Happy Christmas!

The adoration of the shepherds, from Luke's gospel, is fitted into a single initial letter in a crowded nativity scene.

Idyllic Squares, by Peter Morford

 In the 1770s when General James Oglethorpe cleared the swamp and laid out the city he set aside 26 blocks which would never be built upon. These squares would become little woods of live oak, festooned with liana; parks and gardens for shade and serenity. Today, Savannah is like many another modern city which, with an eye to tourism, has retained its heritage area.

We three had “done” DisneyWorld and Miami and were heading north when we stopped at Savannah because a friend said we should. Passing quickly through the modern part of the town, we parked in the heritage area and emerged from our cool car into 100degree late afternoon heat. It was as quiet as a Spanish village at siesta time.

Old ginger-bread houses overlooked the square. Country and western music leaking from an open window was almost the only sound until a one-horse buggy with an 18 th century lady and gentleman trotted by. We walked through the square and on to the next, and the next. We all sat on a bench for a rest.

Somebody was saying, “I said, I know a British accent when I hear one.” I looked round and saw an elderly woman, her silver hair pulled into a topknot and dressed for the heat in cotton dress and

sandals. “Yeah,” she went on, “My guess is that you sir - and is it your son?- are British but you, ma’am come from these parts.”

Nell admitted that she was a southerner. “We’re on our way north to my parents but we live in England.”

The woman sat down on the bench facing us. She told us that her late husband had been in the Air Force, stationed in Lakenheath and Mildenhall Air Bases. They had lived in England for ten happy years. Some day she hoped to go back on a visit.

This was just the sort of chat which Nell loved. For half an hour they talked about themselves, their families, friends already. We told each other our names – she was Mrs Hetty Clay, we were Tom, Nell and Jake Robinson. Halfway through her reminiscences about her air force days Mrs Clay leaped to her feet.

“You must forgive me, folks,” she said, “But I’m forgetting my Southern hospitality. I’d bet you could do with something to drink, a little cake perhaps. English tea – I know how to make it the proper

way- or something chilled?”

We hesitated. “It’s no trouble – that’s my house there. We can have a nice little drink on the veranda, relaxing on rockin’ chairs.”

“We’d love that,” Nell said.

“Follow me,” she said, leading the way across the road and up the steps to her porch.

“It’s so peaceful here.” Nell said.

“It wasn’t yesterday. I could’ve been killed. I was reading my paper in this very chair when I heard a car racing down the street. Two men were standing outside my house. I heard two pistol shots. The car rushed off and the men scrambled up and ran the other way. Look –here are the bullet holes in my wall. I’m sorry to tell you that this town as bad as Miami sometimes.” 

Jake looked carefully at the holes, put his finger in them in a Doubting Thomas fashion.

“But I’m supposed to be getting your tea,” she said, leaving us to think sombre thoughts.

“I don’t believe it,” Jake said. “I’d bet she’s just trying to scare us – like they did in New York when we were there.” 

Nell said we would take her warning seriously, even politely. Jake was looking for Savannah crime figures on his smart-phone.

As Mrs Clay put a tray of drinks and cakes on the table a police car made a squealing stop. Two officers jumped out.

“We’ve got a few other things to ask you about yesterday’s shootings, Mrs Clay. There’s been a development.”

He seemed to notice us for the first time. “Perhaps you can help us. Your names please,” he said to me.

Knowing from experience it is not a good idea to be truculent to officers, I introduced us.”

“British eh. What is your reason to be in the USA at this time?”

“Holiday.”

“Are you driving?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your car?” I told him.

“Plate number?”

“I don’t know, It’s a Toyota rental.”

The cops looked at each other. “How will you recognise it?

“I tied a flag to the aerial.”

He made a note and his partner raised his phone to take pictures.

“Why are you photographing us?”

“Just routine, Sir.”

Mrs Clay offered them a drink. He shook his head. “You had a lucky escape ma’am. There’ve been a lot of drive- by-killings this year. You’re free to go, Mr Robinson.”

We finished Mrs Clay’s dainty cakes and English tea and thanked her.

On the way back to the car I told Jake that he should believe what elderly black ladies told him about crime in Savannah. He laughed. “I thought the cop was going to arrest us on suspicion.”

A very short myth, by Peter Shilston

 Theseus made his way through the labyrinth to fight the Minotaur, holding in his hand the thread given him by Ariadne, to enable him to find his way back. It is believed that he did kill the monster, but perhaps in the struggle he let go of the thread, because he hasn't been seen since. Maybe he's still down there?

More, by Georgia Kelly

 The clamoring cries cannot be heard

through the iron-clad gates

where brazen brass bottles

are pushed into the gaping holes

of biscuit-crumbed beards.

Among the silver spoonfuls

they tell tales in libraries

laden with the likes of Dickens:

Please sir, can I have some more?

met only with tremors

of froth-filled melodic laughter.

Beyond the metal mansions

appointed cellulite speakers

snivel black vapur of bile

fogging up mosaic screens

feeding empty words

to small salivating mouths.

The lack of this 

the lack of that.

Pudding served with  an apology.

Their silver spoons turn to lead

in impoversished hands.

Please Mum, can I have some more?

met only with the trembles

of barren bellies and

mother's quivering lip.

There's no more.

and Big ben's chime is eerily silent when it's time for supper.

Resurrection, by Peter Morford

I was feeling rather pleased with myself. Work had gone well that morning; the sun was shining and tomorrow was Saturday. I was sitting in my favourite cafe enjoying my Spanish omelette. Joan, the waitress knew me well enough to ensure that mature cheese would be melted on top, that the salad would be copious and crisp, the tea strong enough for three cups and that my Neapolitan ice cream would be garnished with golden syrup.In an otherwise crowded restaurant I had a table to myself, room to open up The Times and struggle with the crossword.

I was halfway through both puzzle and omelette when I realised Joan was standing at my shoulder, saying, “Sir, would you mind it this lady joined you. We’re rather full you see".      I looked up. A woman, middle-aged in a dark suit and black hat waited for my decision.

 I could have said – “I’d rather not be disturbed,” but of course I smiled a little grimly and said she’d be welcome. Both women thanked me for my kindness and sacrifice and I went back to tackle 17 across.

“You must be one of the regulars here,” the woman suddenly said. I admitted that I was usually here on Fridays.

“That’s why I haven’t seen you before,” she said. “I come earlier than this usually, and it’s on Mondays.”

I said something or other and rejoiced in the silence until: “I came here to cheer myself up. It’s been a trying morning I’m afraid,” she said as I tidied up my plate and pouredout some tea.

The waitress was back to take the lady’s order for a ploughman’s lunch and coffee. I ordered ice cream with golden syrup, because it was Friday.

I realised that lady was speaking again. I looked at her directly for the first time. She was dressed like a woman of business, black trouser suit, dark blouse, no jewellery. Her lipstick was generously but unevenly applied and her mascara had smeared. A spray of reddish hair had escaped from her hat.

“Yes, I’ve come to cheer myself up,” she said again. “I had a funeral this morning. It was not a big affair on account of the lockdown.”

She must have drawn comfort from whatever trite reply I made. She caught me glancing at her wedding ring.

“Not my husband. He died ten years ago. It was the real love of my life this time. The most fulfilled relationship I have ever had. He was wonderful.”

She dabbed her eyes with a napkin. Joan delivered the lady’s lunch, hoped she’d enjoy, scampered off.

“My name’s Mary – Mary Mackay. But I’m not Scottish. And you?"

“Jack Smith” I lied. She offered me her damp hand. She squirted mayonnaise on her meal and herself, sipped her coffee and was ready to talk again.

“My great satisfaction is that I was with him at the end. I know he appreciated it. After 10 years where else would I be but with him, holding him right up to the last breath?”

She took a mouthful, chewed fast and resumed. “Yes, Gilbert died peacefully in my arms.”

“That must have been comforting for you both,” I suggested.

“We always communicated so well. We never had an argument. He was a loving and true friend.”

“I’m glad,”

“I sometimes thought he was communicating between me and my husband. I even realised after a while that he somehow had my husband’s personality, was even my husband reborn.”

What could I say to that? I wisely grunted. Joan was back with my ice cream. “Was your ploughman’s OK?” she asked. Mrs Mackay said it was just right.

“And where’s Gilbert this morning, Mrs MacKay?”

“In the cemetery.”

“He was such a wonderful dog,” said Joan as she gave me the bill.

I thanked Mrs MacKay for her company; and Joan for her attention, and hurried back to my office for an afternoon’s work.

A Legend Retold, by Peter Shilston

When Robin Hood met King Richard the Lionheart he failed to recognise him. This wasn't surprising, since Richard had only stayed in England a few weeks before setting off on the crusade. To complicate matters further, Richard didn't speak a word of English, and of course the Merrie Men didn't know any French. The upshot was that they thought the King was just some stray renegade knight, probably up to no good, and ordered him to hand over his arms and equipment. Things got even worse after that .....

Boy on a horse by council flats, by K. S.

Diet, by Peter Morford

When Dr Bell retired he realised he would have to keep out of his wife’s way during the day. After all, she was used to having the house to herself – alone that is, except for the constant flow of WI members for coffee, Ladies’ groups for lunch and sewing groups for conversation.
  At first, the retired doctor bought himself a glorified garden shed, 12 x 12, insulated, heated, coffee maker in obedient reach. This didn’t work too well because when the female hordes descended, he would all too often be called on to collect stragglers, meet Mrs so and so who urgently but unreasonably wanted to meet him, or use his male muscle to unscrew lids. His answer was to go out.
Walk a mile to the town and enjoy coffee in the Hospice Coffee and Bookshop. Old friends, patients and colleagues would be there. Soon, refreshed, he could set off for a longer walk, lunch in The Swan and head for home when the coast was clear. Like many a comfortably-off retiree, he was mean about his spending. Waterstones were there to tempt him, but he told himself that he had much more choice in a second-hand bookshop, especially if it were a charity. Happily admitting to being a parasite, he collected on the cheap.
  One day, in the Hospice Shop, the manager joined him at his table where he was reading a book he intended to buy.
“You spend a lot of time in here, Dr Bell. How would you like to volunteer an hour or two per week. The books are not in perfect order, but you’d soon fix that.”
Bell stirred his coffee and pretended to think for a moment.
“OK. Monday and Wednesday mornings any help?”
“I’m grateful.” Dr Bell was now a Friend of the Hospice.
Very soon his hour or two became almost a daily duty. Then it became four days a week. His wife barely noticed because the summer tournaments had started.

He only read novels these days. When he took over, they were arranged in rough alphabetical order. Sometimes, to his annoyance, Frank Herbert would be standing next to Frayn; Hardy among the Ts. He set about curing this untidiness. Very soon customers remarked on how nice everything was – except the bottom shelf. He was upset by that area of disorder. He knew that every charity shop had no idea how to handle what he called non-books. Who brought them in the first place? Those gardening books were Dad’s Christmas presents, a few years ago. Since then his back has collapsed and he had to smuggle the books to charity. The aged road atlases; expensively self-published memoirs and generously-advanced politicians’ autobiographies had very limited shelf life. Worse still, were the ghosted footballers’ and actors’ stories; business and Self-improvement books, written by people who feel they have the divine right to tell us how to run our lives. The worst clutter, according to Dr Bell, was the gluttony of the cookery books. Most of us are too fat already. Then there are the diet gurus. Go Vegan; starve two days a week, live on seaweed and carrots; drink white wine. Diet or you die. The unwanted books collected dust and took up valuable selling space. The people who support the hospice wanted to read stories. For them the whole bottom shelf could be pulped.
   Dr Bell agreed. With no qualms, he removed a few, then a lot, day by day. Kind supporters brought more in. He suspected Oxfam when he saw an old National Trust publication which he had kindly slipped onto their shelf a week before.

Prometheus on his rock, by Martin White

Come in. come in. Welcome. I don’t see many people this days. Here let me give you some water. You must be thirsty after that long climb up the mountain. Beautiful Isn’t it ?

Sweet smelling herbs at this time of the year. And those magnificent eagles flying above. Did you see any vultures. No? That’s a mercy. We can do without vultures, I can tell you. So want do you want with me? I am very old now.. I live very simply as you can see. I keep myself in isolation now . I don’t think I would be welcome in the world of men in these tattered clothes .I forage away on the mountain and that gives me enough to eat. And of course I still have this, This little fire in this pit. I have to be very careful to keep it alight.

That flame has caused me a lot of trouble I can tell you. I spend a lot of time watching it pondering on those happenings all that time ago .But perhaps that is why you are here? To hear my story. I expect you know about my fifteen minutes of fame. Well it was more than fifteen minutes I can tell you. Thirty years on this rock. chained with heavy metal shackles. Look you can still see the scars on my wrists and ankles. And when the sun rose , that great vulture came with a terrible flapping of wings, and a cry that sounded as if it came from the depths of hell. That sharp beak pecked at my innards every day, every day for thirty years. I was in agony I can tell you. And every night I lay there waiting for the pain to subside  as my organs healed and I was able to have an hour or so of some respite. But when the sun rose the it all started again.  Back came that monstrous bird, pecking and gouging. I thought it would never end.

All this came about because of a disagreement the Great One, Zeus, He Who Had To Be Obeyed. When my brothers and I were giving gifts to men, he told us not to give them fire. I could see that men would never thrive denied this power. If it were up to Zeus he would have left them as clay. I suppose he was frightened that one day men would forget him and all the other gods. Talk about ego! But I knew I had to do something. And so one night when all the gods were asleep I stole into the temple where the divine flame burned, lit a taper  and smuggled it out past the keepers of the flame. They were all asleep they never saw me. As the sun rose the next day I gave the taper to the race  of men, and they had fire! 

Well, when Mr High and Mighty  saw what I had done he went into one of his rages. 

“Prometheus” he roared,”You‘ve gone too far this time, with all your tricks and subterfuges.“ And the next thing I knew here I was chained to this rock. And all my troubles and torments began.

When I thought about it, and I had a long time to think about it, I came to see the Great One had a point. Yes, men made iron with fire, which they could use for making ploughshares. But they also used the iron to make weapons to kill each other. That I did not foresee. But even that was Zeus’ doing. In his rage he had Pandora fashioned and the silly girl let all the evils of the world out of that jewelled box she was supposed to take care of. Men certainly got their fill of jealousy and greed. She a whole lot of disease was released as well and that’s causing a lot of trouble. But men also used to sit around their fires at night. And that’s when a lot of knowledge got shared I am sure.They learned to communicate with each other, and tell stories and have dreams.That’s how they started to build great civilisations. Perhaps Clever Clogs one was right, perhaps men were not ready for such a powerful tool, perhaps they lacked wisdom, and things would get out of hand. 

But I could not see why I had to suffer so. But once he gets into one of his rages anything can happen, and usually does. Well at long last the Great One must have relented. One beautiful morning I slept late, that was unusual. When I woke the sun had risen quite high in the sky and all was quiet, except for the rustling of the trees, water bubbling out of that spring there and lovely birdsong all around. My chains lay broken on the ground. In front of me was a man sitting there, holding a massive sword. He was not exactly old, but not young either. Well built. He said something about looking for the golden apples. Could I help? Some task he had to complete. I think he was an apprentice god, or some such thing. Hercules he said his name was. Anyway he had shot the vulture and freed me from my chains. I thanked him and told him I couldn’t help him find his apples. He looked a bit disappointed and went on his way. But best of all I was free of all that torment and I never saw a vulture again. I often wonder if he found those apples.

I have had a long time to reflect on what what Mister Know it All was trying to teach me. I think it was humility. Not that he does very well in that department either. So I live quietly here. I am able to see what men are doing in that world of theirs and it doesn’t seem to be going very well, does it? Sometimes people said I had the gift of forethought. Well that’s as may be. The way I look at it that in the world of men pride has taken hold, arrogance even, and a bit of humility would not go amiss. But I don’t know how to tell them this. I think they should sit down for a while and work it out for themselves. Perhaps you can suggest it to them when you go back down?

May, by Adrian Perks

Come now May, you stupid month, slipped away
into the lost dreams of consciousness.
I'm aware of the days but not the date.
I'm aware mostly of the hours. Love in quarantine.
A lonely boy sits in the field, waiting for his girl,
the few moments that they have got.
He picks flowers for her, but they cannot touch.
It's lots like this that pull at the heart
of the lonely poet who cannot write
words to sum up the boredom of this,
the frustration, the comfortableness that he has got.
the walks in the park that he enjoys
the trees that overgrow the path,
full of blossom, and flowers,and the lost teddy bears staring out of windows..

First Impressions, by Anthony Bloor

Doncaster and Darlington were lovers. Or so he thought. But he wasn’t even 10 yet, and what did he know about love? Mysterious bonds with parents and siblings, a mix of emotions too deep to explore, and a passion for football, his local team. And a passion for collecting things – lollipop wrappers and bubblegum cards. And football programmes, chosen for him by a mail order firm. A lucky dip, and in the beginning there they were – Doncaster and Darlington, always together in the pile, always in the same division, so close they seemed to be chasing each other – and they always seemed to be playing each other. They weren’t married, obviously, because they were football teams and also places, up north somewhere. But they were always paired in the tables, hand in hand, promoted together and relegated together – and with a name like darling, they must be lovers, he thought.

Occasionally there was Derby, popping up in the pile to disrupt the sequence. But Derby was familiar – a bus-ride away – and Derby was bad news. A friend had told him that Derby fans had head-butted him just because he was wearing the wrong-coloured scarf. That’s why they’re called the Rams, he said. Didn’t you know? No, he said, he didn’t know, but the programme had a ram’s head on the cover, butting in between Doncaster and Darlington, like a spoiler at the wedding who objects to the couple's joining. But the joining continued regardless.

Years later, what had changed? He knew now that Doncaster was near Sheffield and Darlington near Newcastle. Miles apart, and a slim chance of playing each other because Doncaster was still bouncing up and down the divisions, while Darlington had drifted into non-league obscurity, and they'd only be playing each other in the beginning in the programmes that had been chosen for him, supposedly at random. But he'd grown up with a mental picture of the UK, moulded by those kick-off snapshots of 92 teams which were also places.

And somewhere in the picture, there was Doncaster and Darlington, still paired, and joined at the hip like Siamese twins. Or rather, like a loving couple, the Don and his Darling; the man of steel with his consort, who wears a Quaker’s hat. Those mysterious bonds, that mix of emotions too deep to explore – had anything changed? Decades had passed; yet Doncaster and Darlington were still coupled. So perhaps it was a marriage after all, even though they were football teams and also places. It was a marriage because certain beginnings are creative times, times spanning who knows how long when anything is possible, and chance comes along to tie things together – tied with a knot that’s impossible to unravel, and stored in a mental cupboard for evermore. Doncaster and Darlington were lovers, and that was a fact.

A Letter from Boris, by Georgia Kelly

(This poem is called "A National Home", by Boris Johnson and me.  I tried to use blackout-style poetry for this in order to spread a more positive message than the one Boris Johnson sent out to 30 million homes. I also wanted to try and recreate the way in which the government used to censor soldiers' letters in other national crises , such as the First World War. Now we can all censor a letter from the government.
  The asterisks represent words blacked out.)


                                10 DOWNING STREET
                           LONDON SW1A 2AA

THE PRIME MINISTER


I am **************************************** taking *******
in *************** life ************************** dramatically.
We *** feel the profound impact of ****************************
love ***** and ******

******************************************* to **** live ***
*************************************************** for one
very simple reason.

********* people *******************************************
**********************************************************
**************** need *************************************
*********

*************************************************** a home
********** not ********************************************
****************************************************
********************** seeking ****** attention ***************
**********************************

**********************************************************
********************* from anyone. *************************
************************* people break **********************
********************

*********************************************** you ********
******************* will do whatever it takes *******************
*********

***********************************************************
****** to *************** find********************************

******************************* the right *********************

********************************************** advice********

*** we must do.

**** important ********************** things ********************
*************************************************************
************************************* so *** life can ***********
*******

********************************** be ************************
************ fantastic *****************************************
and *********************************************************
*************magnificent ***************

*************************************************** hundreds
of thousands ********* volunteer ** to help the most vulnerable ** with
that great **** spirit ********************** we will be *** together

************* a *********************national ******************
home ************************************


       Boris Johnson and Georgia Kelly

A Letter, by Peter Shilston

The envelope had fallen face downwards on the mat. Nigel ripped it open without bothering to turn it over. Inside was a single sheet of paper. There was no sender's address at the top, and the writing was in careful block capitals.
   "Mister Williams", he read. But that wasn't him: Mr Williams had been the previous occupant of the house. Really, the man should have informed the Post Office he was moving, not to mention telling his correspondents!
   "Mister Williams, you still haven't paid us the ten thousand. We will be sending someone round to collect it".
   He read the message three times, after which he was shaking with fear. What had this man Williams been up to? He knew nothing about him at all; had never even met him. The property was vacant when he moved in; the letting agent had shown him round an empty house. Now Williams's misdeeds, whatever they might have been, were catching up with him. That must have been why he'd left without a forwarding address. And here HE, Nigel, was; trapped and helpless, having to answer for someone else's crimes!      A chill crawled up his spine as he imagined what would happen: a couple of thugs would come to the door and he'd try to explain that he wasn't Williams but they wouldn't believe him and ......... No, he couldn't bear even to think about it! They were probably watching the house even now! He must escape! There wasn't a moment to lose!
   Without even bothering to pick up his coat, he ran to the kitchen door and outside to the rear garden, with some thought of getting away through the back hedge. But he was too late! There was a man, dark under the shadow of the trees, coming round the corner of the house and advancing towards him! Nigel stood there, tembling and quite incapable of movement, as time froze, and then the figure spoke.
"Morning, Nigel! How are you?"
"Michael! Oh thank goodness! You can't imagine how relieved I am it's you! But it was a rotten trick to play with that letter. You know what my nerves are like!"
"What trick? What letter?"
The cold panicky feeling started again, but at least he wasn't isolated and on his own any more.
"I got a letter just now, threatening me. Or not me exactly, but ......... Wait; I'll get it and show you".
But the letter wasn't there. He scrabbled around ineffectually for a while, and finally said, lamely, "I don't seem to be able to find it. But it was here!"
"That's all right, Nigel", said Michael. "I am your doctor, and I quite understand". Yes indeed: it was becoming more complex and fascinating by the day, the case of Nigel Williams.

Whitewash, by Peter Morford

When they found the first cave paintings, the experts thought they were about 20,000 years old. They praised the draughtsmanship and realism, and if one buffalo in Lascaux appears to have two rear and three front, legs, nobody worried.
As time went by they found ancient art in every continent. In Australia the dating was 28,000 years: Borneo 40-52,000, Iberia 64,000 years. Three thousand generations. In Borneo they were still painting in the last 100 years and palaeontologists are running classes on tv.
Silly question: Why did the cavemen paint their walls?
Answer – because canvas was too expensive.
Alternatively: Our ancestors had the same instincts as we do. They had imagination. They could see the galloping animal and carry the mental image back to the safety of their cave and draw it.
Well-decorated walls have always been a sign of cultural or economic power. I imagine a Neanderthal man, with a much bigger brain than mine, had the same instincts to outdo the Joneses. Later, the builders of cathedrals and pyramid had the same idea of aggrandizement.
Today, it’s expensive girlfriends, the fleets of expensive cars, the Old Masters, the ownership of Championship League football teams, the superyachts, Lear Jets and the £100m. houses in Belgravia which, declare the owner to be the big winner. Nothing changes.
Some time, perhaps during the Industrial Revolution, people living in mean houses in befouled industrial cities tried to improve their hovels by painting the walls with whitewash. It was cheap, easy to make and, when the smoke spoilt it; easy to repaint. The front step had to be scrubbed daily and repainted frequently if the lady of the house, mothering the survivors of her fertility, could earn respect in her neighbourhood.
Sunny Mediterranean houses are painted to reflect the heat. It isn’t art but it’s practical and, anyway, there were plenty of pictures in the museums.
Nowadays, whitewash doesn’t mean cleanliness but covering up the dirt. We’re all good at it, especially if we’re in public life. Persons of power or influence use it to the maximum. Governments and Ministries are especially liberal with the wide brush. When some blunder leads to loss of life or enormous expense to the taxpayer, there’s always someone demanding an Enquiry or Royal Commission. A big name is made chairman. Over well-paid months or years he digs enough dirt to justify further budget and time. Two or several million pounds later, he promises to publish his report- but not just yet. There’s the hope that the Public will have lost interest after all this time but there’s sometimes a pesky protester. In haste a bland and diluted report squirts forth and the Pesky Protester demands more.
Time for another barrel of whitewash. This type of whitewash is art. It’s the genius of cover-up and the freedom of the perpetrators to enjoy their pensions. It’s enough to make you proud if you’re a politician or a lawyer.

Night, by Catherine Redfern

I fear the dark of the night
not as in my childhood -
then the forces were external,
witches, ghosts, for a long time
the Speckled Band - there was a high vent 
above my bed.

No: today, tonight,
it is my thoughts I fear.
As the moon rises
they multiply with the stars
they merge into a Milky Way
of echoing reproach:
you've failed, you've failed.

And can I at this late hour 
wake to a calm dawn
of quiet resolution?
Is there a healing path
leading to the sunlit uplands,
and I, inept, irresolute, rudderless,
can I find and follow it?

Notes on a Funeral, by Anthony Bloor

The journey the station the streets the accents the bus station the driver the accents the stop the walk the church the service the car park the drive the roads the roundabouts the creme the service the curtains the wait the car park the drive the roads the lodge the cousins the voices the memories the car park the drive the traffic the lights the queues the detour the station the rain the train the rain the rain the rain…

A cynic would say that funerals are civilisation’s way of dealing with what is essentially a waste disposal problem, best solved by cremation. One in, one out – a conveyor belt for the dead, exploited by those in the business for a tidy sum that continues to rise. Leaving the house that morning, I was more concerned about the weather. And the trains. It was just about feasible. It meant catching the first train from Church Stretton and leaving Durham fairly early to catch the last train from Manchester. The trains were on time. Then a bus ride to the rendezvous, a church in the middle of a housing estate. Leaving the church, the guests exchanged nods and smiles and words of satisfaction that the resume of Sheila’s life had been a fitting tribute. But falling asleep that night, the eulogy was lost, the details dissolved in the day’s events which were strung together like scenes from a movie.

And the movie was rewound, replayed, rewound and replayed, over and over – the journey the station the streets the accents the bus station the driver the accents the stop the walk the church the service the car park the drive the roads the roundabouts the creme the service the curtains the wait the car park the drive the roads the lodge the cousins the voices the memories the car park the drive the traffic the lights the queues the detour the station the rain the train the rain the rain the rain....

The Office Cleaner, by Peter Morford

About out a year ago I told Betty, the House Manager, that my office was not being cleaned properly.
“I’m sorry Mr Perkins, we’ve had a number of complaints lately. We’re going to change the cleaning contractors – they start next week. I’m sure you’ll see a difference.”
“I’m on holiday for a fortnight.”
“You’ll see an improvement then. Have a good time.”
Two weeks later I checked the bookshelves and the top of my filing cabinet. They were clinically clean. The phone smelled medicinal. The air was fresh and wholesome even though I had yet to open a window. I said as much to Betty.
“I’m glad you’re happy. We bend over backwards to serve our clients,”
“Really?”
“Of course.” She winked and rolled her eyes.
As I said, I try to work regular hours. On this occasion I was having deadline trouble.
The Telegraph had commissioned an article about a company in Glasgow and I had spent a few days researching and interviewing. It was going to be a late session. It must have been about 7 o’clock when my door burst open.
“I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t think you’d be in. Shall I come back later?”
She was about thirty, dressed in the smart uniform of our new cleaning contractors, with her vacuum cleaner, basket of dusters and polish. Her ID tag told me she was Mary Patel.
“No. Come on in. I’m almost finished.”
She started in my spare office while I rechecked my article and emailed it to the paper. As I was locking my desk and filing cabinet she came back. I said, “My office is much better since you took over.” She smiled.
“Goodnight Mrs Patel.”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”
For the next week or two I kept to my usual times and was away before the cleaner came. And then I had another tight deadline. I had been down to the café for a sandwich and returned to finish my article. There she was, sterilising the phone.
“I’m nearly finished,” she said.
I decided then that she was not quite the sort of person one associated with the term ‘cleaning lady.’ I may sound old fashioned, but I usually expected cleaners to be, well, more working class. She spoke properly, for a start and there was the lilt in the voice, as you would expect from a Patel. I decided that she was too old to be a student. Perhaps she worked three hours a night because she needed the money, while her partner (she wore no wedding ring) looked after the children.
“How long have you been working for OffKlene?” I asked.
“Two years.”
“Do you like the work?”
“It’s fine. It doesn’t stretch the mind. I’ve just read that,” she added, pointing at a new-published novel on my desk.
“Did you enjoy it?”
Within three minutes she had analysed the style, psycho- analysed the author, found an inconsistency in the plot and anticipated the sequel. Here, I thought, was a cultured, educated and beautiful woman.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”