Mars Trip Adviser

When was the last time you got back from a holiday on Mars and said “Never again. I should’ve taken more notice of Trip Advisor.  One star is only just up from an asteroid.    And the Grrzztz family would be disappointed if we didn’t renew the booking before we catch the Earthside.”? I mean Mars used to be the hot ticket, the place to go, the hip and happening place in the Solar System when it was first opened up to Earthsiders. We all wanted to be seen there lounging by the canals, see it before it was spoilt by tourism. There were some great sights Olympus Mons rearing its frosted crest against the indigo sky. That was before they put in ski lifts and built KFCs on the flanks. The Gale crater with its uninterrupted views for ninety six miles from rim to rim, before they built rows of hotel domes around the edge like a nasty outbreak of genital warts. And the canals flowing deep and green and wide across the red deserts before the mining waste and chocolate brown slurry outflow.  Bloody Martians, if they want tourists they should look after their planet more.  The visitor does not want to be reminded of their home planet whilst they’re paying top dollar for the Red experience.

And what happened to the welcome at the Spaceport? Originally all part of the experience.  The groups of dancers.  Little green men jiggling their strange assortment of green parts to their strange gonging music and then hanging garlands of moss and algae round your neck.  I mean, the moss had an unpleasant sliminess to it and the smell of the algae.  I say little green men as a generic.  God knows if there was such a thing as a little green woman and how on earth you would tell them apart if there were. Never mind, we knew the whole thing was authentic and it seemed to please the little green creatures who were performing the welcome.  It isn’t like that now.  The streams of tourists are met by a superficial standardised jiggle with the interesting bits covered by aprons and boiler suits.  And the garlands are no more than cheap plastic representations.  I suppose the only bit of authenticity is the smell. The majority of the Martians don’t seem to be as excited as they once were by us tourists and seem to sit or lounge around the spaceport as if they owned the place.  I mean, good God you have to work to get your Trip Adviser stars. Since the mining companies found those huge natural deposits of cocoa below the southern ice caps. They seem to exist on chocolate based confectionary that they consume in those little cafes... what do they call them?  Mars Bars?  Getting above themselves, that’s what I think.

No, Mars is no longer what it once was as a destination so those of us who write about such things have been exploring the less visited parts of the Solar System. 

After a quick tour around the outer reaches of the Kuiper belt and the minor planets I had really had enough.  Take it from me Pluto is an entirely dismal place, nothing but frozen wilderness.  I mean once you’ve seen one methane lake or suffered one carbon dioxide snowstorm then you’ve seen the lot. And given that they’re plunged in darkness for billions of years at a time, the night life is as dismal as any part of Yeovil on a wet Saturday.  It just ain't worth the eighteen year round trip. And it’s all owned by Martians.  What in God’s name are they doing out there?

No, I wanted a planet with a bit of pizzaz.  A bit of get up go without having yet been overwhelmed by overweight and over there Earthies.  That’s why I’ve just got back from Venus. Now, I’m not saying that it’s perfect.  Still a bit primitive but definitely an air of exclusivity.  One seems to be above the rat race.  In fact you are literally for the floating hotels of Venus are great multicoloured blimps hanging in the dense carbon-dioxide atmosphere far above the surface which is hot enough to melt lead.  And I mean that literally.  I mean it is literally hot enough to melt lead.  The scientists say it is caused by the sort of runaway greenhouse effect that we’re running into on earth.  But, as with everything Earthside we are centuries behind these pacemakers.  The blimp hotels are all owned and run by Earthsiders though so we have the best of both worlds, clean towels and linen as well as the deliciously hot Venusian atmosphere.  These great ships are more like enormous clouds, up to five miles across so plenty of room to avoid that execrable family from Swindon with the kids who should have been put down for school on Saturn at birth so that they would not be running up and down the aisles of the shuttle demanding space cola.  Or preferably put down altogether.  God, if they are going to be the visitors of the future then this isn’t going to last for long.  Them or the Martians. So book now for Venus.  There ain’t going to be anywhere else to go.

Thanks for the call but I'm sorry to say I won't be voting for you.

We may not see eye to eye but we are together in this thing and we have to rub along somehow because, I reckon we need each other.  I mean, I know you are a big shot in the city with a pink striped shirt and gold cufflinks and I’m only a poet with funny glasses and a little beard .  I know you’re busy making a lot of money for the country, I appreciate that, I really do.  Maybe I’m there to do some of the things that you haven’t got time for.  Like trying to get a handle on some of those big questions such as what are we all doing here and why.     But give me a couple of hours to notice the waves and the wind and the grass blowing on the cliff-top the way you don’t have time to do and I’ll happily share it with you in some sort of entertaining poem.  Money is of little interest to me so I suppose I am just as much a misfit as you are in the general run of things.  Me, for my blindness to wealth, you for your need to acquire more and more beyond satisfying any rational want. I’ve always thought that must be a terrible affliction.  I have a sort of inkling what it’s like because I like to collect sea shells and fossils. Perhaps this mania for collecting is some sort of substitute for the funny, knockabout, not-having-anything-much childhood that makes people grow up to be useful and productive members of society as my Mum would have put it.   

I had a wonderful life as a kid and it gave me the confidence to set off on my own as a writer.  You must have missed out a lot.  Bundled off to prep school at the age of eight and being bullied by the bigger kids.  I know that’s all part of life and it makes a man of you but I bet  sometimes you wonder if things would have been just a little bit better if you’d had a more normal life with a Mum and Dad.  Or even two Mums or Two Dads. Or if there was just someone who cared.  Either way I feel sorry for what the lack of human love must have done for you.  No wonder you don’t believe in society- you’ve never known it.  Unless we talk about THAT society.  That substitute for love you had to endure. You know that dog eat dog group of rejected misfits like you where the guys thought up ridiculous steel edged visions of the world based on your fifth form economics and reading trashy American pulp fantasy novels by Ayn Rand and drinking yourself stupid and throwing food around.  

No, because, you see, we both belong to a community that’s bigger than that and includes all the misfits and poets like you and me but also all the shirkers and slackers and sick people and those who can’t cope one way or another and those who weren’t blessed with the wits that you and I have.  And all the honest, decent folk who try hard to support you by making the stuff you need and who buy and sell and keep you in business.   Maybe we could liken it to a raft that we’re all clinging to and all doing our best to get this thing to land somewhere.  Or is that a bit of a facile analogy?  Never mind that’s my problem, not yours.  I’ll try to think about a better one.  

But I’m afraid to say that I can’t vote for your harsh, Gradgrind ideology born out of hate and despair in which your love of accumulation is the only way to a future where we must retreat to our own cabin in the woods with a shotgun and a bottle of tequila and keep the threatening hordes at bay. Maybe, if I see a bit less of the naked greed thing and a bit more of the working together... The truth is, we are all in this together and we need to work together not against each other.  And what you do, making money, paying taxes does a brilliant job helping the needy, the sick and the disabled and those who are escaping tyranny and poverty. Thanks for your efforts and I’ll try to keep the poetry going in return.

Heard from Roubaix

The Arts and Crafts Dignity in Care is a European project to enrich the lives of those who tend to be excluded from the general run of life.  These individuals may be young, elderly or disabled and the project will try to make use of the special skills of artists of all types to overcome feelings of isolation and, with their carers, make their lives important again.  At a conference in the magnificence of the town hall of Roubaix in France a group of about thirty of us continued our good-humoured deliberations about how to bring this about.  I was recording little snippets of conversation in one of the discussion groups and I came up with this little poem which may give a flavour of the day.

I am a connector.
Choice is my purpose.
I connect with you and we are we.
Feeling what we do
Is what we do
Feeling To Do.
Our cultures are our stories.
We may not understand
Our story differences
Cultural difference is what we do
We reflect on the reversed picture
In the mirror.


One touch is the warmth of sun
We don’t need more complication
We can reach each other with a low tempo,
Simple basic human interaction.
More activities mean more sunshine.

We care for those we work with and we care with them.
we all have a need to care for each other.
Confronting what it is to be you.
We have been young
We have not yet been old
(When does being young finish
And being old begin?)
As we walk the care full path from young to old together
we are both care givers and care receivers;
An arm, a touch, a shoulder
If I could stumble half a mile with your tension,
I would find there is no cup of tea at the end.
And when we reach the other place
We should not think about forgetting
But be here in this time of memory
And here we are people and in this space
We will accord each other our own Dignity.

The Archers - RIP

It is with deep regret that I note the passing of a great British institution - the world record enduring radio series "The Archers".  Although it could be creaky and melodramatic at times it had the unique quality of continuity of character and event.  One could get to know characters to such an extent that if one was forced to take a break from listening one could easily reacquaint oneself with the characters as if with old friends.  The events in the series just about reflected the rate of change and drama in any rural setting and because of one's long term investment in the programme one could understand how the consequences of such events played out over months or even years.

The series has been replaced with an absurdist comedy parody of the previous programme which, oddly, retains the same title.  The comedy comes from the way in which characters are wildly transformed episode by episode.  The comic effect is heightened by continually changing the actors playing these characters such that it is impossible to work out who is saying what to whom at any point.  Hilarious enough and worthy of early Stoppard but it is the risible piling of event upon event in every episode that makes listening an experience akin to a laudenum induced nightmare that even De Quincy would have shuddered at and Coleridge would have felt too nonsensical to record in a ballad.  In the early days of American soap opera writers were instructed that there should be at least one act of violence in every episode.  If we change "violence" to "madness" The New Archers easily outdoes this.

It has been clear for some time that the BBC wished to rid its schedules of this particular drama in its desire to transform Radio 4 into a rolling "News" channel.  The popularity of The Original Archers meant that it was difficult to shift and so they sent in the hit squad to finish it off by transforming it into a nonsensical laughing stock.  I cannot see the New Archers lasting 64 weeks let alone the 64 years of the original however, I believe we can assist the BBC in marketing this novel confection by suggesting a new name for it. Any Ideas?

Where Can I Read Your Plays?

Some people have asked me where they can obtain copies of my work.  Well here is (as close a I can manage) the complete list of plays.  There are 42 including collaborations and short pieces. Some of them are obtainable from my online publishers LazyBee Scripts and one is published in paperback form by Roving Press Ltd.  The rest are in dusty old folders on my shelves. Click on the links for contacts.

Title	M/F	Outline	Running Time	Obtainable From
The Spirit of the Land	4F/4M Plus extras	The church closes and the battle begins over the next few years to transform it into an amenity for the village. Vested interests and crooked dealings lead to a final scene set in the floods of 2014 with the villagers gathering in the encircled building.	4 Acts/ 4Scenes 120 minutes	Not available for production yet
He’s Dead	2F/3M	Rose's horrific nightmares become reality when her friend Maria is fatally stabbed. As the plot twists and turns ulterior motives are gradually revealed	2 Acts 85 Mins	LazyBee Scripts
A Brief Encounter with MURDER	3F/6Mplus one	A restful holiday in a 1940s themed holiday home becomes a bizarre murder mystery as Mother goes missing with a bearded fisherman and a fat vicar lies dead in the front room. Was it the Rat Catcher, the Carpet Fitter or the French Dressmaker? And who is the Man with the Big Hammer?	2 Acts 70 mins	LazyBee Scripts
Pig Unit	3M/2F	Polish immigrant Paluszki comes towork at the Pig Unit with bullying Leonard and sniping Flint. When Leonard's adoptive Mother and a local girl earning money to go to college appear on the scene all hell breaks loose. And then Leonard disappears...	2 Acts 6 Scenes 90 minutes	Spyway Projects
What Would Jane Say?	1F	Jane Austen comments on her books from a 200 year perspective. She joins an online dating site and bickers with Cassandra over her cellphone.	2 Acts 70 minutes	Not available yet
Anning’s Fossil Depot	1F	Schools and young people. Mary Anning talks about her life and work and reveals her last illness	1 Act 40 minutes	Spyway Projects
The Cabinet Maker’s Daughter	1M/2F	Mary Anning, the Mad Woman of Lyme, is dying from breast cancer. Under the influence of pain deadening narcotics administered by bad tempered nurse, Susan she hallucinates about her life. When her longtime love appears is it a dream or reality?	2 Acts 90 minutes plus interval	Spyway Projects
Guerilla 3 short plays for street performance	3 F or M	Everyone Wants to be Somewhere Else - 3 overlapping mobile phone calls delivered through megaphones Free at the Point of Delivery - A bizarre new NHS Steampunk - The Colonel and street girl Lou meet in a dystopian future	3 x 5 minutes	Spyway Projects
Mrs Adapta Iago's Knitting Circle	3F/ 1M	The knitting circle has been meeting in the front room of Mrs Adapta Iago's bungalow every Tuesday and Thursday evening for the past forty years. But everything is not as it seems - there's conspiracy in the air. What is the project they've been working on all that time? Why are the knitting circle members all intellectual women graduates from one of Oxford's top colleges? What is the secret they want to keep from Michael, the bus driver? What actually did happen to Magda? What is the solution to the four colour problem? And what happened to Connie's rash? This darkly comic tale is as full of twists and turns as a ball of wool.	2 Acts 4 Scenes 98 Minutes	LazyBee Scripts
She Opened the Door -The Wife and the Women who Haunted Thomas Hardy	4F	Controversial reassment of Thomas Hardy's first wife by Emma. At the time sh was thought more than a little eccentric but might there have been a very real reason for her behaviour? Something to do with an overweening Mother-in-law perhaps?	2 Acts 80 minutes	Published in paperback by Roving Press Ltd. With supporting research and notes on the production.
Eve of War	1F	Knights inshining armour or gas masks and refugees? What stories will Nanny Cummins read from her book “Little Arthur's History of England” toexplain the oming horror to her small charge? And will that mean confronting the darkness buried in her own past?	2 Acts 90 minutes	Not available for production
Welcome to the Future	1 F/ 1M plus 1 child	Jimmy wakes on New Year's day in the year 2000 to see a world transformed with silver suits and hover cars.	20 minutes	Spyway Projects
Chelsey and Baz (With Tara Dominick)	1F/1M	Rich heiress Chelsey alone on her yacht picks up castaway Baz from his raft in the middle of the ocean. His story changes minute by minute and so does the posibility of romance.	35 minutes	Spyway Projects
The Lady of Shallott	1F	Bad tempered Arthritic Jacqueline watches the goings on in the street below from her window . A group of kids smokingin the bus shelter. A policeman practising for his role in a Gilbert and Sullivan production. Meanwhile she tries to complete a tapestry for the local shopping centre.	2 Acts 50 minutes	Spyway Projects
Conversations at the Sorrento - A bouquetof short table plays for performing in cafe spaces	Various	A woman is dumped by her husband via her mobile phone. Two walkers consider what would have happened if one of them had fallen from the clif. Two members of the flower show committee try to have a meeting. An elderly day tripper tries to decide whether to have a panini for lunch.	5 x 10 and 15 minute pieces.	Spyway Projects
The Town Hall Fish	Various but minimum 4F /3M plus 6 girls, 1 boy and several extras.	A day in the life of a small seaside town. Various characters come and go and a disagreement escalates between and the manage of the local aquarium. At the end of day the sight of a drowning sailor makes think she has seen an angel.	2 Acts 110 minutes	Spyway Projects
Dead Air	1F/ 1M	Susie Strong hosts the Very Very Very Early Show on Radio Violet. But today nothing in the stdio is working and with the studio technician not due in for another hour or two she's on her own. Then she hears footsteps in the corridor outside.	2 Acts 40 minutes	Spyway Projects
The Time Machine	2F/ 2M Plus puppets	Adaptation of H.G.Wells' story. But with the added complication of two white mice hiding in the machine and who get trapped in the future.	2 Acts 70 minutes	Spyway Projects
We Call it Home	Various	An history in songs and sketches commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the opening of a Scout and Guide headquarters in Dorset. Very specific but could be used as a blueprint for similar events.	40 minutes	Spyway Projects
Dick Whittington and his Crazee Cat	1994	Knockabout, updated version of the traditional pantomime.	2 Acts 90 minutes	Spyway Projects
Captain Pugwash and the Monster of Green Island	4 M plus 1 F to play Tom the Cabin Boy	Based on characters created by John Ryan. Pugwash wants to stand as toen mayor but he needs to make a grand gesture to be elected. He decides to set sail for Green Island to capture a monster for the town zoo. Black Jake stows away on board the black pig and pandemonium ensues.	2 Acts 90minutes	Licence for characters needed. Reading copy only Spyway Projects
Shahrazad (with the Company)	2F/2M	Adaptation and conflation of some of the original Arabian Nights tales as Shahrazad and her sister Dunyazid take on the wily old King Shahria and try to put off her execution.	2 Acts 70 minutes	Spyway Projects
The Trumpet Major	F 1/M4 with doubling. 8 without doubling The old Anne Garland could be doubled by her younger self.	Thomas Hardy's novel of life in the Napoleonic era, with soldiers massing to repel invasion, and village life in turmoil as a result.	130 mins	LazyBee Scripts
Hiawatha	2F / 3M	Adaptation of the Longfellow poem. The story told by a band of Jesuit priests traversing the wilds of Canada.	80 minutes	Spyway Projects
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Vanishing Author	1F/2M	Author Conan Doyle is gradually taken over by his creation Sherlock Holmes, but then the attempt to kill off his creation, results in Holmes using all of his skills to escape death.	2 Acts/ 5 Scenes 90 minutes	Published by LazyBee Scripts
The Runaway Train (with Jem Barnes)	2F / 3M	Pantomime play. Something is blocking the drains in the small wayside station where the old engine Ethel May Winthrop is being restored. But what happened to the gold that disappeared on her fateful last run? Requires full size practical steam engine.	2 Acts 90 minutes	Spyway Projects
Little Arthur’s History of England	1F	Original version of the play “Eve of War”		No longer available for production
The Mayor of Casterbridge	2f / 3M	A faithful retelling of Thomas Hardy's well-loved novel for small company. Michael Henchard sells his wife after a bout of drunkeness. Vowing never to drink again he does well and rises to become Mayor. But when his wife and daughter reappear years later his life spirals into tragedy.	90 minutes	Spyway Projects
Jane Eyre (with Helen Palmer	2F /2M	An adaptation of the Charlotte Bronte novel for a small cast in flexible settings.	80 minutes	Spyway Projects
Painting the Clouds with Sunshine	1F/2M	Young girl has dreams of Hollywood in the 1930. Her adventureson the way to stardom	70 minutes	Spyway Projects
Robinson Crusoe	2 F / 3M including cross dressing dame and principal boy	Traditonal panto for small cast touring prouction	80 minutes	Spyway Projects
Little Red Riding Hood	19792 F / 3M including cross dressing dame and principal boy	Traditonal panto for small cast touring prouction. Little Red Riding Hood lives in the greenwood with her father Robin and outrageous Grandmother. The Sheriff of Nottingham disguises himself as a wolf for the usual reasons. With songs.	2 Acts 80 minutes	Spyway Projects
I Want to Fly	2F/2M	Play for young people in schools with classroom particiption. Four characters want to learn how they can fly and explore the history of mankind's attempts to do so.	Half day project. Play itself round thirty minutes	Spyway Projects
Brog Seven (with Jem Barnes)	2F /2M	A play for young people about Energy Conservation. Christine and he mother run a launderette. Brog Seven arrives from the year 2401 to sabotage their machines and point out what their misuse of energy will mean for the future. Meanwhile the dastardly Sir John Montague wants to corne the energy market for his own ends.	40 minutes	Spyway Projects
Krondos (with Jem Barnes)	3 F or M	A play for young people about Energy Conservation. Representatives from three planets meet to decide which is the most efficient energy source before the Galaxy runs out altogether.	30 minutes with discussion	Spyway Projects
The Web (with Jem Barnes)	1f / 3M	A play for young people about Energy Conservation. Perhaps the Wheeler Energy Box will be the answer to all our problems. But the villainous Grabbitt and Runne have their eyes on it fo themselves.	30 minutes	Spyway Projects
Damion and the Plague of Words(with Jem Barnes)	1F /3M	A play for young people to encourage reading with participation. Prince Damion is losing control of the kingdom through a md deluge of words. Perhaps the children can help by taking the words topiece and reassembling themin a more organised way.	30 minutes	Spyway Projects
The Jolly Farmer (with Jem Barnes)	1F/ 3M	The life and times of eighteenth century political activist William Cobbett. With songs.	80 minutes	Spyway Projects
A Grave Matter (with Jem Barnes)	1F / 3M	A hot summer in the seventeenth century and the wife of a prominent Basingstike business man is buried aive twice. Humorous retelling of a genuine piece of Basingstoke history.	80 minutes	Spyway Projects
Mummers’ Play	All sorts of permutations for a cast of five	Performance version of the ancient tradition with plenty of modern allusion and knockabout humour.	20 minutes	Spyway Projects
A Christmas Carol (with Jem Barnes)	Cast of five	An adaptation for flexible company of Charles Dickens' evergreen tale. Interspersed with traditional carols	90 minutes	Spyway Projects
Whistling	2M	A young volunteer visits an elderly blind man holding out against eviction	1 Act 40 minutes	Spyway Projects

Ghost Story

GHOST STORY

You Said:

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

It was one of those January afternoons. Damp and bone marrow cold. Through the window of the cafe, if you wiped the mist away from the glass, all you could see was another layer of invisibility gradually closing in as the afternoon darkened into evening.

“Well?” You said

“Hmm? What made you ask that?”

“It’s that sort of day. You never can tell what’s going on in that fog.”

I said “People shopping. Scurrying home to Neighbours on the tele.”

“You’re behind. “ You said “ Neighbours hasn’t been on for years”

“I don’t know about ghosts.” I thought a while “I’ve seen all sorts of things I couldn’t explain at the time. I’ve heard noises in the night. I’ve smelt things....”

“Smelt?

“You know, It was actually believed that saints gave off a particularly sweet odour when they died.”

“Maybe saints washed more than everyone else.” You said sweetly

“Probably. On the other hand evil gave off an odour of iniquity. Shakespeare mentions it in Pericles.”

“You were always quoting Shakespeare.”

“Only the odd bits I remember from productions I’ve done. ‘A fire from heaven came and shrivelled up

Their bodies, e’en to loathing: for they so stunk

That all those eyes adored them ere their fall

Scorn now their hand should give them burial.’ “

You looked at me curiously: “And you’ve smelled this odour of iniquity?”

“Not exactly. It was more like Frying bacon.”

“Very other worldly.”

“When we used to work all nighters in the theatre. Come about four o’clock in the morning and someone would sniff and say “Who’s that cooking breakfast?”

“You were tired.”

“Oh, It was a quite a regular thing.” Same sort of time. Frying bacon

“Drains”

“We spent a lot of time looking. And sniffing. Believe me. But we couldn’t find a thing We got quite attached to it in the end. ‘There’s Charlie making breakfast again.’ ”

“And then someone discovered that the theatre was built on the site of an ancient hostelry where a terrible murder took place over the scrambled eggs. The stench of the body charring on the hotplate lingered for months until they demolished it “

“No Nothing like that. All I’m saying is that if ghosts did exist they could take one of many forms. Perhaps sometimes we wouldn’t even recognise it was a ghost we were looking at.”

“So you do believe?”

“Yes... no. I mean as an intellectual construct.”

“And Charlie?”

“Charlie?”

“Was he an intellectual construct?”

“As you say, it was probably the drains.”

The cafe owner began to make clearing up noises from behind the counter. I had finished my tea. I wiped the window again but I still couldn’t see out.

Then you said: “There was a death, you know.”

“What? Where?”

You leant forward to whisper keeping your eyes on the Cafe Owner behind the counter and inclining your head towards him

“Here. Not all that long ago. It was in the paper.”

I raised my eyebrows: “Actually in here? “

“There was some tragedy involved... Lone parent. Children left alone. You don't recall? Orphans. Tragic. That sort of thing.”

“ What if... “ I nodded to the cafe owner “He was involved.”

“Murder, you mean?”

“Not necessarily. Accidental poisoning . Something like that.... I’d been thinking this tea tasted.. you know”

I leant forward “So you think there’re ghosts here...”

“I’m saying if there were ghosts this place would be as likely to be a venue as anywhere. If you think about it. the shocking thing is not that we see the occasional ghost but that we don’t see more of them more often. ”

I went back to gazing out of the window and wondered about the shapeless forms passing to and fro.

“And what is it that makes people scared of them any way? I thought. We don’t do inner turmoil in the 21^st century. “Wooo. Your mortgage has just gone up by a hundred pounds a month. Wooo. Your train is running late and you’ll miss Strictly Come Dancing.”

“No There is one thing everyone is everyone terrified by in the twenty-first century. Being alone.”

“You’re joking. I can’t get enough time on our own. Away from the kids, the crowds, the boss. I’d do anything for a few days of blissful solitude.”

A few days, maybe. But an eternity. Stretching out in front of you. A tunnel of loneliness. It’s heartbreaking.

“Yes but then you’d be dead.”

“That’s the point. The ghosts are the dead who do not know they are dead. They don’t have time to realise what’s happening. To adjust. They just find themselves more and more isolated. Cut off from human contact but yearning for those human things like affection, warmth. Talking to themselves as though.. Imagine what it’s like for a bereft parent when a child dies. The grief is unending.

“That’s horrible. And sad.” Your voice had an emotional catch in it suddenly which upset me. “And the ghost, him or herself, may not know that this happening to them?

Pinned by the arms and facing an eternity of fear and loneliness. Paralysed but aware. Unable to tell people what you are feeling. Like in those nightmare where you want to scream but no-one can hear you.”

“Is there any way out of that?”

They just need a friend. Someone to point it out as gently as possible.”

I watched out of the window as the evening grew darker and the fog thickened. The passersby seemed to grow ever fainter and ever more distant. “But do you really think there are such things? People, I mean. Who don’t know they’re ghosts?”

“The lost and the lonely. This cafe... could be full of them

“Do you think he’s one?” I said nodding towards the cafe owner flicking the counter top with a tea towel t.lost and lonely.”

Mind you, it all fits if your theory is right.

“What theory?”

“About the frying bacon. Perhaps that’s the fate of all lost souls to end up in catering. And come to think about it, some of the paninis I’ve had in here. Half cooked. Practically undead itself.”

And you carried on making jokes about the cafe owner whilst I was watching through the steamed up windows again. All those people. Lost from view. And I felt a lurch of emotion deep in the pit of my stomach. For what? I couldn’t place it. And at that moment a breath of cold air passed across my neck. I could feel the hairs standing up with the cold. I turned to say something but you were gone. I stared at the door. I hadn’t heard you leave and there seemed to be no indication that it had been opened at all. and out on the pavement the fog was too thick to show which way you had gone.

The cafe owner was looking at the door and frowning slightly. I was going to say something but he moved to our table and picked up the cup and saucer and took it back to the counter.

Oh my God! One cup and saucer. We had been drinking tea together. But there was only one cup and saucer. What had happened to the other? Was there another? Oh no! Oh dear God.

I turned to the cafe owner. He was ignoring me. Untying his apron and hanging it up. I was peering through the misted window. Desperate to catch some sight of you. You must be out there somewhere. And then it was dark. The cafe owner had turned out the lights and closed the door behind him. He hadn’t noticed me. He hadn’t seen me. The latch clicked.

I breathed on the cold glass and tried to write. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t, couldn’t, say Goodbye. You or the kids. I called out. But you couldn’t hear me. Behind the glass in the fog.

A Merry Christmas, Sir Reginald

It is bitterly cold on the West Cliff tonight. The gardens are deserted. The moon is obscured by thick rolling clouds. The street lamps cast only frail pools of light on the paths. Where is Sir Reginald? Surely it's time for him to be out and about on his evening constitutional raging against the Communists at the Council for the feebleness of the lighting? Or will tonight's fulmination be for the waste of tax payers money engendered by having street lighting at all?

Click whirr. Click whirr. Ah here he is now in his bath chair propelled with vigour by his one legged manservant Phillips. Sir Reginald is wrapped warmly in his tartan blanket against the chill whilst Phillips, his sleeves rolled up to display his tattooed arms has a film of sweat across his brow. 

    “Faster, Man. Faster. Can you not see that I am in imminent danger of dying from hypothermia here?”

A single flake of white flutters down through the street light's rays. “What! What was that?” demands Sir Reginald.

    “It was a snowflake, I believe Sir.” answers Phillips and, as if to prove his belief the first is followed by a second and a third.

    “Snow! We want none of that here. This is Bournemouth not Siberia.”

    “Snow is a thing of great beauty.”

    “Beauty! Pshaw! Your idea of beauty is very much at odds with mine, Sirrah. An idea of beauty that could only have come from the twisted hell hole of the 'tween decks mess of that pirate ship I rescued you from.”

The truth is that Phillips has never ventured further on the high seas than a Sunday cruise around Poole Harbour as a child but he lets it pass.

    “Under the lens, each snowflake is a thing of great wonder. While no two are exactly the same, they ll exhibit the astonishing uniformity of having six sides.”

Sir Reginald likes uniformity. He likes regularity and order in all things. “Six sides, you say?”

    “Yes Sir. Every one of them. All different but, at the same time, all the same.”

Sir Reginald is about to begin extolling the virtues of regularity and order when out of the whirling white comes a disturbing sight. It is the bath chair of his nemesis Dame Amelia Vole leading member of the Women’s International Socialist and Suffrage movement. She is, in turn propelled by her companion Miss Pymm a tall angular female of indeterminate years but who is surprisingly athletic beneath her shapeless grey smock.

    “Get out of my way you... you harridan.” rages Sir Reginald. But Dame Amelia fails to respond and as they draw level she smiles and says “And a Merry Christmas to you.”

    “What! What did you say?”

    “I wished you the season's greeting. I said 'A Merry Christmas to you.'”

    “You dare wish me a Merry Christmas?”

    “I do. A merry Christmas. There, I've done it again.”

    “Christmas Balderdash.” He would have liked to say ' Christmas humbug' but he has in the back of his mind that that has been used somewhere already.

   “I suppose you do not keep Christmas, then?”
   “I'll thank you to keep your impertinent suppositions to your self.”

   “Not even a plate of good plum duff? I wager you don't keep any of The good old British traditions.”

   “Of course we keep all the traditions. All the British ones.” Sir Reginald has only a perfunctory knowledge of what the traditions of Christmas are. He knows they can be dangerously subversive but this woman has just wagered him

   “We do. Every one of them. We keep every one of them .” Then he remembers with a lurch that one of the traditions is that of generals feeding dinner to their troops. He cringes at the terrifying prospect of having to wheel himself backwards and forwards through the unholy melee in the dining room whilst Phillips sits there gloating at him and devouring all the plum duff. He would be seen. There would be members of the Club present sniggering through their fingers. The thought is insufferable.“Not precisely every one.” Then he remembers with growing horror the tradition of exchanging of gifts and he shudders even more. “Times change.”

“I'll wager you don't even decorate with holly.”

He brightens. “Ah yes, holly.” He remembers that holly can be got from holly bushes and is free.   “We keep the holly tradition.” And his demeanour is so pathetic all of a sudden that Phillips steps forward with his clasp knife at the ready.

   “If I may venture to say,” interjects the one-legged manservant. “That is just what we were doing out here. Collecting holly.” And he swiftly removes a couple of low branches from an overhanging bush.

  ”And mistletoe?” persists the old woman.

  “Yes. Mistletoe, of course.” But despite the certainty in his master's voice, this time Phillips can contribute nothing.

  “Mistletoe, Miss Pymm.” barks the old woman and The angular companion produces a bunch which she holds out over the heads of the warring pair. Dame Amelia leans forward and kisses Sir Reginald on the cheek

  “What! What! Madam I will have you prosecuted for common assault.”

  “Forward, Miss Pymm,” chuckles the venerable dame and the angular companion trundles her charge off into the swirling maelstrom of the snowstorm.

  “And battery” mumbles Sir Reginald. “Assault and battery. You are my witness, Phillips”

As the subdued pair return to Grand Marine Court he churns with the damnable confusion that now besets him. Christmas. He hates Christmas. Vile old women that attempt lewd acts in public. Snowflakes, at once regular yet individual. A manservant, an ex-pirate with a dangerous looking clasp knife who would gladly slit his throat as cheerfully as he gathered evergreens and to whom tomorrow he will have to bring plates of plum duff.

  “Damn Christmas,” he ejaculates. “Damn and blast it to hell.”

There is a pause as the two men survey the scene before going in..

  “I may not be having dinner tomorrow. Lost me damn appetite.”

  “There will be plum duff in the dining room. You do so enjoy that, Sir.”

  “Yes yes I do.”

There is a long pause.

  “It will not be necessary for you to serve at table tomorrow, Sir.”

  “No. Of course not.” and with a small cough almost lost in the blizzard. “Thank you.”

  “You will manage a small serving of plum duff, I'm sure. If I bring it to you.”

Silently Sir Reginald watches the snow smoothing out the imperfections of the world and touches his cheek where it burns from the wind.

  “If I may venture to wish you A merry Christmas Sir,” says Phillips as though from a great distance.

  “Yes. Yes. You may. And the same to you. Now get me in out of this damn cold.”

Holly's Story

Last night I was invited to a Dads and Daughters event where we considered the inspiration we got from our parents.  It made me think of the inspiration that I had been given by my daughters.  We were quite a literary household and reading and writing was an important aspect of what we did.  We wrote stories and letters to each other.  We read aloud and shared each other's writing.  Reading and writing was fun.  Some of the lessons I learnt at that time were through story-telling.  I learnt the importance of repetition and having repeatable tropes throughout.  But I also learned how to listen  and to adapt  the narrative to the listener.  The greatest lesson was that of co-operative story telling.  You can soon exhaust all your own ideas and the best way forward is to use the imagination of the listener:  "What do you think is round that corner?"  "What's that noise you can hear?"  and so on.  The story grows between you. Here is a story that Holly and I collaborated on when she was about three.

Holly lived in a tree in the park.  All day long she would hide there and drop sharp, prickly leaves down the neck of anyone who stopped to rest on the bench under the tree.

“Horrid Holly” they would say.“Hurtful Holly” and they would look up very sharply cramming their hats on their heads.  But they could never quite catch a glimpse of her.

Holly hissed with laughter.  She hooted with laughter.  She whooped with laughter.  But noone quite caught sight of her.

Sometimes she would lie still till all the sparrows and starlings had come out to sunbathe on the branches then she would rustle the twigs, rattle the branches and rock the boughs until the birds were  hooched  out into the air their feathers  and pride all ruffled.

“Horrid Holly. Hateful Holly.” and Holly hollered with laughter.  She howled wih laughter.But Holly wasn’t really horrid or hateful or hurtful.  She was just high spirited and hearty and she was just waiting for everyone to go home.  Tonight was a time for hanky panky.

She knew where the roses stood stiffly in their beds.  She knew where all the crisp packets huddled under the bushes.  She knew where the hedgehogs lay hunched up under the dead leaves.  She knew all about the haughty spikes on the park railings.   And she knew would make some hocus pocus.

When the gates banged shut at eight o’clock and the sun had lumbered into bed under his red silk sheets Holly scrambled down the tree and scampered across the grass turning catherine wheels of delight.  It was her park now.  Now for a high old time.

The silvery moon shone a path across the grass.  Holly bounced into the rose beds and danced the roses harum scarum out into the mooonlight. “Humph” they said. Their fingers were stiff and rheumaticcy but Holly hauled them round and round till they remembered how to do the paul jones and the Tango.  Then she dived into the beds of dead leaves and hurled out the hedgehogs to dance the Valeta and the pasa doble.  She harrassed the broken bottles and the crisp packets into the bandstand with the railing spikes and a fine old harmony they made.

All night long went the dancing; the Westminster waltz and the mazurka and the park was filled with the whoops and hollers and huzzahs. What a hullabaloo until suddenly Holly said “Hush.  The moon’s going down.  It’s nearly dawn.”  And everything heaved a heartfelt sigh hopped back to its place.

And hot but happy Holly sat in the paddling pool and poured water over her head until her hair was plastered down flat.  She hopped back to her tree and fell asleep just as the park gates banged open again.  People sitting on the bench under her tree were surprised when no prickles fell down their necks.  They took off their hats to enjoy the heat of the sun.

And Holly hugged herself with happiness as she snored.