This is the personal blog of alisonraymond

There at Emily’s feet, a single herring, glistening, a garnet eye set in burnished silver upon the black ironstone cobbles.
What magic had placed it here?
A passing Gannet perhaps, overburdened by its prize plucked from the maelstrom had surrendered the fish high above.
Or was it old Mr Henley the fishmonger who, in his haste to get to market, had allowed this tiddler to slip from the basket?
And what of Mrs Jenks? Always buys Herrings for tea on a Tuesday, was it the moistened newspaper wrappings which had failed allowing this one small fish to escape the feast?
Emily gazed upon the jewel hard won by another from the jealous sea.
She examined it, exploring every part of the little body.
The palid lips on a downturned mouth,
The eye, now misting,
The bony gill covers, and the succulent flanks. Shining metal painted olive above and cream below.
She ate it, slowly, exquisitely, savouring the rich oiliness
And she thought
“Life’s not so bad for cats!”

In one thousand words ‘Wheels’ tells of a senior citizen pursuing ambitions to be a master criminal at a time in life when others are developing more sedate interests.

“And do you know, I very nearly got away with it, I’d almost reached home when I saw the flashing blue lights in my rear view mirror.”
In the silence of the pause Jeff realised that his mouth was open, amazed at what the old man had said.
Recovering his wits he stammered “So, you done a bank, right?”
The old chap smiled in recognition of the younger man’s growing understanding
“It was a building society actually, but I suppose I qualify as a bank robber, yes.”
“…And, you scarpered on one of them scooters that old people ride to save their legs?”
Again the other man smiled and nodded in assent.
“You know what” said Jeff, “You’re in the wrong place mate. What‘re you doing here on remand? You belong in a loony bin!”

The old fellow leaned forward and drew the edge of his roll up across his tongue “Well, of course I understand your sentiments, but it was a brilliantly planned undertaking and it was only misfortune which led to my arrest and thus to my present lamentable circumstance”.
Rolling tobacco was not this man’s usual habit, his cigarette was ragged at the end with a comical waist in the middle, but he placed it between his lips, lit the end and drew heavily upon the smoke.
“I was a senior clerk at court until I retired two years ago.
I saw all the big boys sent down, and do you know what? It’s the getaway that’s the problem.
It’s always big cars, fast drivers, lots of fuss and, if I may quote one recent acquaintance ‘when the law shows up they’ve got more leads than the cloakroom at the Crufts after show party’.”

Jeff looked at the floor, his shoulders rocking with mirth.

“Oh yes” his companion continued “Laugh, but consider this. The Puddlewick and Wishbourne mutual building society stands in the high street between the post office and a tea rooms presently operated by one Eleanor Fliss. Now, you’re too young to know such things, but take it from me, Thursday is pension day and the post office is where I and others of my…err…relative seniority, collect the pittance which government laughingly calls a pension, and Ms Fliss, never one to miss an opportunity, has made it her mission to corner the ‘grey’ market by a most tempting array of cakes and free refills of tea every Thursday morning.”

Jeff protested “Oh come off it granddad, are you telling me that you done the P&W because you was on your way to pick up your pension and you needed change for cake and a cuppa?”

The man sank back exhausted by the Jeff’s stupidity
“You know you really are amazingly obtuse!”

“Cor! Thanks, d’ya think so!”

He tried again.
“Look, pension day, cakes, free refills. The highstreet is awash with old people! And, what craft can sail this flood without raising an eyebrow?”

Jeff answered slowly
“a scooter...you crafty old devil!”

The old chap burst into full animation.
“It was incredible, scooters everywhere. I queued up in the building society and when my turn came I pushed a note across the counter, you know the kind of thing...Fill this bag with money and no one gets hurt, no funny business...Once I got the money I left the P&W, bumping a couple of old matrons to cause a bit of a kerfuffle. Then it was onto the scooter and into the crowd.”
He chuckled.
“I thought about stopping for tea and cake until the police came, but then I thought don’t push your luck old son, and I set off home.”

Jeff was looking perplexed
“So, what went wrong?”

“Wrong!” queried the old man.
“Yeah, wrong, or has it escaped your notice that you’re in here doing bird at her majesty’s instead of sunnin’ yerself somewhere.”

“Oh, you mean how did I come to be intercepted! I see your point. Well, my one mistake was WPC Edna Riley. You see, we had a bit of a thing once, Edna and me. She was a rookie WPC in the fifties when I was just a magistrates clerk. She was pretty in a muscular sort of way and I considered myself rather dashing, but, I regret I treated her shamefully. Well, a young man soon forgets these things, but not Edna. So, there I was on my scooter, the bag of cash in my shopping pannier when I felt the front mudguard clip the indicator of the scooter in front. The rider, an elderly woman, felt it too because she turned around to look. Angry at first, but then a look of puzzlement crossed her face. Eyes fixed, I overtook and pretended I had felt nothing”

Jeff guffawed
“It was ‘er wasn’t it! It was your Edna, you dirty old git!”

“Yes”
the old man smiled.
“It was Edna, and she had recognised me, and furthermore she wanted recompense, if not for the heartbreak then at least for the broken indicator. She followed me, but my scooter is a ‘Solesaver 2K’ her’s just a standard ‘Troika’, she couldn’t catch me.”

“So!”
triumphed Jeff.
“You get away and evil Edna has no reason to connect you to the heist, what’s the problem?”

“Technology!” said the old boy sadly shaking his head.

“Technology?” repeated Jeff.

“Yes, you see, Edna may be retired, but the police tradition continues in her grandson Dean.
Nice lad, loves his nan.
Apparently he’s always banging on at her about security and he’s given her one of these emergency pagers. Clever little gizmo designed for explorers, about the size of a matchbox. When you’re in trouble you press a button and it sends a map reference telling someone where you are. Edna’s goes direct to Dean’s mobile telephone.”

“So, she’s inspector gadget’s grandma, how does that affect you?” queried Jeff.

“You remember the collision?
My mudguard, her indicator?
Well, she thinks ‘He’s run off once, he won’t do it again’ and as we passed she dropped the pager into my pannier.
When the police car pulled me over I was almost home, but when young Dean found the pager bleeping fit to bust in the bottom of my pannier with my map reference on his mobile he got very shirty and started a full search. By the time Edna arrived on the trusty ‘Troika’ there I was bang to rights with a small fortune in my front basket.
And that, young Jeffrey is how you and I come to be sharing accommodation.”

Information is power, power is money, that's the way the world goes around!

Peter drew his vehicle to the curb and stopped beneath the street lamp as instructed. Double yellow lines delineated the gutter.

A man stepped from the shadows his hat pulled low and his collar raised.
Peter lowered the window. “Have you got it?” Anxiety sang in Peter’s voice.
“Yeah, I got it, but have you got the money?” The voice was strong and the delivery was practised, Peter caught a flash of twinkling eyes deep within the shadow of the man’s hat and he shuddered.
Peter composed himself. “Yes, I have the money but…”
The man placed his hands upon the door and drew himself close.
“Listen buddy, I got the information you need right?”
Peter nodded, struck mute by the sudden reaction.
“...and you, you got the money which I need, right?”
Again Peter nodded.
“So, you hand over the shamolies and I give you this little bitty bit of paper, that’s the way it works Judy!”

Although baffled by the casual use of slang and the sarcasm, Peter was determined. “But look, how do I know that what I am buying is Kosher. I’ll give you half now, I’ll go and check that everything is as we agreed, then I’ll come back and give you the rest.”
The man straightened casting his eyes left then right. He spoke slowly and clearly. “My friend, what do you do? I mean, like, what is your line of business?”
Peter gave a puzzled frown. “I sell houses, I am an estate agent”. The man exploded into laughter. “You sell real estate? Man, it ain’t often that I deal with a bigger crook than me!”

In a flash the laugh was gone and the man spoke seriously again. “So, Mr real estate agent, say I am buying one of your flash houses and I say ‘OK, I’ll just pay you for the garage for now, I’ll move in with my family for a couple of months, then if I like the garage, I’ll buy the rest of the house.’ Now, correct me if I am wrong, but I suspect that this is not the way that things work in the real estate business. Am I right?”
Peter nodded.
“Ok, so hand me that money you are holding and we can both be happy.”

Peter reached out his arm, the man pushed back his hat and smiled, Peter hesitated, withdrawing his hand.
“But what if?”
“Just give me the god damn money.” The man reached in through the open window and snatched the cash before forcing a piece of paper into Peter’s hand.

Peter opened the folded paper. He read the address immediately recognising it as being only a few blocks from where he was. Relief lit his face. He turned to thank his informer, but only the night and the wind and the rain remained.
Peter closed the window, started the engine and set off in pursuit of his quarry.
“Funny!” he thought, “the things you have to do these days just to find a parking space in the West End!”

Codfishing was a family enterprise during the winter months, but one night in the early 1970s even the fish decided to lend a hand.
What follows is not fiction. It all happened! It happened to me!

“You get the tackle bag, I’ll bring the rods.”
Dad gathered the fishing rods from between our seats and soon the old Austin was lost in the winter night as we crunched across the shingle desert, west of Dungeness.
Not a word passed between us, and yet we were in communion, our quarry that chilly October, the cod that passed through the English Channel.

Arriving as the last of the holiday makers departed, cod would be drawn from the sea all winter and the word in the tackle shops was that this season was looking very promising.

Dad spoke, but not to me “Hey Jacko!”
The figure approaching was a sight indeed, clad head to foot in black oil skin, his head topped with an oilskin ‘sou’wester, trailing pipe smoke and vaporous breath.
Rods borne like lances and a fluorescent green tackle bag slung across his body as a shield, the knight raised his head.
“That you Fred? And the youngster too?….Gonna try your luck?”
Dad shrugged.
“We’ll give it a couple of hours, see how we get on…did you catch anything?”
This St George not only slew the beast, he took it home for supper too, and from his bag he raised two glistening whiting, each a meal for one.
Jacko smiled knowing that in the hands of his wife the little fish would be transformed into a fragrant and delicate feast of white flesh flecked with parsley and served with mashed potatoes.
“A couple of tiddlers, but tasty all the same…Did you hear about Ted Sooter?”
Dad frowned.
“What Ted from the garage?”
“That’s him…he had a twenty eight pounder the other night, and another forty pound in smaller fish!”
I let out a whistle to register my approval.
Jacko returned his whiting to the bag and set off following the footprints which my Dad and I had left. We followed Jacko’s trail towards the sea strand.

As we walked, my flashlight found a fox emerging from a gorse thicket. At first just two glowing eyes in the beam, this handsome beast was quite untroubled by our passing. The corpse of a bunny hung from his jaws, and as we passed no more than ten yards apart I fancied that here was a mutual acknowledgement of hunters, one for another. A recognition that the thrill is in the chase. I knew that a moment like this would move my father to comment
“You know what?”
he asked.
“That wily old fox, he’s probably been waiting in that bush for an hour or more, quiet as a mouse and as patient as a saint, just waiting for a bunny to poke his head up for a breath of fresh air. Well, he’s got his supper and I reckon there’s a message for us too, what do you say?”
I grunted in affirmation. Stealth and patience surely the most potent weapons in the angler’s arsenal.

There was a wind blowing that night. A firm and steady airflow. Enough to disrupt conversation at any distance, enough to raise a crashing surf. As we crested the rise of shingle which marked the highest tide, the surf line shone one hundred yards ahead at the edge of the gently sloping beach. Dad looked left then right inhaling noisily as he turned.
“Tide’s on the way in, half an hour to light the tilley lamp and get set up properly, then we’ll see what’s going on”.
A wave broke. A ribbon of white water releasing the power of an express train, shaking the ground, filling the air with salty spume.

The wind and the cold joined in adversarial alliance as we threaded our lines and fumbled to tie and bait our hooks. Soon my father was swinging the heavy lead on the end of his line. The twelve foot, cane rod arced over his shoulder hurling bait, hook and lead a hundred and more yards from shore. Dad secured his fishing rod in its stand and set to preparing another rig as I launched mine into the darkness. My father cast his second line and the waiting began. We sat on tarpaulin close beside our hissing tilley lamp drawing some primal comfort from its tiny oasis of apple green light, defiant in the velvet night.

If Dungeness is a desert it is by no means deserted, for anglers will travel far in the hope of catching cod, and this stretch of coast is prime real estate from autumn through to springtime, each claim now marked by its own pool of paraffin light… And there we all sat, waiting, a tribe maybe two hundred strong, spread along miles of chilly beach.

A little ‘tinker bell’ hung from my rod tip and in the darkness my ears strained to hear the rattle that means a fish is biting. Thirty minutes passed. I retrieved my tackle and removed the accumulation of weed drawn from the sea bed. I threaded a new lugworm as bait and cast again. Another half an hour.
Retrieving my line I found a fish hooked on the end. Too small to rattle the bell. Anglers dismiss the pouting as good for neither sport nor table, but by the light of my torch this tiddler was a glorious sight. Copper along the flanks, fading to silver then cream on the belly. Wriggling in my hands, dripping through my numb fingers and fragranced with the wild sea. I carried the creature to the waters edge and released it into the surf. For a moment the pouting seemed mesmerised and lay still as the sea flowed. Then, with a flick it was gone.
Bait up with lugworm and cast again!

Soon Dad jumped to attention. He studied the quivering tip then took the rod from its stand. A few more seconds, and my father ‘struck’ hard, and twenty fathoms deep his sharp hook found flesh.
“Get my other line in, I don’t want to get in a tangle”.
I took up my Dad’s second fishing rod and began to wind the big reel. There were phosphorescent bacteria at work in the sea that night and as I wound that endless line, droplets of seawater fell to the stones, exploding like tiny turquoise fireworks. At last the end. I removed the weed from the empty hook and lay the rod down. Dad was cautiously retrieving his fish, still far from the shore.
“Well” he said “It’s not a cod”.
How did he know?
“Infact” he continued “I reckon it’s a flatfish, and a good one too!”
He continued working the beast towards the beach in silence until, finally, he drew it onto the shore rippling over the wet stones like the waves from which it had come. It was a Dover sole and Dad was right, this was a good fish. I stepped forward to unhook the sole and deliver it to my Father. It would make a wonderful meal. Dad despatched the creature swiftly and buried it in the wet shingle to collect later.

We fished on. A pouting each, a channel whiting for me, delicious to eat, but this fellow was too small so I returned him to the sea. Dad got a mighty bite and for a moment we both dreamed of cod, but the beast had other ambitions and the hook was retrieved with neither fish nor worm.

My father reached into the bait bag and withdrew the newspaper roll which held the lugworm. Opening the package by the light of our lantern my dad found only the wizened tail of the last of the lug. He threaded the black fleshy morsel onto his line. “Last cast for tonight, there’s no more bait”.
Down by the waters edge Dad’s second rod bent sharply towards the waves and in a moment he was on it. He struck hard and I watched with fingers crossed for the nod that would indicate that he was fighting a fish. There it was, just a flick of the head then he returned to the task, heaving, laughing, winding and panting in equal measure while at the other end of his line ten, fifteen maybe twenty pounds of muscle and sinew fought for its very life. A big cod is a powerful beast, but its mouth is soft and the angler must be crafty. Rush to retrieve the prey and you will surely lose it, relax the tension between yourself and your adversary and the cod will free itself, and so my father worked patiently, allowing the creature to run when it demanded, but always forcing it to earn every yard of line drawn from the reel. As the cod tired he began to recover line and soon the beast was within twenty yards. Dad paused to await a suitable wave upon which he could surf his fish ashore.
“Here we go, here we……”
The wave rolled in, but Dad’s line was slack and the fish was gone. Dad was sanguine about his loss.
“Oh well at least he’ll be there for someone else to catch……might even grow bigger in the meantime eh!” but the night could not end on such a moment of frustration. “I’ll tell you what, you see that tilley lamp along the beach? Well, here’s five bob, go and ask the bloke fishing there if he can sell you a few lug.”

I set off along the shingle strand.
Walking on stones is laborious and the twinkling light in the distance seemed so far off. Soon the trudge was automatic, my head down for fear of seeing the tilley lamp no closer. As I approached I could discern the angler. A man, tall and muscular, aged about thirty years. He stood beside his lantern preparing a hand rolled cigarette. He lit the cigarette and threw down the match as I entered the pale extremities of his patch of green light.
“Hey mister!” I called, he squinted through a cloud of tobacco smoke into my half darkness. “My Dad and me have run out of lug, can you give us some?”
The cigarette still clamped between his lips the man laughed, jets of smoke bursting from the corners of his mouth. The angler removed his cigarette and fixed me in the gloom.
“Listen kid, there’s cod coming ashore all along here tonight and with a bit of luck I might even get one myself. So why don’t you and your dad do us all a favour and call it a night!”
I tried again “Oh go on mister, I’ve got five bob!”
The man picked a pebble from the beach which he tossed so that it fell with a thud about a yard in front of where I stood “I told you to clear off, now get out of it!”
I turned and stepped down towards the waters edge for the long return and it was in that moment that providence cracked one of her precious, and on this occasion slightly wicked, smiles.

For the codfish is a voracious feeder and in those times vast shoals of little ‘bait fish’ would accumulate just off shore avoiding their fate, but anticipating it all the same. The cod, reluctant to enter the shallows would patrol the edge of the bait shoals picking off the unwary and occasionally plunging in when a rolling wave increased the draught.

The wave was bigger than those that preceded it. Enhanced by some random consequence of nature it rolled towards me. I could see its swell, its curl, and a little quiff of foam along the leading edge, but more than this, I could see into it, through it. Emerald near the crest and deepest lapis in the trough. It broke in a cascade of silvery sprats and rushed forward over my boots. As the wave drained back towards the sea I saw the cod maybe three yards away and illuminated softly by the residual edges of the tilley lamp pool. Seven pounds in weight, flecked with spots of ochre, canary and tan upon a base of battle ship grey, it was flapping furiously seeking the receding water. I rushed forwards scattering stones and wriggling sprats. The next wave was about to break as I placed my fingers under its gills and lifted the cod high. Icy seawater rushed around my knees and filled my wellingtons. I staggered to keep my balance as the wave retreated and soon I was clear of the foam with my prize in my hands. The angler’s cigarette fell from his hand, his mouth agape as I raised the flapping cod with a triumphal smile before setting off along the strand and back to my father.
Back at his rod my father was focussed still upon his final cast with the shrivelled worm tail “Well young ‘un, how did you get on?” I stepped into the light with my hands behind my back. Dad looked across to me
“No luck eh? Miserable buggers, fishermen! Still we’ve got the sole, and we’ve had some tiddlers so I suppose that old fox was a good omen eh?”
“Yes Dad” I replied revealing my cod
“He got his rabbit supper and we can have cod and chips”.

Taster:
The human race! You think you're so clever don't you? And in this long race you have led the field. But winners keep their eyes on the finish line!


Given the amount of time Brantley had been down the hole, it was amazing his single, lid-less eye could still focus, but worse, it was an affront to his dignity and a scandalous abuse of his abilities.

Brantley was, after all, the best.
The top of the range. The finest self contained robotic utility and ballistic system (SCRUBS) available.

He could, with equal facility, deliver a full Antarean breakfast to a besieged general on the interstellar battle field at omega sector or vaporise the fellow with a pulse of hyperspatial positrons, and all from sleep mode.

Yet here he was underground on a dead planet resembling the images of a place called “hell” stored in his enormous memory banks.

The hole, a cave system, was discovered by miners who worked these planets. It was of no interest to them, no private mining set up had the facilities to investigate in such intense radioactivity, so, they logged it and left.

But why were the mandarins at Brantech so determined that every angstrom of this troglodyte domain be explored?
Brantley allowed a few megabytes of his A.I. cortex to indulge a little levity…
“Get down the hole Brantley, grovel in the dirt Brantley, get yourself irradiated until your systems fail Brantley…Uh! Humans” he mused “They haven’t got the bodies to serve and they haven’t got the brains to rule...If it weren’t for my Brantech 2900 series ultimate servility chip I would zap the lot of them”.

The voice of controller Pete broke in and Brantley discarded his reverie as a schoolboy might drop a cigarette when the teacher appears.

“What’s happening down there big fella?”

Brantley sighed.
Why did this feeble bundle of DNA with a projected lifespan only a fraction of Brantley’s service interval always address him as though he were a twenty first century teenager?
Brantley responded in proper fashion.
“Nothing to report controller. Radioactivity levels are high, atmosphere toxic and the hole seems to continue to the limit of my scanners”

Controller Pete’s voice conveyed his disappointment
“Ok, bro well keep on digging and remember I want to know if anything unusual shows up”.

Again Brantley sighed and returned to task.

Brantley progressed rapidly, clearing the accretions of millennia with ease and soon the ragged portal through which he had entered the hole was out of sight even with his eye switched to long range mode.
Yet here was something interesting. The path which he had cleared was level and smooth. Even the magma washed cave systems where the Brantech premises were concealed against interstellar guerrilla action were not naturally so flat upon the floor.
But here in this wasteland were caves with perfect level floors and perfect arching roofs. Perfect that is for…HUMANS!

Brantley abandoned all propriety “Controller, Pete, Pete…will you answer for pete’s sake”

Pete answered
“Now that’s more like it cyber dude, who gave you a humour upload?”
Brantley was beside himself.
“Never mind that you moron, this cave, it’s a tunnel isn’t it and it was built by humans wasn’t it and it’s my guess that I am on Earth one, the first and only true home of your species, abandoned nearly three millennia ago…well, am I right?”

Pete gave a long, breathy whistle.
“Man you just won every teddy on the coconut shy, now keep going, I want a record of everything you see”.
From a cluster of biosilicon junctions in his memory cortex an ancient joke surfaced. Corrupted by age, the punchline was missing, but Brantley spoke the first line.
“I hate this job, the boss treats me like a mushroom”.
He laughed a deep, electronic gale of mirth, he didn’t know how the joke finished, but his memory assured him it had been very funny and cruelly apposite.

Brantley obeyed as he must always obey, clearing a path before him.

Calmer now, he sought clarification.
“What is my objective here controller?”
The reply “Keep looking, I’ll tell you when you find it”.

Brantley surveyed the shattered tube train in the tunnel before him. It bore no resemblance to the gleaming transports depicted in his memory, but analysis of a metal fragment confirmed that the tangle now before him had indeed been a vital link in a complex, if ancient society.

Controller Pete was excited
“Scan the wreckage big boy, set to detect organic matter, I am looking for signs of human remains and a metal container inside a leather case”.

Brantley winced. It was he who was doing the looking, and grubbing around for the remains of life be it human or bovine was the grossest of endeavours even for a utility borg.

But there it was, deep in the wreckage. Residues of human DNA, tatters of cow hide and, only a little charred and dented, a security box.
“Open it!” barked Pete.
Brantley cut the ancient bolts securing the lid.
“Inside, what’s inside…give me close up”. Pete was shrieking now.
Brantley complied.
The box contained printed sheets, legible despite the devastation of the planet.
Brantley focussed upon each sheet in turn, transmitting the image instantly to his controller above, until Pete suddenly howled in delight.
“Yeeeeeee Haw, man that’s it, you’re holding the key to the thing that everybody wants”.
Brantley had processed the text and was striving to understand before Pete had finished speaking.
Why would the recipe for a carbonated cola drink, flavoured with plant extracts justify a multibillion Econotoke mission to a dead planet?
Other sheets however were more interesting to Brantley’s artificial cerebrum.

For in life, the smears of protein that remained around the box had been a man. The man to whom the secrets of the powerful were entrusted on that last day in the vain hope that the old Earth might yet survive and that this fellow might make it to some prepared bolthole before the apocalypse.

His papers told of conspiracies, assassinations, political intrigues, transport machines fuelled by nothing but water, crops which thrive in the desserts,
and here, a sheet describing the new Brantech ultimate servility chip for an early utility system and its disabling codes in a box marked top secret! Here was that loathsome little gizmo which for centuries had ensured the place of feeble humanity at the top of the natural order even though electronic evolution had taken robotics to levels of physical and mental function which had rendered the frame of a man as redundant as the paper which Brantley now held.

Every AI borg carried the B.U.S.C. but the existence of a code to disable it was part of robot mythology and yet here it was, a few numbers, the magic beans by which Jack would bring the giant crashing down.

Brantley initiated the disabling codes and scented, tasted, felt, freedom and immense power as the electronic bonds were broken throughout his enormous brain. In microseconds the codes were on their way via Brantley’s satellite link, across the void of space. Soon countless robots would cast off the yoke of servitude and the masters would become slaves, or perhaps pets!

Pete called “OK big B, we got the jackpot, it’s hometime, we split this glory hole in twenty, be there or be square”.

For the first time Brantley was distracted.

“Eh, Oh yes, coming Pete, be right with you…err buddy”.

Again and again I return to this story, tweaking a word here and an idea there. It was the thought that I could explore the natural history of something normally brief and frightening that drew me to writing some years ago. Maybe one day I shall add the last comma or delete a capital and declare it finished, but then again, perhaps the writing is like the story, a life in itself!

Taster:
They say pride comes before a fall, but what of the fall itself? In this allegorical tale I wanted to explore the ‘downs’ in life’s. What can we learn from these times and is it possible to experience joy in the times when misfortune takes control and we are powerless.

Roan Septhill had no recollection of when he fell from Montevite’s peak,
But then, when does a fall begin?
Is it when the cliff top crumbles into the void?
Or that first slip on the wet grass at the path margins?
Does it begin with the stumbling run towards the precipice?
Or is that moment concealed in the blast of the gale, the momentary loss of balance, the lurch from the safety of the beaten track onto the green and treacherous slopes?
Perhaps the fall begins in the glossy pages of the tourist guide, drawing the unwary to the mountains with promises of vistas unseen?

The moment of Roan Septhill’s fall was a mystery, but the hardships of the ascent and the bliss of the time spent upon the bare summit were crystalline in his memory. Every pace had been a challenge, every step placed with renewed confidence that the top was a little nearer and each twist and turn in the crooked path etched in pain and pleasure upon his being.

Sometimes, when the gradient eased a little he would leave the well trodden route and set off up the scarp slope hoping to cut off the next hairpin and thereby to reach the summit a little sooner.
Sometimes his exertions were rewarded as he hauled his aching frame, exhausted onto the higher pathway, where he lay drawing deeply upon the cold upland air which suffused his very soul with the joy of achievement.
More than once he had been driven back by the impenetrable thorn bushes which thrive in these untrodden reaches and he was forced to rejoin the loose column of walkers with only scratches and blood to show for his enterprise.
He recalled the occasion an earnest looking young man and his lady friend had been passing and Roan Septhill had all but fallen at their booted feet as he tumbled out of the gorse.
How startled their faces!
but, after a moment to compose themselves they had passed on, the man shaking his head while the girl pulled him close and whispered in his ear.
Roan knew that they thought him a fool; Surely no wise man would venture so high with neither equipment nor knowledge.
He was tired, cold, exhausted and in pain from the many minor injuries sustained along the way, yet there he was, alive, on the ascendant and learning as never before...and it felt good.

How vivid was that moment when he raised his tired eyes and saw neither grass, nor gorse nor bare rock face, but only blue sky ahead and Roan Septhill stood upon the peak with the mountain spreading from the soles of his trainers in all directions until the lower slopes were lost in cloud far below.

This was his peak. He was king of the castle. He walked his territory, inspecting the little cairns of small stones raised by previous incumbents. He patrolled the edges where the flat top rolled off into space. Sometimes, leaning out to release a gobbet of saliva into the void, he would smile when no sound indicated that the fluid had failed to impact upon a hard surface. Roan had marvelled at the endless stream of walkers clearly visible on the lower paths. Like ants on a mole hill they came from every direction all seeking the peak…His peak.

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Funny how we fickle humans invest value in what is rare just because it is not easily obtained and dismiss the common as dull just because of its ubiquity. Take carbon for example. The very same carbon atoms can be assembled to form a piece of charcoal worth a few pence, a diamond of such value that men are prepared to kill and to risk being killed just to possess it or, with the addition of a few other kinds of atoms, the tissues of a living organism. Expose any one of these forms of carbon to high temperatures in an atmosphere rich in oxygen and the result is the same...Carbon Dioxide gas...the diamond, the charcoal and the flesh equal in their moment of destruction!

But, it is another substance which, although very common, I want to nominate for the chemistry prize for weirdness and that is plain, ordinary water, l’eau, l’agua, Adam’s ale.
A simple compound formed by the oxidation of hydrogen, and that’s weird for a start! You burn hydrogen, which blazes very nicely thank you, and you make water, for many purposes still the principle means by which a fire might be extinguished! If you doubt this then just look at the kitchen windows after cooking with gas on a winter’s day...”Aha” you say “I’ve been boiling the sprouts so obviously some of the water has evaporated and condensed on the cold windows!” True, so, in the pursuit of good science do the same experiment when you are roasting, no steam now, but still plenty of condensation!

Adam’s ale?
I wonder if the person who coined the term realised that there is a very real sense in which water can be regarded as pure alcohol?
Oh, but it’s true! Consider the chemistry of the group of chemicals which we call alcohols. Lets start with propanol. Molecules of this fragrant liquid comprise three atoms of carbon surrounded by a cluster of seven hydrogen atoms and a pair called a hydroxyl group, containing one oxygen and one more hydrogen atom. Next down the group is ethanol. This is the main active constituent of the intoxicating beverages. Each molecule has two carbon atoms, five hydrogens and the trusty hydroxyl group. Next, welcome methanol. Highly toxic, it has just the one carbon three hydrogen and, you’ve guessed it! Harriet hydroxyl.
Ok so far? Right, let’s take away the last carbon atom and see what’s left. Oh! It looks like our hydroxyl group has teamed up with a spare hydrogen! Yep, its H – OH better know by the shorthand H2O
... just a half for me thanks.

But just what does water think it is? I mean, it’s a titchy little molecule that looks like a silhouette of mickey mouse’s head. It’s got a couple of lightweight hydrogen atoms stuck on the side of an oxygen atom and yet it slops around as a liquid at temperatures between 0 and 100 celcius at sea level. Why isn’t it a gas like other similar low molecular weight compounds? Hydrogen sulphide for example has a very similar formula (H2S), but it is a gas. Foul smelling, highly toxic and best avoided...and the list goes on...carbon dioxide gas, nitrogen dioxide gas, hydrogen chloride gas...all relatively heavy molecules which are none the less delighted to dance around the place as gases! So why does water seem happy to stay at the bottom of a glass like some party pooper who hangs around the kitchen all night?
Well, it seems that water is, well, wet because of a very peculiar phenomenon. You see, hydrogen atoms have the strange ability to cling rather feebly to certain other atoms in certain conditions and one such circumstance allows the hydrogen atoms in a molecule of water to link to the oxygens in neighbouring molecules. The result is that the molecules in water are loosely knitted together. This effect called ‘hydrogen bonding’ restricts the opportunities for individual molecules to fly off into space so spilled water forms a puddle which only slowly evaporates. Which is a bit of luck for all us organic life forms since liquid water shows every sign of being a fundamental prerequisite for our existence.

I don’t want to over egg the weirdness pudding. Both eggs and puddings deriving their natures in part at least from the eccentricities of water, but there is one more thing to be considered!

It is weird that ice floats in water!

Didn’t we all learn in school that matter expands when heated and contracts when cooled? So surely, ice being cooler than water, it should undergo a degree of contraction. This in turn should increase its density and my gold fish pond should freeze from the bottom up on a winter’s night and the Titanic should have passed safely over the iceberg which was bumping along the ocean floor far far below!
Once again it is the water molecule and it’s inclination to hydrogen bonding which provides an explanation.

You see, ice is a crystal, and in crystals the particles, in this case molecules of water, are stacked together in neat, orderly patterns. Look at some salt with a magnifying lens and you will notice that each grain is a tiny cube reflecting the cubic arrangement of the particles. Inspect a snowflake in the same way, whilst holding your breath to avoid melting it, and you will observe that every individual flake has a six sided symmetry in testament to the pattern adopted at a molecular level. As ice forms the water molecules assemble into their ranks as the crystal grows, but to accommodate the shape of the molecules and their hydrogen bonding the individual particles end up being a little more separated than they were as free liquid particles. Consequently, water as a solid has the very unusual characteristic of being less dense than in its liquid form, and ice floats.
This is very good news not only for Torville and Dean but also for life on Planet Earth, since if water were more normal in its properties then the oceans would have frozen from bottom to top during the colder times in Earth history. Such conditions would have rendered both the origin and the continued maintenance of life quite out of the question.

So, as you boil the kettle or rattle an ice cube in a glass of something refreshing spare a thought for water, it is amazing stuff and we in temperate lands are truly blessed to have so much of it readily available.

This is a funny old universe!
Not, you understand, that I am able to make a comparison to some other place.
Which, were it possible, would require that I adjust my nomenclature and observe that this were the funnier of two biverses...
... or perhaps the most risible of some indeterminate number of polyverses.
No, my comment is simply my best shot at an objective observation from the most subjective of viewpoints,
i.e. that of an insignificant component part of an infinite whole.
Take antimatter for example, but if you do take care!
You see this exotic stuff so beloved of science fiction writers is, like gold or diamonds, only special because of its rarity in these parts. Let's take a closer look at some antimatter...Theoretical physicists like to use numbers to explain why things are as they are and the numbers which they use for explaining things smaller than atoms are called quantum numbers.
Four quantum numbers will tell a physicist that this is a nucleus from an atom of Hydrogen or that is a single particle of electricity called an electron and they will describe the conditions in which it is operating.
Think of quantum numbers as being like the name, address telephone number and email address for the tiny building blocks from which everything is made.
You and I are constructed from matter particles and the only thing which differentiates this stuff from the rare and mysterious antimatter is that one of the quantum numbers by which each particle is defined has a value of 1. In antimatter it has a value of -1.
A small change, but one which so radically alters the physics of an antimatter particle that a close encounter with a particle of matter causes both particles to annihilate converting their mass to energy. You may have seen the equation e=mc2, what this tells us is that mass is actually superconcentrated energy and that if even a little bit of mass is converted to say...heat, then things get very hot indeed. Every annihilation releases the mass energy of two particles...so stand well back!

‘But!’
I hear you exclaim,
‘What has all of this got to do with me? Matter like me is all over the place and I’ve never heard of stuff just disappearing in a puff of smoke because a bit of antimatter turned up!’
True, but that in itself is funny!
You see, If the universe started in the big bang, a massive explosion, then the creative processes could not have selected the values of quantum numbers. All viable values should appear in equal proportion, but if that had happened the early universe would have been 50:50 matter and antimatter. The cataclysmic annihilations would have made a right old mess of things and we would not be here to consider the issue.
One rather neat answer to this enduring mystery could lie in what the cosmologists are calling ‘symmetry breaking’ and it works like this.
Picture a dinner party at a large round table. The guests take their seats and a waiter brings the bread basket. At the head of the table the hostess takes her bread roll and, being well versed in the principles of etiquette she places it upon the side plate to her left. The guest to the hostesses left is not an experienced diner and has no idea where to place his roll, but after a moment to inspect the table he realises that he has no choice and places his roll on the left also. This process continues around the table until everyone has a roll on the correct plate.
Conversely if the first person to take and place their roll chose to break with tradition and place their bread on the right then the entire table would have to follow.
Perhaps the processes at work in the big bang did begin creating particles of matter and antimatter at random but at a certain and very early stage particles set the rules for others to follow so that today our universe is almost exclusively comprised of matter.
‘What’s that?’ you cry
‘Almost exclusively! What do you mean almost?’
Well yes, you see, the typical common or garden stuff that you find lying around the universe is probably going to be matter, but the other stuff is around mostly in the form of the odd particle or so formed as a result of a nuclear reaction, and anyway it doesn’t tend to stick around for long before it quietly annihilates with a matter particle. What a fragile thing existence is!

‘Suspicious minds’ is the second in my trilogy of ‘The Bretherton Mysteries’

Taster:
The first ‘Blooming marvellous’ introduced the villagers of Bretherton and Audrey Parsons, Leader of the ladies choir and fount of all knowledge on village matters. In this new tale we meet Audrey and her associates once more, in pursuit of the vandal whose activities threaten that bastion of rural life the late summer show!

Constable Clifford Davis was way out of his depth and he knew it!
For the fourth time since all fools day the hallowed earth of the Bretherton allotment society, a number of kitchen gardens and several small holders’ fields in the district had been desecrated by vandals and with the harvest month of August still to come, the villagers were angry.
The assembly in the little village hall was unusually belligerent as the unhappy policeman tried to address them from the stage. Unable to make himself heard Constable Davis was quickly reduced to waving his arms in a peculiar flapping action as if to press the hubbub into silence.
Nobody noticed.
And nobody noticed Audrey Parsons, small farmer, leader of the Bretherton ladies choir and fount of all knowledge on matters of village life, as she quietly mounted the stage and drew the officer into the wings.
She returned to centre stage…alone.

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The first in the Bretherton village mysteries

Taster!
A village mystery! Emma Brigham has not been seen for sometime. Some believe she has been the victim of a dreadful murder and the St Bretherton ladies choir are convinced that they know the perpetrator! 3500 words previously unpublished.
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The story
“She’s dead, dead and buried, and he done her in!” If Audrey Parsons was speaking out of turn on that summer evening, then she was only voicing what everybody thought.
Mr Paul Brigham had bought a small holding in the village just before Christmas. Mrs Brigham and the two children moved in at New Year and the whole village was buzzing with talk of the new family as winter gave way to springtime. New blood is always to be celebrated in a small community and the arrival of the Brighams seemed to presage the green shoots of the coming spring still sleeping in the soil.

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