Two coffees, by Sandie Zand

 Way back, when it mattered, I'd said: "There's only one rule and that is there are no rules."

You laughed. “You can’t do that,” you said. “Can’t say there aren’t rules and make that a rule – it’s a contradiction.”

“Okay,” I said. “Call it a guideline then. No rules, that’s the guideline. Agreed?”

“Yeah, cool,” you said. You laughed again, you sounded full, and I knew I had you.

You were making coffee. Instant. You didn’t drink the proper stuff back then. Even with coffee, you wouldn’t follow the rules; you’d pour hot water into the cups then sprinkle granules on the surface where they’d float in belligerent denial of purpose. You had to stir it for ages before they dissolved.

Now you’re making coffee again, in the espresso maker we bought last June, and you hand me mine – black, just as it comes. Into yours, you shake sugar from the bag, not caring whether you get one measure or five, and you stir the sticky brew with an egg spoon for ages.

“I was wondering,” you say, “what the guideline would be for seeing other people.”

The coffee burns my top lip, hits the roof of my mouth and burns that too. I swear, jerk the cup away, hot liquid curls over the edge and spills onto my shirt.

“I mean theoretically,” you say, “you know.”

“Why ask me?” I dab at the spill with a tea-towel, but it’s seeped right through and is clinging fast. I go to the sink, dampen a cloth and press the stain gently, glad to have my back to you. I wait for you to speak.

“Well, as guardian of guidelines,” you say. “I mean they are always yours, right? So I thought, well, you might have... you know... one in reserve…”

You move forward and peer over my shoulder.

“Rub soap on it,” you suggest.

“It’s silk,” I say, “dry-clean only.”

“They always put that, just covering their backs, it needs soap.”

You do the laundry with the same reckless will with which you sweeten your coffee. I had to make it a guideline in the end – after the first couple of months of sludge-grey whites – that we each take care of our own clothes.

“So…” You drain your cup in one mouthful, swallow it down on the pause. “What say you?”

“I suppose it’s a case of to thine own self be true,” I say.

“That’s the guideline?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Okay,” you say. “Cool. It was just theoretical, just curiosity, you know.”

You put down your empty cup.

I stand by the sink, a circle of damp encroaching on my chest.

And I wait for you to leave.

Boris prepares to invade Russia, by Mark Lovett

             The Charge of the Blond Brigade 

“Carrie my love", said Boris, "Now that the COVID scare is starting to fade, how are we going to divert the electorate’s attention away from this scandal-ridden Government of ours? It is a bit too early to play the UFO card and climate change will have to wait until COP26, so howabout a foreign war? Plucky Britain faces the might of - oh, who shall it be? - I know: Russia!"

“Go ahead, mighty Caesar” cried Carrie “just as long as one of my close friends is given a contract for any ammunition you might need.”

  And so it came to pass that HMS Defender, en route to Georgia, came, in the eyes of the Russians, a tad too close to the Crimea. How fortunate it was that the BBC just happened to have a correspondent on board to report on the incident. It brought back memories of another Johnson who, in August 1964 was the beneficiary of an alleged incident in the Gulf of Tonkin. It occurred just after the Republicans had nominated a Super Hawk candidate (Barry Goldwater) for the forthcoming Presidential elections and just before the Democratic Convention when LBJ sought to legitimise his Presidency. How kind of the North Vietnamese to help in that regard.

Back to the Levant. Although much has been made of HMS Defender, little has been made of the Aircraft Carrier, HMS Queen Elizabeth in the eastern Mediterranean launching its F 35-Bs in support of US actions against “Islamic State”. That carrier group is remarkably close to the Russian base at Tartus on the Syrian coast. Boris peered at an old Atlas. He remembered a cynical Eton Beak telling him that Britain had not had a good track record in the Crimea and that Arabia had always been a source of conflict, even though Foreign Office panjandrums had always dreamt of desert postings. Also, those Naval Johnnies had pointed out that to sail from one Sea to the other meant transiting the Dardanelles.

 “Good Grief” cried Boris, “my hero, Winston, had a tough call at Gallipoli; I had better not make the same mistake!”

Carrie was aghast at her husband’s reticence. “Remember that Russia was our ally in 1915 and you are part Russian yourself.”

 “Yes, yes”, sputtered Boris, “but you forget that I am part Turkish as well”. He decided to break the habit of a lifetime and embark on some detailed research before he made a decision. He found out that The Ukraine, so long regarded as the heart of Russia had, very briefly, been an independent State after the Russian Revolution. Also, that Stalin had nearly destroyed The Ukraine in the Holodomor famine of the early 1930’s; no wonder the German army were greeted as liberating heroes when they invaded in June 1941.Thus there was no love lost between the two conflicting nationalities. Furthermore, the lack of natural borders made the whole area an irridentist’s dream.

In a rare moment of self-reflection, Boris mused that if he were to make History then knowledge of the great leaders of the past would be a handy aide memoir. Peter the Great saw the importance of the Sea of Azov and the Straights of Kerch, but failed to hang onto them, whilst Catherine the Great did. Thus Putin, in asserting his authority over The Crimea, and the aforementioned Straits, is emulating his forbears.

“Don’t forget Victoria Nuland” whispered Carrie. “She allegedly organised the 2014 coup in Kiev which put a pro-western Government in power; well, she is back in the State Department”. 

“I remember her” cried Boris, “didn’t she teach me IT?”

 “No, that was Jennifer Arcuri” an angry Carrie replied. “Victoria Nuland is a career diplomat, who also just happens to be Ukrainian: (paternal grandfather)”.

“Well, whether it is Victoria or Jennifer I should get on with them as, after all, I am American myself. “Now if there is to be a conflict, I had better read War with Russia by Richard Shirreff. I know the General’s book is meant to be fiction, but whenever has fiction stopped me from making a decision”?

“Come off it, you are a Classicist - Thucydides on the Peloponnesian War would be far more apt” cried Carrie, projecting her inner Amazon.

“True,” replied Boris, “Something about a trap?”

Precept, by Annabelle Jane Palling

 

You do not wait.

You do not want or wonder, or

Conjure the unreal so that it

Blinds and flares and burns what’s here, or

Dwell on dreams too saccharine.

You do not travel back to nestle

In absent hugs you missed at seven, or

Set to rights unsettled scripts, or

Apologise for knives you threw.

You move, because

They say life is short and

You are better than that, and mostly

Because you are afraid

Dream Converstion, by C.Z.F.

 George and I shared a supervisor in the person of the superintelligent and rather alarming Dr. Helen Brayford: she of the short tweed skirt, black tights and piercing gaze. Her husband, an accountant, was self-effacing to the point of complete insignificance.

   "Tell me", I once asked George, "Do you ever feel any sexual desire towards her?"

   He considered, and then replied, "Only to the extent that when she ridicules my work I have a strong desire to spank her!"

   "I wonder if her husband ever does that?" I said.

  "He certainly ought to!" George replied. 

  

Two Men and a Woman in aTraffic Jam; by Peter Morford

The woman in the Mini thumps the steering wheel in frustration. She has to collect the children from the child-minder, fix their tea and, an hour later, Paul would join her for dinner. She’s already late when her phone buzzes. Feeling guilty, she answers it while waiting in the jammed traffic.

“This is St Judes Hospital. I’m sorry to tell you that your husband collapsed in his office and is in the Covid19 Ward. You cannot visit him. You and your family should isolate yourselves and get tested.”

There was nothing for her to say except – thank you Doctor. The traffic moves twenty feet and stops. She can see the lights 100 yards ahead. There’s a lot to be said for working at home, she thinks; only I can’t. I’m a Tesco cashier.

When will this pandemic be over?

Behind her the man in the new Jaguar is also worried. Only last month life had seemed so good. On January 10 th he had sold his late father’s house, cleared his mortgage, bought this car and invested the rest in carefully-selected shares. The market was at a peak but the omens were good. A three percent yield on his portfolio would more than double his income and there was the prospect of growth. Good indeed.

Only days later the Market plunged by a third. His stomach hurts at the thought of what he has lost. And now three months later he’s still 20% down and feeling foolish for his hasty purchase. Worse, he thinks that dividends will be cut and he has no spare cash to invest at what must surely be a buyer’s position.

“Damn this virus, JJ Baring shouts. We’ll all be bankrupt at this rate.”

A cyclist squeezes through the traffic all the way to pole position at the lights. His visi- jacket bears the words Save our Planet. Stashed in a pannier are the leaflets he will be issuing at the illicit demonstration in Town Park. Sitting there, waiting for the lights to change, he mutters. “Cut down on travel; save the

oceans, ban plastics, stop using fossil fuels and pesticides. You’ve seen the storms, the fires , floods and pestilence. We caused it, only we can stop the abuse of our planet Earth. If we don’t change our ways, we’re doomed. If we carry on the way we are, there will be no recovery because it’s later than you

think.”

The lights change. The bike and a few cars get through. The woman phones her child-minder to say that she’ll be late. She keeps her engine running because she was worried about her battery.

On this warm summer evening, the drivers shut their windows and turn the air-conditioners on full. They listen to the traffic report. A flashing, wailing ambulance nudges its way on the wrong side of the road.

Baring, in his Jaguar, coughs again and worries because his can’t taste his throat pastille.

On the radio the Prime Minister says, “We’re all in this together.”

Tennis on Purple Grass, by H.T.

 The world of tennis has been shaken to its foundations by the rumour that the grass at Wimbledon Centre Court is about to be replaced by a genetically modified form of grass that which is not green but purple. This is said to be as a result of a sponsorship agreement with the tennis enthusiast Sheik Othman abu Din; purple being the national colour of his oil-rich state. 

   The Sheik first played tennis during his years at Eton, following which he was national champion of his state every year for the next fifteen years, though he was somewhat less successful when competing abroad. He was excluded from the Australian Open following allegations that he had attempted to bribe an umpire, though nothing was ever proved; and following this he contented himself with being a lavish sponsor of the sport.

   A spokesman for the Lawn Tennis Federation, when asked to clarift the position, would not either confirm or deny the rumours concerning the purple grass, but praised the great generosity of the Sheik.

   The public is eagerly awaiting future developments.

                                 (Dateline: Wimbledon: 1/4/2021)

.

Persuasion, by Annabelle Jane Palling

 I am a woman

Of infinite persuasion. I can cajole

Certitude from shadows, or a

Palace from a promise. Easy.

Clever, aren’t I?

See how detailed my deductions;

How fast I follow scent,

Straining at leash and

Nose to the wind.

Good girl.

Of course, the wind changes.

Rivers flow back or cannot be forded.

The trail is lost – still, I persist,

Resourceful and focused.

A new route is found.

Next I embroider tapestry moving:

History will sing its rich, vivid truth

(For what is more true

Than deceiving oneself?).

I will feel the relief

Of cloth nubbed with emotions,

Eyes gently closed, and

Fingers quite raw.