probably wondering," Teatime began, "why your father, after leaving you in peace these many millennia, has suddenly seemed to take an interest in your education."
"I wish he hadn't," replied Harold, reaching out to fiddle with some distinctly modern-looking controls on the side of the bath. "Hey, I wonder what these do." He turned a gold-plated knob (the initials RD were engraved on it) and the water began to bubble energetically.
"Oh! Wow! A fizzy bath!"
"It's a jacuzzi," sighed Teatime, "Now do pay attention, old sock, this is important."
"OK, OK," sighed Harold, turning it off, "Sorry, you were saying?"
"There's something strange going on up here on the Brightside."
"Only one thing?" laughed Harold, "I could name at least -"
"Yes, yes, very funny," interrupted Teatime, "The thing is: demons are disappearing."
"Really?" Harold replied, "I bet those OGS guys are responsible, they seem pretty keen to get rid of our kind."
"No," contradicted Teatime, "It's not OGS. They can send you back to the Basement, alright, but this is different."
Harold sat up a bit and began paying attention properly. This was getting interesting.
"Different, how?"
"Well, as I said, demons are disappearing, and have been for a while. Baron Samedi is one. The demon that those frightful OGS goons that nabbed you were going after is another, and there are at least three others before that. Your father is very concerned"
"How do we know they've actually disappeared?" Harold asked, "It's not like we all keep in touch on Facebook or anything, is it?"
"Your father always knows where his children are, as you know – and he can't find Baron Samedi or the others anywhere."
This was shocking news indeed, unheard of.
"So where do I come in?" asked Harold. "I was told to come here and ensnare souls. I got one, you know? A young film star, I think she was - Lolita LaChaise. Signed up soooo easily...."
"Yes, yes, well done and all that, old bean," said Teatime dismissively, "But the real reason you're here," said Teatime, "Is to help me find out what's happening."
"Me?" Harold laughed, "Help you? That's rich, when all I seem to do is blunder straight into trouble at the first opportunity: first I manage to antagonise Baron Samedi, then get grabbed by OGS. I'm not sure that's the kind of help you need."
"I daresay we can put the former down to inexperience and the latter down to just plain bad luck." said Teatime, soothingly, "Who could have known that an OGS Spotter would just happen to be hanging around the railway station as you came through. The odds against that were pretty enormous."
"Even so," said Harold, "I don't have much real knowledge of how this place works."
"No," agreed Teatime, "But you look like a human so you can go wherever humans go. I can't wander around on my own: humans don't take kindly to animals running about the place. But if I'm with a 'human' I can be his cute pet monkey. D'you see?"
"Aaah, right!" cried Harold, "So you'll be like a detective, a bloodhound on the scent and I'll be your faithful assistant! Oh, now this could be interesting! We could have secret codes like come with me to the Casbah or something!" This looked to be way more fun than trying to get humans to turn away from the Light – as if they needed any help from him to do that, anyway.
Teatime rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long mission.
You can go to Raven's Nest for the original rules of the game and some excellent advice.
This week's words were quite diverse and challenging as a result.
Most awkward: Canada Geese
The Mini (curiosity killed the cat, charming Victorian, railroad tracks, tower, salt and pepper)
I wonder what he will make of the message I sent him. I daresay he'll be interested to know why he's been sent a message in Braille – it's not like he's blind or anything. He doesn't know me – has never seen me to my knowledge. Nor I him for that matter, not physically, anyway. Curiosity killed the cat, they say, but as kids we used to add "yeah, but satisfaction brought it back again!" Silly, really. I just hope he's cat enough to decipher the message. I just had to let him know, let him know what I've seen for him: the charming Victorian tower, the old man with the salt-and-pepper beard, Oh, beware of him, beware! The future's not fixed, you know. We're not running into it on railroad tracks, we can change direction. Cliche? Yes, of course, but no more so than the cliche of a blind seer like me.
The 10-worder (Cute, come with me to the Casbah, bloodhound, respiration, Facebook, Canada Geese, modern, gravity, spider webs, sea shells)
New to Harold's story? The quick summary is here
Harold stared up at the bathroom ceiling, marvelling at the rather bizarre repeating seashells-spiderwebs-canada geese decorative motif running around the edges. He wanted to slide down under the water and fully immerse himself, just to see what it felt like. Needing no oxygen for respiration, he could submerge himself for as long as he liked. Teatime wanted to tell him something, though, so he had to content himself with floating in the hot scented water, deliciously defying gravity.
"You're probably wondering," Teatime began, "why your father, after leaving you in peace these many millennia, has suddenly seemed to take an interest in your education."
"I wish he hadn't," replied Harold, reaching out to fiddle with some distinctly modern-looking controls on the side of the bath. "Hey, I wonder what these do." He turned a gold-plated knob (the initials RD were engraved on it) and the water began to bubble energetically.
"Oh! Wow! A fizzy bath!"
"It's a jacuzzi," sighed Teatime, "Now do pay attention, old sock, this is important."
"OK, OK," sighed Harold, turning it off, "Sorry, you were saying?"
"There's something strange going on up here on the Brightside."
"Only one thing?" laughed Harold, "I could name at least -"
"Yes, yes, very funny," interrupted Teatime, "The thing is: demons are disappearing."
"Really?" Harold replied, "I bet those OGS guys are responsible, they seem pretty keen to get rid of our kind."
"No," contradicted Teatime, "It's not OGS. They can send you back to the Basement, alright, but this is different."
Harold sat up a bit and began paying attention properly. This was getting interesting.
"Different, how?"
"Well, as I said, demons are disappearing, and have been for a while. Baron Samedi is one. The demon that those frightful OGS goons that nabbed you were going after is another, and there are at least three others before that. Your father is very concerned"
"How do we know they've actually disappeared?" Harold asked, "It's not like we all keep in touch on Facebook or anything, is it?"
"Your father always knows where his children are, as you know – and he can't find Baron Samedi or the others anywhere."
This was shocking news indeed, unheard of.
"So where do I come in?" asked Harold. "I was told to come here and ensnare souls. I got one, you know? A young film star, I think she was - Lolita LaChaise. Signed up soooo easily...."
"Yes, yes, well done and all that, old bean," said Teatime dismissively, "But the real reason you're here," said Teatime, "Is to help me find out what's happening."
"Me?" Harold laughed, "Help you? That's rich, when all I seem to do is blunder straight into trouble at the first opportunity: first I manage to antagonise Baron Samedi, then get grabbed by OGS. I'm not sure that's the kind of help you need."
"I daresay we can put the former down to inexperience and the latter down to just plain bad luck." said Teatime, soothingly, "Who could have known that an OGS Spotter would just happen to be hanging around the railway station as you came through. The odds against that were pretty enormous."
"Even so," said Harold, "I don't have much real knowledge of how this place works."
"No," agreed Teatime, "But you look like a human so you can go wherever humans go. I can't wander around on my own: humans don't take kindly to animals running about the place. But if I'm with a 'human' I can be his cute pet monkey. D'you see?"
"Aaah, right!" cried Harold, "So you'll be like a detective, a bloodhound on the scent and I'll be your faithful assistant! Oh, now this could be interesting! We could have secret codes like come with me to the Casbah or something!" This looked to be way more fun than trying to get humans to turn away from the Light – as if they needed any help from him to do that, anyway.
Teatime rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long mission.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
The Little Things
An elastic band, some paper clips, two keys, some buttons, three charity badges, a referee's whistle... these are just some of the stupid little things I came across when clearing out the room I'm going to use when I'm working from home.
OK, paper clips and elastic bands, I have a home for them where they can be returned to the bosom of their families. These two were obviously seized with a fit of wanderlust, wanting to see some of the world before settling down to a nice steady job, holding documents together. Maybe they eloped. I don't think it will work out though, they're just too different.
And what is it with keys? One is a Yale-type key that does not fit a single one of our locks. Maybe it was a spare we were keeping for my mother's house or something, but she's moved since then, so I bet it doesn't fit. I should throw it away, but what if it turns out to be for something I desperately need to open? Yeah, but it hasn't been needed these many years, has it? No, but still... And so it goes, the key-separation anxiety. The other key is small, for a desk drawer maybe, or a particularly useless bike lock. I have no idea what it's for but I can't chuck it just in case....
Buttons. Loads of clothes I have bought in the past have come with a little plastic bag with a spare button inside, which I have dutifully removed and stored safely against the Day of the Great Lost Button Catastrophe – which has never yet happened, Not once, I might add. The clothes themselves have probably been passed on by now but the buttons remain, pristine in their little baggies. What on earth to do with them?
These little charity badges are fun but ultimately useless. You pay a quid and you get a fun little badge. But just how many badges can a person wear at any one time? My other half keeps buying the Comic Relief Red Noses each year. What the planet of heck are we meant to do with them once the Comic Relief thing has ended for the year? There's a bunch of them in one of my drawers, taking up space and doing no good whatsoever.
The ref's whistle was bought for the lanyard attached to it, which I use for my monocular. What use is it to keep the whistle in a drawer? It's not like I could use it to quickly summon help in an emergency situation. By the time I manage to rummage through the star-crossed stationery, buttons, etc, the house would have burned down/I'd have been hacked to bits by the axe-murderer or whatever.
Maybe I could make an art installation of all these objects. Yes, that's an idea, I could call it something pretentious like Noetic Concordance or Asymptotic Fusion. Maybe next year's Turner prize will be mine.
Why do I hang on to keys that don't fit anything? Store buttons for clothes I don't own anymore? What on earth is wrong with me?
I wish I just had the courage to simply chuck it all away and be done with it
But I don't.
Ideas anyone?
OK, paper clips and elastic bands, I have a home for them where they can be returned to the bosom of their families. These two were obviously seized with a fit of wanderlust, wanting to see some of the world before settling down to a nice steady job, holding documents together. Maybe they eloped. I don't think it will work out though, they're just too different.
And what is it with keys? One is a Yale-type key that does not fit a single one of our locks. Maybe it was a spare we were keeping for my mother's house or something, but she's moved since then, so I bet it doesn't fit. I should throw it away, but what if it turns out to be for something I desperately need to open? Yeah, but it hasn't been needed these many years, has it? No, but still... And so it goes, the key-separation anxiety. The other key is small, for a desk drawer maybe, or a particularly useless bike lock. I have no idea what it's for but I can't chuck it just in case....
Buttons. Loads of clothes I have bought in the past have come with a little plastic bag with a spare button inside, which I have dutifully removed and stored safely against the Day of the Great Lost Button Catastrophe – which has never yet happened, Not once, I might add. The clothes themselves have probably been passed on by now but the buttons remain, pristine in their little baggies. What on earth to do with them?
These little charity badges are fun but ultimately useless. You pay a quid and you get a fun little badge. But just how many badges can a person wear at any one time? My other half keeps buying the Comic Relief Red Noses each year. What the planet of heck are we meant to do with them once the Comic Relief thing has ended for the year? There's a bunch of them in one of my drawers, taking up space and doing no good whatsoever.
The ref's whistle was bought for the lanyard attached to it, which I use for my monocular. What use is it to keep the whistle in a drawer? It's not like I could use it to quickly summon help in an emergency situation. By the time I manage to rummage through the star-crossed stationery, buttons, etc, the house would have burned down/I'd have been hacked to bits by the axe-murderer or whatever.
Maybe I could make an art installation of all these objects. Yes, that's an idea, I could call it something pretentious like Noetic Concordance or Asymptotic Fusion. Maybe next year's Turner prize will be mine.
Why do I hang on to keys that don't fit anything? Store buttons for clothes I don't own anymore? What on earth is wrong with me?
I wish I just had the courage to simply chuck it all away and be done with it
But I don't.
Ideas anyone?
Saturday, 31 October 2009
Saturday Wordzzle 87
Each week, Raven gives us a set of 15 words - 5 for the mini, 10 for the 10-worder or all 15 for the mega challenge. The idea is to create a passage which includes the words
You can go to Raven's Nest for the original rules of the game and some excellent advice.
This week's words were not hard in themselves, but when I first read them I did not think they would be very easy to weave into my ongoing story.
Most awkward: surface tension (had to include a whole bath scene just for that one!).
The Mini (Free estimates, French fries, carpet, Braille, silver-tongued bandit)
The greasy smell of French fries, wafting up from the burger place below my tiny flat, woke me from a light doze I hadn't realised I'd slipped into. At least, I assumed that was what had happened, but actually, it hadn't been the smell at all. As I looked around, somewhat groggily, I noticed a flyer had been pushed through my letterbox – the rattle must have been the thing that woke me. I padded across the worn carpet and picked up the postcard-sized thing. I was going to chuck it straight into the bin as it would most certainly be a pizza menu or an offer of Free Estimates! by some silver-tongued bandit of a tradesman or something. Now that it was in my hand, though, the flyer – if such it was – was none of those things. In fact, it had no printing on it at all, just a load of raised dots. It was a message in Braille. But who would have sent such a thing to me, and why?
The 10-worder (plumber, autograph, Florence Nightingale, a chill wind’s a blowing, watering hole, sleek, triplets, backwards, surface tension, parrot)
New to Harold's story? The summary is here
"Ray used to be a plumber, you know," said Nicole, as she bustled backwards and forwards about her huge kitchen with its impressive array of sleek-looking modern appliances. Harold and Teatime were seated at the kitchen table. Ray had just gone out with the dogs to the local watering hole, as he called it, to get some celebratory alcohol.
Ever since they had arrived, Nicole had not stopped fussing over Harold and Teatime like some modern-day Florence Nightingale. Were they hungry? (A definite yes in Harold's case, Murder at the Blood Drive being neither appetising nor sustaining) Thirsty? Too warm? Too cold? At first it had been a bit of a novelty to be so nicely treated, but now her and Ray's overly solicitous attentions were beginning to grate just a little. Harold half-expected her to ask for his autograph.
She plonked a generous plate of trail mix down on the table in front of a somewhat bemused Teatime (who had been hoping for cake, to be honest). "Ray calls this stuff 'parrot food'", she laughed, "But the kids used to love it so I keep some around for when they visit. Have I showed you Cathy, Caitlin and Carrie - my triplets, my Lord?" she asked, and when he didn't answer immediately, "My Lord?"
To distract himself from Nicole's inane chatter, Harold had been thinking of triplets of an entirely different kind: in his head another new piece (he was going to call it A Chill Wind's a-Blowing) had been getting born just nicely, but it disappeared with a disappointed silent pop as he realised that Nicole was actually addressing him directly and that she actually expected an answer of some sort.
"Er, yes, I believe you did." he answered, lamely, "Fine-looking children, they were too."
"Tell Nicole you want a bath," whispered Teatime. If there was not to be cake, then they might as well get down to brass tacks and start getting organised.
"But I don't need a bath, Teatime," said Harold, somewhat puzzled. Demons' vessels did not sweat and bacteria could not live on them in any case, so bathing was rarely necessary. Surely Teatime knew this?
"I know you don't, old button," replied Teatime patiently, "but we need to talk – preferably in a quiet place where we won't be disturbed. Honestly, old shoe, do I have to explain every little detail?"
Harold shrugged, "Er, Nicole?" he said.
Back at Aunt Aggie's, Agent India was almost ready to hug herself with satisfaction. She had been absolutely on the money. OGS had been a little lax and had not followed its own procedures properly. India liked procedures, they minimised the variability of human decision-making and kept things nice and controllable. Now India knew that the slip-up was probably because of the last-minute change of plan imposed upon Joshua squad by Director Opal, but all the same, procedures were meant to be followed even if – especially if – something unusual cropped up. In this instance, however, she was pleased to note that, just as she'd thought, the demon's bag had not been searched very thoroughly at all. She looked down at the device in her hand. On its screen, a little red dot was glowing steadily.
"Bubbles are always perfectly spherical, aren't they?" mused Harold as he soaked in the scented water of Ray and Nicole's massive marble sunken bath. He'd seen people bathing on TV and had had the odd shower himself, but this! This was really pleasant. No wonder humans enjoyed it.
"Yes, it's because surface tension exerts an equal force in all – " Teatime stopped himself, mid-lecture, "Look here, old sock, I didn't mean for you to actually have a bath, merely to ask for one."
"I know," said Harold lightly, "But now I'm here... Anyway, how come we were slumming it at the Sleezee when we could have come here and lived it up?"
"That's part of what I want to talk to you about," replied Teatime, "Now listen."
You can go to Raven's Nest for the original rules of the game and some excellent advice.
This week's words were not hard in themselves, but when I first read them I did not think they would be very easy to weave into my ongoing story.
Most awkward: surface tension (had to include a whole bath scene just for that one!).
The Mini (Free estimates, French fries, carpet, Braille, silver-tongued bandit)
The greasy smell of French fries, wafting up from the burger place below my tiny flat, woke me from a light doze I hadn't realised I'd slipped into. At least, I assumed that was what had happened, but actually, it hadn't been the smell at all. As I looked around, somewhat groggily, I noticed a flyer had been pushed through my letterbox – the rattle must have been the thing that woke me. I padded across the worn carpet and picked up the postcard-sized thing. I was going to chuck it straight into the bin as it would most certainly be a pizza menu or an offer of Free Estimates! by some silver-tongued bandit of a tradesman or something. Now that it was in my hand, though, the flyer – if such it was – was none of those things. In fact, it had no printing on it at all, just a load of raised dots. It was a message in Braille. But who would have sent such a thing to me, and why?
The 10-worder (plumber, autograph, Florence Nightingale, a chill wind’s a blowing, watering hole, sleek, triplets, backwards, surface tension, parrot)
New to Harold's story? The summary is here
"Ray used to be a plumber, you know," said Nicole, as she bustled backwards and forwards about her huge kitchen with its impressive array of sleek-looking modern appliances. Harold and Teatime were seated at the kitchen table. Ray had just gone out with the dogs to the local watering hole, as he called it, to get some celebratory alcohol.
Ever since they had arrived, Nicole had not stopped fussing over Harold and Teatime like some modern-day Florence Nightingale. Were they hungry? (A definite yes in Harold's case, Murder at the Blood Drive being neither appetising nor sustaining) Thirsty? Too warm? Too cold? At first it had been a bit of a novelty to be so nicely treated, but now her and Ray's overly solicitous attentions were beginning to grate just a little. Harold half-expected her to ask for his autograph.
She plonked a generous plate of trail mix down on the table in front of a somewhat bemused Teatime (who had been hoping for cake, to be honest). "Ray calls this stuff 'parrot food'", she laughed, "But the kids used to love it so I keep some around for when they visit. Have I showed you Cathy, Caitlin and Carrie - my triplets, my Lord?" she asked, and when he didn't answer immediately, "My Lord?"
To distract himself from Nicole's inane chatter, Harold had been thinking of triplets of an entirely different kind: in his head another new piece (he was going to call it A Chill Wind's a-Blowing) had been getting born just nicely, but it disappeared with a disappointed silent pop as he realised that Nicole was actually addressing him directly and that she actually expected an answer of some sort.
"Er, yes, I believe you did." he answered, lamely, "Fine-looking children, they were too."
"Tell Nicole you want a bath," whispered Teatime. If there was not to be cake, then they might as well get down to brass tacks and start getting organised.
"But I don't need a bath, Teatime," said Harold, somewhat puzzled. Demons' vessels did not sweat and bacteria could not live on them in any case, so bathing was rarely necessary. Surely Teatime knew this?
"I know you don't, old button," replied Teatime patiently, "but we need to talk – preferably in a quiet place where we won't be disturbed. Honestly, old shoe, do I have to explain every little detail?"
Harold shrugged, "Er, Nicole?" he said.
Back at Aunt Aggie's, Agent India was almost ready to hug herself with satisfaction. She had been absolutely on the money. OGS had been a little lax and had not followed its own procedures properly. India liked procedures, they minimised the variability of human decision-making and kept things nice and controllable. Now India knew that the slip-up was probably because of the last-minute change of plan imposed upon Joshua squad by Director Opal, but all the same, procedures were meant to be followed even if – especially if – something unusual cropped up. In this instance, however, she was pleased to note that, just as she'd thought, the demon's bag had not been searched very thoroughly at all. She looked down at the device in her hand. On its screen, a little red dot was glowing steadily.
"Bubbles are always perfectly spherical, aren't they?" mused Harold as he soaked in the scented water of Ray and Nicole's massive marble sunken bath. He'd seen people bathing on TV and had had the odd shower himself, but this! This was really pleasant. No wonder humans enjoyed it.
"Yes, it's because surface tension exerts an equal force in all – " Teatime stopped himself, mid-lecture, "Look here, old sock, I didn't mean for you to actually have a bath, merely to ask for one."
"I know," said Harold lightly, "But now I'm here... Anyway, how come we were slumming it at the Sleezee when we could have come here and lived it up?"
"That's part of what I want to talk to you about," replied Teatime, "Now listen."
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
Goodbye to all that...
At the end of this week, the project that I have been working on in various capacities for more than severn years will finally come to an end. Most of the people I have been working with will disappear, transferred tp the rival company that it taking over the contract. The offices will be emptied of all furniture, fixtures and fittings and will be closed down forever.
So this is my list of goodbyes.
Goodbye to the staff restaurant with its peculiarly variable food quality. No more pastry that you could pave a road with, no more curry that, regardless of what meat is in it, will otherwise contain mostly tinned tomatoes. Goodbye to the shocking pink sausages (what the heck was in them?) Goodbye to the Sting-inspired, burnt-on-one-side-white-on-the-other toast.
Goodbye to the dreadful paintings (if we could call them that) on the walls of the landings. Don’t Feed the Pixies has remarked on these before and he is on the money: they are soulless and unpleasing to the eyein the extreme. I wish we could burn them in the carpark, but I doubt they'll let us.
Goodbye to the smokers’ spot on the pavement leading into the campus, may your blue smoke never stink up my clothes again.
Goodbye to the 06:30 text message from the Mumbai Massive (Indian Help Desk) telling me that all was or was not well with the systems overnight. Goodbye to the middle of the night calls from said Massive, asking me to check why the call centre is experiencing slow response from the computers.
Goodbye to having four machines on my desk – yes, four! Desk space – at last!
Goodbye to the morning walk and twelve minutes homward one (blogged about some time ago). I’ll be home-based so my commute will not be through leaf-carpeted streets, just real carpet.
Goodbye to the many good friends I’ve made over the years. It’s been a blast!
So this is my list of goodbyes.
Goodbye to the staff restaurant with its peculiarly variable food quality. No more pastry that you could pave a road with, no more curry that, regardless of what meat is in it, will otherwise contain mostly tinned tomatoes. Goodbye to the shocking pink sausages (what the heck was in them?) Goodbye to the Sting-inspired, burnt-on-one-side-white-on-the-other toast.
Goodbye to the dreadful paintings (if we could call them that) on the walls of the landings. Don’t Feed the Pixies has remarked on these before and he is on the money: they are soulless and unpleasing to the eyein the extreme. I wish we could burn them in the carpark, but I doubt they'll let us.
Goodbye to the smokers’ spot on the pavement leading into the campus, may your blue smoke never stink up my clothes again.
Goodbye to the 06:30 text message from the Mumbai Massive (Indian Help Desk) telling me that all was or was not well with the systems overnight. Goodbye to the middle of the night calls from said Massive, asking me to check why the call centre is experiencing slow response from the computers.
Goodbye to having four machines on my desk – yes, four! Desk space – at last!
Goodbye to the morning walk and twelve minutes homward one (blogged about some time ago). I’ll be home-based so my commute will not be through leaf-carpeted streets, just real carpet.
Goodbye to the many good friends I’ve made over the years. It’s been a blast!
Sunday, 25 October 2009
The Monday Poem
A real challenge from TFE this week.
We were to listen to a 10-minute piece of music by Polish composer Krzysztof Penderecki, called Threnody for the Victims and write whatever it inspired in us.
The Fundamental Inscrutability of Musical Sensibility
Now, I like a good tune, me, Dad said.
Something can I bawl off-key
And bounce off every steamy bathtime tile.
Volins scream a hard knife-edge
Across the horizon of my hearing.
You can't hum this on your way to work,
Nor tunelessly whistle what hasn't got a tune.
How do they even know they're playing it right?
I'm chilled to the bone by notes on taut leashes
Gnashing their teeth at each other, barely a semitone apart.
And what's all that jungle-banging drums malarkey?
It sounds like an old tin dustbin
Tossed down a light of concrete steps.
Now comes the hollow bass, a dark cavern,
A pit yawning wide at my feet.
Aye, it's a moving piece right enough, he laughed.
When I heard it I started moving away at once.
My Dad, the music critic.
Their screams, I hear them now.
Now and probably forever.
I have to say I dislike this kind of music intensely (my own modest efforts are slightly less edgy than Barry Manilow, which explains a lot) but there is no denying there is power in this piece - power and terror.
Great challenge, TFE!
We were to listen to a 10-minute piece of music by Polish composer Krzysztof Penderecki, called Threnody for the Victims and write whatever it inspired in us.
The Fundamental Inscrutability of Musical Sensibility
Now, I like a good tune, me, Dad said.
Something can I bawl off-key
And bounce off every steamy bathtime tile.
Volins scream a hard knife-edge
Across the horizon of my hearing.
You can't hum this on your way to work,
Nor tunelessly whistle what hasn't got a tune.
How do they even know they're playing it right?
I'm chilled to the bone by notes on taut leashes
Gnashing their teeth at each other, barely a semitone apart.
And what's all that jungle-banging drums malarkey?
It sounds like an old tin dustbin
Tossed down a light of concrete steps.
Now comes the hollow bass, a dark cavern,
A pit yawning wide at my feet.
Aye, it's a moving piece right enough, he laughed.
When I heard it I started moving away at once.
My Dad, the music critic.
Their screams, I hear them now.
Now and probably forever.
I have to say I dislike this kind of music intensely (my own modest efforts are slightly less edgy than Barry Manilow, which explains a lot) but there is no denying there is power in this piece - power and terror.
Great challenge, TFE!
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