Crash!

There is one golden rule about owning a computer. Always make sure there is a backup of your files saved on some other device. I knew that. But,did I obey the rule? Hmmm…

I hang my head in shame. For some reason, the hard drive on my laptop decided to shuffle off its mortal coil a couple of days ago, leaving me with no method of electronic communication and no electronic files, including lost user names and passwords. I have had to make other arrangements, including having to download a new version of Windows Live Writer for blogging. Having done that all successfully, I am now able to publish this…

I was busy with a 30-Day writing challenge, which has now gone for a loop. I will try to find the instructions, and continue from where I left off in a day or two. My apologies for the interruption.

Flashback

Isn’t it strange how our minds become conditioned to our environment? Our minds also become conditioned to social circumstances, without us realising this influence until after the event. These conditioning situations can be short-term, extending over a few days or weeks, or longer term, taking months or even years for us to have a “flashback.”

Clayton is on a short leave this week, to take a refresher break from the pace of his job responsibilities, and reduce his accumulated leave on hand. Therefore, to me the past few days have seemed like.. well, I’m not sure…, probably like weekend or a public holiday. It was only last night when we were sitting around his bar-b-que (which is customarily a weekend or public holiday event), that I realised that it was a Tuesday! The same sort of thing generally often happens over the Easter and Christmas periods, when one loses track of the days.

I last walked along the Blaauwberg beachfront early last December. I was recovering from major surgery at the time, and also very busy packing up home and arranging sale of cars and house, and all those time-consuming things associated with emigrating. Anyway, walking along that beachfront will always hold particularly unforgettable memories for anyone who has been there. Over the past weekend, while walking from one set of stores to another in the Coastlands shopping area, I was nearly blown off my feet by a near-gale force wind, biting and icy cold. At that instant, for the very first time, after ten months, I experienced a flashback of trying to walk at Blaauwberg against the impossible winds that blow there November through April every year.

Isn’t it strange how such a seemingly insignificant detail can bring back a particular set of feelings. Up north on the same day, winds of up to 296 k’s per hour were recorded. By the way, we also lost electrical power for half the day, probably due to wind damage to overhead power lines. The Wellington region is no stranger to hurricanes!      

Writing Challenge – Day 12

The instruction for Day 12 of the 30-Day Writing Challenge:

Write the ending of a mystery story. Then write the beginning.

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Ending:

“It is quite simple. Mrs Thorpe did not personally kill her husband. Yes, she was conducting television interviews at the time that Mr Thorpe was shot and yes, she stands to collect a princely sum on his life policy,” Inspector Donne explained to herd of reporters, notebooks and voice recorders at the ready.

“However in the light of further evidence, we have brought Mrs Thorpe in for questioning in the matter.”

“Have you arrested her?”

“Mrs Thorpe is expected to be here for some time. That’s all I can say at this time.”

Donne then left the press room, and headed for his private office, where Inspector John Bastow was waiting.

“John what can you tell me?”

“”We’ve got her, Denis,” the younger man started, “No one else knew, not even the husband, that she had an identical twin  sister, one Georgina Post, who lives in W.A. on a small farm, doing chickens and ducks and things.”

“Mmmm,” grunted Donne.

Bastow continued, “We must still prove it, but it looks like Mrs Thorpe and her identical twin sister Georgina devised this plan to kill the husband and then to split the life insurance pay-out. Indications are that the sum insured is probably astronomical.”

“So-o-o,” grunted Donne once more, “This unknown recluse twin sister from somewhere in the Styx drives up from W.A. unnoticed, enters the house according to the detailed plans her sister has somehow secretly provided, finds the gun in a hiding place as arranged, pumps the husband full of lead, wipes the gun clean and immediately leaves back for W.A… Make a note, I want to see her phone records for the past three months.”

“If it wasn’t for that nosy insistent neighbour being so dead certain that Mrs Thorpe had been home at the time, despite everyone knowing that she was on live TV, I would never have started thinking along these lines.”

“And without any other suspect, these two would probably have gotten away with their scheme?” noted Bastow.

“Precisely, my dear Bastow.”

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Beginning:

“I still cannot understand how she managed to do it. I mean, we all saw her live on television, in broad daylight, so to speak, with literally millions as witnesses. It was not a recorded program. She could not possibly have been there.” The neighbour spoke to the newspaper reporter at length, “We’ve known Judie-Lee for the last five years, from the time before she even won that reality show and was appointed for the broadcasting contract. Such a lovely girl.”

The camera switches back to the news correspondent Rex Russell, “Yes, ladies and gentleman,” he drones on, like a typical actuality reporter, “Everyone I’ve spoken to – they all agree … There’s more to this story than meets the eye, Judie-Lee. How can this be explained?”

“Let me recap for you,” Russell continues, “Just after one p.m. to-day, while Judie-Lee Thorpe was hosting the lunch-hour business review live from the stock exchange building, interviewing Donnie Fredman of the G.R. Tractor Group, as well as the well-known financial guru Peter Sive. Around the same time another neighbour, who doesn’t want to be named on air, reported having seen Mrs Thorpe entering her home. This neighbour is convinced that he is not mistaken – the person was definitely Miss Thorpe, although she was driving another car, a light grey Honda Jazz…”

“Just after four-thirty Mrs Thorpe returned home from her day’s work in the television studio to find the cold corpse of her husband Jeremy Thorpe lying face-down in a pall of blood. He had been shot three times through the head and chest.”

“A firearm, which is believed might be the murder weapon, was found near the body. The weapon is licenced and registered in the name of Mrs Thorpe. The family doctor has been to the Thorpe mansion to treat Mrs Thorpe for shock.”

“In another development in this case, we have been reliably informed that the police have called on Trimtree TV Studios and have taken charge of all the recorded material involving Mrs Thorpe today.”

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The brief for Day 13: A change of environment can sometimes refresh and recharge the brain. Do you normally write at a desk or at your kitchen table? Today, go someplace different to write. For example, try writing outside or in a public place such as a coffee house or mall….

Writing Challenge -- Day 11

The instruction for Day 11 of the 30 Day Writing Challenge:

Your character gets trapped in an elevator with someone he or she is afraid of
(you decide why)…

Marjorie Simpson is a slight slender girl of twenty-two. She is employed as a personal assistant to Gregory Svenson, one of the top nobs in the Axia Insurance group at the office in the Richardson Plaza building. On the fourteenth floor.  Marjorie usually travels down to the staff cafeteria on the ground floor in the company of another girl Connie Johns, who is a PA to another top nob.

Brett Wever works as a janitor for Axia. He is a creepy-looking half-shaven guy with a slop-store/ office on the tenth floor. Marjorie has heard rumours about Brett, rumours that he suffers from a debilitating condition, which apparently is some sort of combination between bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, combined with the tendency to go into uncontrollable fits of rage and physical violence.

Although Marjorie had never personally witnessed or experienced any of these symptoms first-hand, she had heard from Connie that one should never get involved with this Brett character. He was inclined to go off the deep end, if anyone gave him cause to raise his level of jealousy. Mind you, the same could be said about countless other folk, too.

Five to One. Marjorie glances up at the large ornamental clock on the wall. She neatens her desk, packing away all superfluous documentation. Four floors below her, Brett Wever had just locked his storage facility for the lunch break, when a supervisor confronts him about his timekeeping. The supervisor is not rich in tact, and really gets up Brett’s nose-hairs. He is fuming and, and it is only the horror of the thought of another disciplinary hearing which prevents Brett from attacking this bossy nob.

As the elevator arrives at the twelfth floor, the door opens to reveal a tiny solitary figure standing at the back of the craft. Brett stomps into the lift and presses “G” . The door will not open for another nine floors.

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[ 340 words  ]

[ The brief for Day 12 reads, “Write the ending of a mystery story. Then write the beginning.]

Writing Challenge – Day 10

The instruction for Day 10 of the 30-Day writing challenge is:

Brief: Perhaps the best way to learn about writing is by studying the work of other writers. Today, you will choose a book by a writer you admire. Read a paragraph of this book to get the author's "voice" in your head. Now, try to write your own story (or rewrite a story you have written) the way this author would have written it. Imitate the author's style and the techniques he or she uses..

Wow! Back to my schooldays, and “Appreciation of Literature 101”, except that our instruction was never as advanced as this. I can hear some of my readers rolling their eyes once more, “Here he goes again, making excuses, finding reasons why the question is vague, or why he doesn’t know this or that…”

One of the writers I admire is Winston S Churchill. Having read excerpts from a number of his writings, I can but throw my stubble little pencil after his Parker fountain pen creations in language I could only wish to use. For that reason, I haven’t a hope in hell in transforming any of my writing into something resembling Churchillian prose. Therefore I have chosen a “commercial” writer, one Stanley Bing.  Stanley Bing is the pen name of Gil Schwartz, a business humourist and novelist. He has written a column for Fortune magazine for more than ten years, after having spent a decade at Esquire.

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The Ticket

Tom is a travelling handyman, moving from town to town in search of ways to earn a simple living without resorting to the habits of tramps and winos and folk who sleep under bridges. He was formerly a career guy, with a regular job in a national company, pushing a pen and towing the corporate line. One day, whilst attending a farewell ceremony for a senior guy, Harry Clutterbug who was retiring after a lifetime of service and dedication, he saw a feeling of hopelessness and fear of the unknown as in the victim’s eyes as the director handed him a gold, would you believe it, pen and said a couple of words of appreciation for his work.

With a “Is this what I want to achieve in life?” question pestering him for the rest of the day, he awoke the next morning, grabbed the phone and called his boss with his resignation, effective immediately. Since that significant moment in his life, Tom has never wanted for anything, he has never had a million bucks, nor owned any property, or furniture, or much clothing, for that matter. But Tom has had those things which Harry Clutterbug, with his gold pen and all, would never have been able to dream of. Tom had never even had reason to see a doctor or dentist like his office-mates. Even more significantly, Tom had not even thought of a psychiatrist or a psychologist as someone a regular guy would want to visit. Ever.

Today, Tom is doing a spring-clean of a garage-cum-laundry for the Macintosh family in the Eastcliff holiday mansion. The building is occupied most weekends and over extended holiday periods like Easter and the Christmas / New Year season. A housekeeper Mary-Mae is busy airing the rooms and cleaning carpets and the like, in preparation of the arrival of the Macintoshes in a few days.

He spent most of the morning cleaning up the storage shelves, and checking over the mountain bikes on their special mounting hooks along the walls. He cleaned and checked the lawnmowers (both of them) and the petrol-driven hedge trimmer.

Tom was about to disconnect and move out the washing machine and tumble dryer in preparation of painting the walls and ceiling of the laundry area, when he heard the voice of Mary-Mae calling out, “Tom, come and get it! I’ve made some soup and some toasted sandwiches for our lunch if you like.”

Tom had already received his wages from the property agent for the job, so was his reputation for integrity and workmanship. There was no question in their minds that he would grab the cash and ignore the job. No sir, Tom’s motto had always been “The customer is king, and deserves only the best service…”

Tom pulled up a garden chair in the small kitchen yard where Mary-Mae was serving the meal. He thanked her for the hospitality and tucked in, not wanting to waste any of his employer’s time. Mary-Mae sat opposite at the garden table, “What’ve you still got to do today, Tom?”

Tom had never been one to become too involved with others, and he applied the same philosophy to his social relationship with Mary-Mae, “I must still paint out the laundry area, and then I’m done. I guess I should be finished by knock-off time, so you will be able to lock up after me, and still have time to get down to the bus-stop in time.”

They exchanged a few pleasantries, and the talkative housemaid offered anecdotal pictures of the Macintoshes, their habits and moods. It appeared that their employers had little regard for others and spent more money on the luxuries of life than the average person could afford in simply funding the business of living.

When Tom had finished his food, he excused himself from the table, “Thanks Mary-Mae, that was swell. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to that laundry or you’ll be walking home to-night!”

Back in the laundry area, Tom disconnected the machines from the water and electricity supplies. He moved the tumble dryer clear of the area to be painted, but struggled a bit with the large bulky washing machine. Eventually, it moved. It was clear why he had struggled – there were a number of small items on the floor under the machine, which had become wedged and had prevented the machine from moving. He swept these to one side with his foot, and moved it out of the area to be painted.

Tom bent down to sweep away the obstructions, propping the handful of junk into the rear pocket of his overall. There were also three one dollar coins and a few of more minor denomination. He strode to the kitchen and placed these coins on the counter near where Mary-Mae was busy ironing pillow cases.

“From behind the washing machine,” Tom mumbled as he placed them on the surface.

“I would be concerned about money when it comes to the Macintoshes, Tom,” Mary-Mae mused, “it would take a lot more than a couple of dollars to make them sit up.”

Later that afternoon, Tom was sitting on the bus bound for town (and his home). He saw groups of affluent kids along the road, playing football on open patches of grassed areas or mobile on expensive-looking bikes and designer skateboards. All were dressed in the latest labels. So, this was the way the other half lived.

As the bus took a corner rather sharply, Tom’s backside slid a bit on the leather seat. There was something uncomfortable beneath him, in his back pocket. He scratched and pulled out a small bundle of papers. The muck he’d cleaned out from behind the washing machine in the Macintosh laundry, he recalled. Two chocolate bar wrappers, three tickets to the movies from last week, some till strip receipts from a supermarket and an old lotto ticket. 

Chuck this lot in the bin as I leave the bus, Tom thought to himself. The bus continued on its way. He fiddled with the paper in his hand a few times. The old lotto ticket accidentally fell to the floor.

As Tom bent over to retrieve the offending litter, his eye caught the date Wednesday 22 January. Not quite a week ago. This was not an old ticket, it was the latest…

There was no writing on the ticket, it looked almost new. Hmmm… He’s heard all sorts of stories about unclaimed lottery tickets…

“You should always write your name on your ticket, you know,” the guy behind of the counter of the convenience shop, “anyone could take it and cash it in if there’s no positive ID. And, would you believe it? Look here, its your lucky week – your prize on this is seventy-eight thousand dollars!”

That night after his usual fresh salad and roast chicken breasts, Tom sat back and listened to a classical musical concert on his little plastic portable radio, one of his few material possessions. Plan A, Plan B or Plan C? These tumbled continuously through his mind as the violins and violas built up the music to a noisy climax on the radio, should he hand the prize money to the Macintoshes, should he simply keep mum and invest it somewhere, should he keep some and donate the rest to the school for needy kids down the road?

Tom’s nature was such that indecision could never form part of it. A thing was either right or wrong, nothing in between. When faced with a choice, he would not go to sleep in a state of indecision.

Later, he had made a choice, a final choice and was no longer undecided. Shortly after that, he managed to doze off, nothing weighing down on his conscience.

[ The brief for Day 11:  Your character gets trapped in an elevator with someone he or she is afraid of (you decide why)… ]

Moving House

On the subject of moving house, an article in the local paper The Kapiti Observer caught my eye. Well, the photo did. A house in Mazengarb Road Paraparumu:

A two-storey house with four bedrooms and two bathrooms measuring 336 square metres, length 23m, width 14m, height 9.2m, weight 75 tonnes. It had to be thoroughly braced before being jacked up. Two trucks were required to rotate it. It took 2 hours to move 1.5km on a specialised 5-axle truck designed to evenly distribute the weight.

The full article appears on the online version of the paper here.

Also Moving

We have next door neighbours. In the valley where we live “next door” is somewhat relative compared to, say, a row of semi-detached houses Next door an be 300 or even 500 metres away. These neighbours live a short distance down the road, then turn left and follow the driveway up the hill for a slightly longer distance. I will call the neighbours Janet and John Robinson. They have three small kids who I will name Peter, Paul and Mary all in the interests of personal privacy.

A week or so ago, we moved our stuff into the extension and slept the first night in “our own” bedroom for over nine months. This weekend the Robinsons are moving into their brand-new house up the hill across the road. The move is about 150 metres as the crow flies, on the same property, from the original cottage which was part of the property which the bought about three years ago.

So, “move” is a relative term… too far to carry, say a heavy fridge or washing machine (especially considering a very steep incline gradient to be negotiated between the two dwellings), but too close and too costly to contract a professional moving company to do the move for you.

John chose the middle road by hiring a small removals truck and doing a do-it-yourself furniture removals operation. We popped across and helped load and unload the bulky and heavy stuff. I use the royal “we”, whereas it was mostly Clayton and Tyler who helped John with the heavies, I handled stuff like ironing boards and coffee grinders.

Halfway through the morning, architect Bob, who did all the drawing of plans and building specifications for the Robinson house, arrived with a house-warming bottle of something in a gift packet. Janet took him on a guided tour through he new now-half-furnished home, while the rest of us dodged each other and a myriad of kids running underfoot playing ‘catch’ games.

Bob is the same guy who did our plans – in fact, we were referred to him by the Robinsons. I looked at Bob standing in the new lounge area, a spacious open-plan area with an elevated panelled and sloping ceiling and full-height folding doors all along one wall, looking out over verdant green pastures with the Robinson flock of snow-white sheep and lambs dotted around.

I wondered what was going through Bob’s mind – He may have been able to imagine the appearance of his creation from the outside, but an important aspect of a home is the inside, and that part is hugely more difficult to visualise with furniture and decor in place. It is like looking at a cake you’ve just  baked and comparing it to the photograph in the recipe book. It would be interesting to know whether it met with his expectations, and what modifications would he make to his plans, if he’d had this visual knowledge at the time. 

Later in the day, most of the heavies now in their new locations, I sat with the others at the new dining table enjoying a hot cup of tea in the new dining room, part of the huge open-plan kitchen/ dining/ sitting/ living zone. To my right through the large panoramic windows I could see over pine forests and rolling hills across the Reikorangi valley. To my left a black cow and her calf grazing in the brilliant green paddock above the driveway leading up to the house. Tyler was standing on the “hill” created in the original excavations when the foundations were being prepared. He was shouting something about the “king of the hill.”

Here’s to happy living to the kings of the hill, the neighbouring “Family Robinson.” Enjoy your new home and watch your kids growing up in this idyllic environment.

Writing Challenge - Day 9

The instruction for Day 9 of the 30-Day writing challenge:

Brief: Go to Google.com, and click on the "Image" link on the top left. This will take you to the image search page. Type two words into the search box, and click on the ‘Search’ button. A bunch of pictures will appear. Choose one of them to use as a writing prompt.

When faced with such a general choice, what on earth does one choose? The instruction is ambiguous in that it states “to use as” rather than saying “and use it as a prompt to write a short story, essay, poem, etc.” I took the bull by the horns, and typed the first two random words which came to mind words appearing in the brief, namely “bunch” and “pictures”:

(Above): The Brady Bunch back from 1974, a few years after television broadcasts had just started for us in South Africa.

One could write accounts of our family life 40 years ago, one could research and find out what has happened to your friends and acquaintances from that era (quite time-consuming), or even what happened to some of the Brady Bunch cast members.

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[Brief for Day 10 :   Perhaps the best way to learn about writing is by studying the work of other writers. Today, you will choose a book by a writer you admire. Read a paragraph of this book to get the author's "voice" in your head. Now, try to write your own story (or rewrite a story you have written) the way this author would have written it. Imitate the author's style and the techniques he or she uses... ]

Moved In

The construction of the extension is now finally behind us, and most of the furniture and fittings have been sorted. We have been sleeping in our new space for a week or so. It is not a huge place, but quite adequate for our needs. Some photos of the finished product to prove that the maze of planks and concrete has finally been transformed into living space. It consists of a combined bedroom and sitting room, with French doors leading out onto a timber deck, a bathroom, and a dressing-room/ walk-in wardrobe.

(Above): Bedroom as viewed from the sitting room.

(Above): Bathroom -  we forgo a bath in favour of a comfortable shower.

(Above): Dressing room: We chose cubicle baskets instead of shelving in built-in cupboards, with hanging space on the opposite side of the room.

(Above) View of the sitting-room from the bed area.

(Above): Bedroom curtaining across the French doors and window.

Writing Challenge – Day 8

The instruction for Day 8 of the 30-Day writing challenge:

Brief:   Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. The heart-breaking result: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Write a ghost story or a love story in less than 20 words...

For me it is a lot easier to write 20,000  words than 20.  I guess that I may have been accused of verbosity, long-windedness, and waffle in my distant schooldays. It was probably true.  I have re-read the brief a number of times, without being able to come up with something brilliant. It is important to note the specification of “less than 20 words”(in other words any number of words 19 or less), and not “20 words.”

Effort 1 (19):
Teenage lovers trapped on river ledge, aggressive crocodile approaching. Boy jumping into open jaws shouts, “Swim for it, darling!”

Effort 2 (17):
He stayed over that night at her invitation. In the morning before he awoke she made pancakes.

[ The brief for Day 9 reads:  Go to Google.com, and click on the "Image" link on the top left. This will take you to the image search page. Type two words into the search box, and click on the ‘Search’ button. A bunch of pictures will appear. Choose one of them
to use as a writing prompt. ]

… But You Can’t Hide…

There are very few people who are in a position to address an ordinary (paper) mail correctly to me. I have really only provided a street postal address to official entities who insist on recording such data.

Up until this morning, I really thought that I was relatively safe from the talons of the junk-mail merchants. Up until this morning, until…

(Above): This posh envelope impeccably addressed to me, from Amsterdam in The Netherlands. And pasted in the window, a bronze coin, “Keep this genuine lucky Irish penny, and may it bring you good fortune in all of your endeavours.” Nice guys.

Now, I’m not a “lucky charm” sort of person, but, like they say, why look a gift horse in the mouth. I may just as well the 1996 Eire penny – what harm can it do?

But what do they offer me inside the envelope? The IRISH LOTTO CELEBRATION SYNDICATE apparently have prizes available worth up to NZ$65,000,000

They’re offering me three things for $5.50 per week, namely:

• Guaranteed 8-share Syndicate entry in 8 official Irish Lotto draws. Total annual $209M;
• 300 bonus sets of numbers in our Division One Prize Pool – with these bonus entries you have 2,400 extra chances to win a share of Division One prizes in Irish, Spanish and German Lottos;
• A grand total of 24 draws and 2,408 chances to win.

I can hardly wait to join all these happy folk simply just having great fun! I am looking for 65,000,000 people to each send me a measly little One Dollar. Just one Dollar, that’s all, and only 65,000,000 people out of earth’s 7,264,796,000 (less than 1% of everyone, in fact 0.895%) – don’t delay, act to-day before its too late.

Come on, guys, what’s holding you back. Trust me. Really.

Writing Challenge – Day 7

The instruction for Day 7 of the 30-Day writing challenge reads:

Brief:   Your character gets a call from someone asking to talk to "David." "You have the wrong number," your character says. But instead of hanging up, the caller and your character get to chatting, and they decide to meet later that night... 

 

Beethoven’s Ninth starts playing. A typical polyphonic ringtone. Some people may regard it as cheesy, but I think it reflects my personality. After all, why should a ringing phone sound like an old-fashioned Alexander Graham Bell thing?

“Hi.” I do not believe in any formalities, before I know the identity of my caller.

“I need to speak to David, now” the caller, apparently female, obviously also didn’t believe in formalities. Her accent was a bit foreign.

“No,” I decided that two can play the game.

“Huh?”

“No. There is no David here. Not now, not anytime.”

“Oh… Is that 293-5489 ?”

“You dialled the number didn’t you? Electronics don’t get these things wrong, you know. Computers don’t make mistakes, people do. They should be more attentive.”

“Ok. Let’s start again. I can see that we’re getting nowhere fast, and I really don’t have time to waste… I’ll be the least, if you agree to o-operate…” the female voice started off.

“And?” I made it sound like a consent, without necessarily openly acknowledging the caller’s credentials, at this stage.

“My name is, and don’t you dare laugh, Morgan-Hill Rohnert,” she started.

“God, not Bill Rohnert’s daughter?” I interrupted. I was amazed at hearing the name – there surely could not be anyone else in the universe with that name combination. Bill had been travelling with a very-much-pregnant wife Barbara on holiday through California, when, according to Bill, all hell suddenly broke loose, and the fruits of Barbara’s pregnancy totally unexpectedly started shouting, “Get me outa here, now… just get me outa here,” and, as a reminder of the calamity and its happy conclusion, they named the baby after the name on the signboard on Route 101 where they stopped as the drama unfolded.

“Yeah. The one and only. But who on earth are you, if you recognise my name?”

“Well…. 1984… dum…dum… 30. If you’re about thirty, then I’ve known your parents Bill and Barabara for 30 years. They were touring through California, at the time that you were born, and they needed emergency transport from Morgan Hill to San Jose maternity facility. I was the guy who drove the ambulance the night you were born. I then emigrated to New Zealand a short while after that, and here I still am.”

“Isn’t that a huge coincidence?” Morgan-Hill seemed a bit at a loss for words.

“Are you calling me all the way from the States, or is this a local call?”

“No, good heavens, no. I am on holiday in New Zealand with my husband David, and I’m stuck on the side of the road near this place called… wait there’s a signboard… Pae … Paekaka-something, and I was hoping that David could come to rescue me…”

“You’re not pregnant and about to give birth, are you? ‘Cause here in New Zealand that ambulance may take a wee while longer than I took for your mother! I tell you what: are you at a hotel, or with friends, or what? ”

“We’re at a beautiful little place near the sea called Titahi Bay bed and breakfast.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll come fetch you and we can get your vehicle sorted, and you can  bring me up to speed on all the Rohnert family. How’s that?”

“That’ll be super. I’m in a little white Toyota – the only one as far as the eye can see, ‘cause this is a sort-of main highway.”

“I should be there in about fifteen, twenty minutes tops.”

“Thanks, I’ll be waiting here,” a little giggle, “I can hardly go anywhere in the car as it is.”

“Sweet as.”

“Huh?”

“Fine, I’ll see you. By the way, my name is, and don’t you dare laugh, Joe Smith.”

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[ 640 words ]

[ The brief for Day 8 reads:   Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. The heartbreaking result: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Write a ghost story or a love story in less than 20 words... ]

Writing Challenge–Day 6

The instruction for Day 6 of the 30-Day writing challenge reads:

Brief: Write a story that includes: twins, a 12-layer cake, a house that seems to be haunted but isn't…

This is a problem with wide-base challenges – every entrant must complete assignments  covering a wide range of subjects, even though he would never enter some of those situations ordinarily.  I am particularly stumped by matters such as cakes and cooking. ‘Haunted’ is a word that doesn’t conjure up wild ideas for me, so my reader should pardon the lack of originality in this assignment.

A blonde young man hops off a sophisticated-looking cycle, and pushes it across the pavement into a private garage attached to a little boutique hotel. His name is Thijs van Houten. A lot of people have a problem with his name, so a short explanation is appropriate. ‘Thijs’ is pronounced “Tay-ss” and is an abbreviated form of Matthijs, which is the Dutch equivalent of Matthew. The family name ‘van Houten’ means “from or family of the forest ” (pronounced “Fun Hoh-tin”). If he had therefore been born to English parents, he would most likely have been known as ‘Matt Forrester.’

Thijs locks the garage with his bike safely inside and pockets the key. He cycles for 60 minutes every day between 6:00 and 7:00 wherever he finds himself (if it is practical to do so, otherwise he delays the exercise until a more practical time. Rain does not interfere with his routine, as his cycling attire is of the highest quality and design as all-weather wear. Thijs is proud to be at the top of his sport, although he is not in that elite group classified as “professional”, as he found that he did not generally agree with the habits and ethics, or the general spirit and camaraderie of many members of that group generally.  

He enters the hotel and heads for his room. En route, he encounters one of the chamber maids”Good morning, Madame,” he smiles at the woman, “Perhaps you can enlighten me: I was out cycling on the road north of the town, and I encountered a property near the river with a large sign, saying ‘Haunted House – Please Come In’ . This is something I do not understand. Do you know the place?”

“Yes,” she confides in a strong German accent, “I know the place. That is not really haunted. It is… how do you say… it is an entertainment place… it is like a night-club for teenagers… yes, I would say it is a nightclub.”

“Thank you, Madame, I am interested in the paranormal and the possibilities of life after death, so the sign… you know… ” Thijs continues down the corridor to his room.

He undresses his cycling attire, showers and dresses, meticulously choosing the impeccably laundered and ironed casual shirt and short trousers, finished with a brilliant orange thermal short-sleeved waistcoat. It is his favourite, not only because it is neat and smart, is comfortable and warm, but also because with three useful pockets and is in his favourite colour, Orange, the colour which identifies him and millions of his compatriots wherever they go. He is proud to be a citizen of The Netherlands, in fact he hopes that people will stop him in the street and question him. 

Today is a birthday. Thijs’s twenty-ninth, in fact. Yes, this very day, the twelfth of June twenty-nine years ago, a diminutive Thijs Hein van Houten was one of the babies born at the Bronovo clinic in the Hague. And, his birthday was the reason for him being in Thun. He planned to spend a few days at this little hotel in peace and quiet.

Thijs also had one very special reason for being in Thun. A reason which very few people would understand.

Thun is a Swiss town situated where the River Aare flows into Lake Thun. He had been there on a family holiday many years ago, and the town obviously held certain fond memories for him. The simple act of standing on one of the bridges, for instance and watching the water below, could conjure up many memories. Some could make him smile or laugh, whilst others would bring tears to his eyes.

Thijs heads off in search of a confectioner-bakery called Petersen Cakes. He walks briskly up Sustenstrasse, a distance of roughly 500 metres. He passes a luscious green field with some groups of youngsters practising football. It is strange that the field has no white boundary lines painted on the grass, but there is a set of goals at each end of the field. There is absolutely no sign of any traffic. A few bicycle-riders have gone past. The views of the snow-clad mountains in the background is absolutely amazing. The gardens in front of the neatly-maintained houses are lush, colourful and impeccable in appearance.

When he reaches Shorenstrasse running parallel with the railway reserve, he turns left and walks along the road for about 550 metres, until he reaches an intersection with Schulstrasse. He passes a few pedestrians possibly making their way to the railway station? Here he turns right and goes under the railway bridge a short way from the intersection. When he reaches a hair-dressing salon, he knows instinctively that Petersens is nearby. 

Just past the salon, he sees the sign set back in a little parking square off Schulstrasse.

“Petersens – Bake A Cake” it reads.

Inside there are a variety of mouth-watering aromas, baking and confectionary smells, the hint of freshly-baked breads, and the distinctive hint of chocolate. Thijs approaches the man behind the counter. He is wearing a white baker’s coat.

“Hi, are you Joachim? I’m looking for Joachim Petersen,” Thijs enquires.

“What can I do for you to-day, sir?” comes the response, without any admission of identity.

“I want to speak to the Twelve Layer Cake Champion. I believe his name is Joachim Petersen, formerly of  Salzburg in Austria.”

The mention of the Austrian city changes the mood of the conversation. The man in the white coat turned and calls out towards the back of the shop, “Maria, please mind the counter for me while I attend to my guest.”

With that, he motions the orange-clad Thijs into a separate office-like room adjoining the main shop and closes the door behind them. The room has shelves along one wall, a window looking out onto a pretty little tea-garden on the other. There is a desk with computer, telephone and some magazines. Three upholstered easy chairs with a coffee table is where they sit.

“You have a Dutch accent, sir. You are one of the Van Houten twins, are you not? It has been two years, I know, but I was away on medical service in Africa, and have only recently returned to Switzerland.”

Thijs listens attentively without interrupting.

“Oh… Oh… Can I get you a coffee, sir, while we talk?

Thijs shakes his head in the negative, “No, thanks, I do not want to keep you from your work for too long.”

“No, sir, I am in no hurry. We need to speak. I need to explain…” he clasps and unclasps his hands nervously.

“The tragic accident of two years ago happened without any witnesses other than your dear twin brother and… not me, but my late father. I say ‘late’, because sadly he was killed six months ago when a huge truck ran out of control one evening, mounted the pavement and fatally struck my father Joachim who was out walking his little dog at the time.”

With a slight degree of embarrassment, “Apologies: I am Joachim Junior, I have taken over the business from my father. Mother’s health does not allow her to be involved in the day to day matters of the shop,” Joachim explains.

“Since the day of the accident in Salzburg, I have been aware of your family, but it is so difficult, you know, near impossible… to approach you to speak about this… this very sad matter… I really do not know what to say…. My father claimed that he had swerved across the road to avoid hitting a young child who came running out into the street, directly into his pathway… It was so tragic that your brother just happened to be on the other side at that very moment on that very space….”

Joachim pauses momentarily, then continues, “One fact of which I am one hundred percent sure, Thijs,” he uses the name for the first time, “if I may call you by your name, sir, and that is” My father was not intoxicated.”

Joachim stopped and first looks at the floor then out of the window for a few moments.

“In all my life I have never seen my father with a drink, nor in any state of having had any alcohol. He was what they call a ‘teetotaller.’ So, that there is even the slightest possibility that alcohol was involved in the accident, as the newspapers tried to insinuate at the time, is out of the question. Of that I am certain. And secondly, he was a careful and experienced driver… he was in no way negligent… I am so sorry… I know that all these things may be trivial to you… you have lost your brother… through no fault of his own… I am so sorry, Thijs... I do not know what I can do to help in the healing of your grief…”

For a while both men sit in silence, looking at one another and out at the tea garden. Then Thijs speaks.

“It is probably difficult for other people to understand, but being a twin is a very special relationship. It is almost like being one half of a two-half person… I don’t know how to put it… if your brother feels bad, then you feel bad. If he feels excited, you feel the same excitement… what happens to one, automatically happens to the other… once when he fell off his bike in a collision on a corner during a race in our home town, I immediately experienced terrible pains in my left leg… it was so severe that I could not pedal any further… not even five metres… the race paramedics declared that he had broken his leg… but they were puzzled, because they could find absolutely nothing wrong with me… yet I was unable to walk…”

“On the night of the accident, we were practising for a race which would take place at the weekend, he went for an extra 10k run, while I went into the race organisers’ office to collect our official numbers… I can remember it clearly… I was waiting in the queue.. it was just before seven… suddenly, for no reason at all, I felt hot and cold, dizzy and I could not stand up… they told me that I had passed out, probably from exhaustion… I know know that it was the precise moment of my brother’s impact with the car…it was the worst moment of my life…”

Joachim looks ahead, a bit stunned, “I am sorry… so sorry. I am so sorry, Thijs…”

“No, Joachim, I did not come here for sympathy. And I am sorry that you, too, have had to lose someone as lose as your father. But I simply need closure on the matter. None of us can live in the past forever. We need a period for grieving, but then we need to cut loose those ties and move on… It is obviously not easy, but now I know that I must do it…”

“You see, today is our twenty-ninth birthday, my brother’s and mine. Today I say a final goodbye to him, just like I say my first hello to him in the maternity ward on the day that we were born…”

Thijs pauses for a moment, reflecting with a sly little grin, “Perhaps we said our first hello before our birth?”

Thijs rises, puts out his hand and firmly grips Joachim’s hand, “Thank you, Joachim.”

Then he opens his arms and, most uncharacteristically, hugs his host, “And give my warmest regards to your mother. Thank you and farewell, Joachim.”

He turns and walks out of the building back into Schulstrasse, back into his new future.

                                                      *  *  *  *  *  *

[  2,100 words ]

[  The brief for Day 7 reads:  Your character gets a call from someone asking to talk to "David." "You have the wrong number," your character says. But instead of hanging up, the caller and your character get to chatting, and they decide to meet later that night...  ]

Huh? What?

Our local Health Centre is staffed by a number of general practitioners, as well as a handful of nurses, who perform various functions in which the skill of a qualified doctor is not essential. We are registered patients at this facility.

‘Ear suctioning done here, enquire at reception’ reads the notice. And so I did. It is the latest in cutting edge ear suction technology, the gold film method of ear wax removal, and I had an appointment last Thursday.

My mind went back to about 1996, when a general practitioner at Melkbosstrand syringed my ears with warm soapy water, using a sort of water-jet gun thing and a little kidney dish to catch the bath water. It worked quite effectively, and I walked out half an hour later ordering everyone I met, “No need to shout. You can speak a little softer…” It was as if I’d entered a new world, a huge multi-phonic surround-sound studio.

Since that time, I have had minor hearing problems in my left ear, with sound effects as if I was in a rapidly climbing or falling jet-plane. Frequently a little wiggle of my pinkie in the ear canal would sort the sound defect.

Wednesday, I arrive at the appointed time and Nurse Anne runs me through the standard medical procedures, and reads to me the dangers of the treatment, repercussions and the disclaimers notice. Just so that I am approaching the treatment from an informed angle…

I lie on the uncomfortable hard and narrow bed with its white sheet and my dirty brown shoes. She presses a stainless steel cone shape into the canal, and starts operating the vacuum cleaner, with a head as thin as a hypodermic syringe.

Did she mention that this was the very latest gold standard of ear cleaning methods because they do not touch the eardrum? And that the old-style flushing method was dangerous because a sudden pressure spike could foreseeably puncture the eardrum? Yes, she has already told me. Twice. I told her that she had.

The appointment was scheduled to last 30 minutes. She had battled for close on 20 minutes with the right ear, resorting to the use of tweezers, and a sharp pointy needle thingy, something that looked suspiciously like a “Bic Clic” ball-point pen.

“There, that’s done, so to speak,” Nurse Anne confided as she showed me a strip of white kitchen towel paper with a small black lumpy ball sitting in the middle. She was like a kid who’d just done their first successful nose-pick experiment and was asking you to take a jolly good look at the bogey.

My bogey looked like the remains of a cremated common house fly, slightly smaller than a regular garden green pea on your dinner plate. I was most unimpressed by the minor proportions of the garbage, considering all the sucking and picking, and scratching and prodding. I was expecting something more like an unshelled peanut, at least.

The left ear was a different kettle of fish. Here the gold-standard sucking and vacuum  procedure was promptly dropped in favour of the more brassy picking by ball-point pen technique. Well, here we will definitely be able to easily mine my fifty Dollars worth of wax, I thought to myself.

After my allocated time slot drew to an end, Nurse Anne packed up her vacuum and mining equipment, with the kitchen paper towel displaying about half a dead common house fly as the prize bogey.

“Mr Andrews, I am very sorry, but the wax in your left ear is extremely hard, having collected over a number of years, and has clearly compacted. I will book you another appointment for next week, but I have to charge you for this visit. Next week, they may charge you $25, or, if it comes clean within a few minutes, even do it at no extra charge – I will make a note accordingly on your file.”

She ushered me to the door, “ I'm terribly sorry, but that softening oil which you put into your ears wasn’t effective enough. Make sure you use plenty of oil until your next appointment.”

                                                           * * * * * * *

Wednesday just past, I am back on the narrow bed with its clean white sheet, my shoes are still brown. And they’re still dirty. A different nurse, Nurse Susan, is attending to the dredging of my canal. She has the cheek to tell me that I’ve got a crappy, bony, narrow and deformed canal.

Here it comes, I told myself. The excuses as to why she is failing dismally at the gold-standard procedure. She has hardly removed any bogeys from my left ear.

She made a number of comments about the hardness of the wax, as well as the frequency and difficulty the ear has when losing its inner skin layer, as the body gets older. Yes, here it came, surely,

“Mr Andrews, it is quite clear that the wax in your ear is very old and has super-compacted…” She made it sound like my ear canal was the site for the discovery of some dinosaur poo deep underground.

“I am not going to charge you for this consultation, because you paid the $50 for the treatment by Nurse Anne,” she explained, “I’m booking an appointment for Wednesday next. In the meantime I want to break down the wax by means of drops twice a day – I’ll arrange a doctor’s script for the drops.”

Here we are, three days into using the wax-dissolving wonder drops, and my hearing is no better, getting even worse at times. It is scary to even try to imagine what the world, and indeed living itself, is like if one is unable to hear at all.

We never appreciate our senses until we are deprived of them one day.

Four New Kiwis

The time is just after midnight on 4 September 2008. A single figure strides through the biting cold at the Wellington airport, having departed O.R. Tambo airport just on 24 hours earlier.

A few months later, a figure accompanied by a 4-year-old and a 11-year-old, around midnight of 25th December strides through the same space, having left O.R. Tambo on 24 December.

The first person in September was our son Clayton, arriving to start a new job with a large company in Wellington city. The other person arriving in December was our daughter Bianca, with our grandchildren Tyler and Brynn under her care.

That was 2008. Since then, just on six years have passed, and last night Wednesday 1 October 2014 marked a milestone for this young Waikanae family, a family of New Zealanders as from the moment when they took the Oath of Allegiance at the Council Chambers of the KCDC in Paraparaumu.

Just before 7:00pm we arrived at the hall as guests to Clayton, Bianca, Tyler and Brynn to be able to witness our children and grandchildren receiving the certificates which prove their newly-gained citizenship.

“I, Clayton James Andrews of Waikanae, swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, Queen of New Zealand, her heirs and successors, according to law, and that I will faithfully observe the laws of New Zealand and fulfil my duties as a New Zealand citizen, so help me God.”

After the opening prayer, then the introduction of dignitaries, and the opening speech by Mayor Ross Church, the taking of the Oath was taken by 40 new citizens. This was done in alphabetical sequence, “Andrews” topping the list.

(Above): The Andrews clan organising themselves in p-reparation of their turn at the front of the hall. Apologies to Bianca for the poor quality of photo taken from our guest zone seat near the back. 

The full names of Clayton, Bianca, Tyler and Brynn were called as a group. They stood in front of the other applicants and their guests, each in turn stated his/her name and address, and then the group read out in unison the Oath of Allegiance.

By way of congratulations, the members of the audience clapped for each applicant or group, followed by official photos of the applicants and photos with their guests/families.

Congratulations to each of you, Clayton, Bianca, Tyler and Brynn. We are proud of you, and are overjoyed that you have reached this milestone in life.

Just before the closing prayer, the National Anthem was sung in Maori and English,

“E Ihoa, Atua,
O nga iwi, matou ra,
Ata whakarongo na,
Me aroha noa

Kia hua, ko te pai,
Kia tau to atawhai,
Manaakitia mai,
Aotearoa

God of nations at thy feet,
In the binds of love we meet,
Hear our voices we entreat,
God defend our free land

Guard Pacific’s triple star,
From the shafts of strife and war,
Make her praises heard afar,
God defend New Zealand.”

A light dinner and tea was served after what was a pleasant and very memorable evening.

Writing Challenge–Day 5

The instruction for Day 5 of the 30-Day challenge reads:

[ Brief:  Your character has a date but decides not to show up. Your character believes
he has a very good reason for this decision (you decide the reason). But
your character's date is furious and decides to make your character sorry… ]

Wednesday 8:30pm
Ben and Cynthia had a date for Friday night. They pre-arranged to meet at the northern entrance of the local football stadium for the game between the home team the Golden Arrows and the Silver Aces from the next-door province which was due to start at 8:30

“Cynthia,” Ben had chanted over the phone on Wednesday evening, “I am so grateful that you are also keen to go to the match. It is billed as the match of the season, not to be missed. It really means a lot to me that you will accompany me. I’ll get the tickets after work and then meet you not later than 7:30 at Gate number 7 on the northern side of the stadium near the station, Ok?  Oh, and be sure to wear something warm and woolly, the forecast is for clear but very cold weather.”

Cynthia so desperately missed the words of endearment that any girl would like to hear. A darling, or something about love, a precious, anything other than grateful, or meaning a lot, or accompany me. Nevertheless, this was an opportunity to get out into the social circle, especially as her date Ben was well-liked by the guys and popular with the girls.

                                                          * * * * * * *

Saturday 5:00pm

Ben has just climbed out of the shower and preparing to get ready for the football match to-night. This will be a swell occasion, especially considering that he’d managed to get complimentary tickets to the team hospitality suite. Real special, as Ben knew many of the team members and reserves. Real special, as this date would really impress the Cynthia bird, and she could be a huge publicity agent for him among the girls on the social  scene.

Ben lies flat on his back on the bed in his bachelor pad, looking out over the bay. He really was a lucky guy, he thought to himself. But, he mused, he was worth it.

The telephone rings. Probably that Cynthia bird, with some sort of damn-fool question again. He rolls over the bed and retrieves the latest mobile from the bedside table, “Ellooow, Ben here.”

“Hi Ben, darling,” the sweetest voice he’d heard for many a day, “You won’t know me, but my name is Celeste. My older brother is Hiram Graham who plays for the Golden Arrows. You know him, not so?”

“Naturally, Celeste, I know most of the regular boys on the team,” Ben exaggerated. He recalled that Hiram had been the fellow who had organised his complementary tickets.

“Well, Ben darling, I was just wondering…. I was just wondering whether we couldn’t perhaps go to tonight’s game together… as a… you know… as a couple.”

It was coming back clearly to him now. Celeste was the blonde number who’d been junior drum majorette leader, and had subsequently won a string of beauty and personality contest. She had also graduate from college a few years earlier cum laude. She was more than a pretty lass, she could do intelligent conversation as well.

“Celeste, just hold on a moment. I need to turn the telly down, so’s I can hear you properly,” Ben desperately needed to buy some time at a discount from the wholesalers, as he muted the phone. Cynthia or Celeste? Celeste or Cynthia? Both were pretty girls, both… But was Cynthia capable of stringing more than three words together? He had never yet had any intelligent discussion with her.

He un-muted the phone, “Hi Celeste, that’s better, now I can hear, thanks. What were you saying before the line broke up?”

“I was wondering whether we might go to the game together to-night?”

Celeste or Cynthia. He had already made the date with Cynthia. Could he simply just drop her for this blonde bombshell, the sister of a key player and hero in the local football team? Think quickly, Ben chided himself for indecision. It’s now or never.

“Sure, it’ll be my pleasure, I’d love to, Celeste. Shall I pick you up at… say around 7:30? That will give us tons of time to settle in before the game. Oh, and wear something warm and woolly… although we’ll be in the hospitality suite for most of the night…” Ben faltered a bit, his mind racing ahead, “so 7:30 at your place?”

Ben lay back, pleased at his “catch.” Cynthia? Hell he should do something about Cynthia.

                                                                 * * * * * * *

Saturday  7:20pm
Outside Gate number 7 at the stadium, Cynthia stood waiting, watching the groups of people and couples, going through the turnstiles for the game. She kept her eyes peeled, looking down towards the car-park, where she would see her date arriving in the next few minutes. The gate was fairly wide, so that she needed to pay careful attention to the folk passing that line.

She was starting to feel a bit embarrassed at her alone-ness, but nevertheless keep looking out. Then her mobile started ringing.

“Hi Cynthia, darling, “Ben’s voice croaked over the phone. “Man, I’ve been down heavy with the flu since Wednesday morning. I’m still running a high temperature and the doctor says I should stay in bed until Monday or Tuesday.”

“So, our date’s off? I shouldn’t go to the stadium, then?”

“I’m afraid there’s no way I can even go outside, with this dose of flu, but I’ll make it up to you next time, perhaps. Ok, bye for now.”

Cynthia’s voice choked as she accepted the stand-up, “Yeah.”

She stood against the wall, her head a bit dizzy with anger. She tried to keep up the appearance of someone waiting for her date, rather than walking against the tide of oncoming spectators. She just waited and waited.

On the far side of the gate entrance, something strange caught Cynthia’s eye. A couple arriving from the car park, the guy wearing a distinctive red jacket and hood. She knew that outfit. It was… no, surely not, she struggled to accept the obvious.

On Ben’s left arm, was a shapely young woman with beautiful long blonde hair, “So, that’s what your flu looks like, Mr Smarty, you lying beast,” Cynthia said out aloud to herself. She struggled to fight back the tears from welling up in the corners of her little eyes.

She watched as the bright couple walked towards the turnstiles, entering at the point marked “Home Team Suite.” Then she recalled the name of the blonde on Ben’s arm, that was Celeste Graham, the celebrity drum majorette leader, or something.

As the couple disappeared into the stadium, Cynthia bit her lip had, fumbled for some cash in her purse and was in the stadium with enough time to spare for the start of the game. She really wanted to see the game, and had agreed to accompany Ben as a secondary aim. She wouldn’t let this two-timing liar spoil the match of the season for her.

As she stood up to stretch her long shapely legs at the half-time intermission break, a plan suddenly dawned on her. As many of the spectators were rushing down to the hamburger and drinks stands below, she scooted across the rows of seat and up to the VIP promotion suites, until she arrived at the staircase marked “Golden Arrows Promotions.”

Up the dozen or so stairs, and Cynthia reached the unguarded door. It was open. She strolled in and look at the few groups of VIP spectators sitting with their snacks and drinks. A waiter came over, to enquire if he could help.

“Won’t you please ask that gent in the red suit over their, next to Miss Celeste Graham, that I’m here to see him. Please, I’d appreciate it.”

Moments later, Ben strolled across to the door, with all eyes in the room on him.

Cynthia had made up her mind. She had decided that, despite the fact that others may disagree with her methods. She stood firmly in the doorway, spoke firmly without faltering in a clear loud voice, “So this is what the flu looks like, Ben?”

“This is the terrible condition,” walking across top a point near Celeste’s chair, “that caused you to have to lie to me as to why you were breaking off our date?”

She smiled briefly at Celeste, “Good luck with his lies, Celeste. Just take care.”

She walked carefully back to the door, turned around and addressed all present, “I am really sorry if I disturbed anyone. I trust you all will enjoy the second half of the match, as much as I will. Bye for now”

[ 1,485 words ]

[The brief for Day 6 of the 30-Day writing challenge reads: Write a story that includes: twins, a 12-layer cake, a house that seems to be haunted but isn't…]

Writing Challenge : Day 4

 

The instruction for Day 4 of the 30-Day challenge reads:

[Brief: Think of two very different people you know. Invent a character who combines
characteristics of both of them. Then put this character in a stressful family
situation...]

The instruction makes sense. But the difficult bit is the words “very different”. Of course, the question is: how believable will the so-called stressful situation be?

I do not currently know either of the two people I have chosen, but have known each of them in my past. As many of my readers might recognise either or both of them, I choose to make some minor adjustments to their situations, characters or habits. Quite naturally, I am not using their correct names…

Thomas and Richard were two very different people.

The Rev Thomas McCuddy (known as “Tom”) was a diligent and devout Anglican priest, about 30 years of age, who served in conjunction with Father Jackson and Rev Petersen at a church in an underprivileged community in the south of Johannesburg.

Richard Smithers (known to his pals and the police as “Dick”) was the son of a wealthy mining magnate from one of the affluent northern suburbs of Johannesburg.  After dropping out of high school, Tom teamed up with a group of no-gooders, who saw the possibilities of having a friend with an endless supply of ready cash on tap. One thing led to another, mostly drugs and drink, and, eventually, the police. He was not imprisoned for his misdemeanours, which were classified as “minor”, which in turn meant that he did not learn anything from his brush with the law. He got to know the police department more intimately for a fifth and sixth time, at which point he was locked in a holding cell overnight.

It was the morning after this particular night when Dick spent the small hours in the cell of the police station, that Tom just happened to visit the facility for the purpose of saving souls, as he frequently did. When he met Dick, he sensed that this young man was not your common petty criminal. He could see past the dirty veneer and past the alcohol-laden breath. As was his style, he had an arrangement with the duty officers that he would take responsibility for the welfare and behaviour of “minor” troublemakers, in the name of the church.

Tom explained the situation to Dick, and that he had a small but clean room on the property at the church, and that he would find chores which Dick could do in exchange for his food and lodgings. He made no promises of grandeur, no luxury or exotic meals, but he could guarantee a lifestyle which did not include police holding cells, for proper and lawful behaviour.

Dick had reached the point where he knew that any  way forward  in prison would be the start of a slippery slope towards the end. The situation as explained by the priest made perfect sense, so he shook hands and he was release within the hour into the care of Rev Thomas McCuddy of the St Mark’s Anglican Church, Diagonal Street, Rewlatch.

“Holy shit, your reverendness, you’ve got a crappy car for a top bod of the kirk,” was Dick’s first comment as they left the parking lot of the police yard in a battered Ford Anglia 1100, “How about a fag? Those buggers in the cop shop are as stingy as hell, the bastards – won’t even give a guy a smoke.”

“You can start by calling me Tom, Richard. And I do not smoke, nor do I condone the foul habit, either. Behind this collar, I’m an ordinary guy, just like anyone else, and I do not earn a large salary, as our community is of meagre means, hence my transport is not of the latest model. But it helps me to get from point A to point B in reasonable comfort. I’m not here to impress.”

“Sorry, your rev… er Tom. And my friends call me Dick. I didn’t mean to be rude, and all, you know,” Dick replied.

And so it came to pass that Tom found many odd jobs for Dick, who gradually saw the folly of his ways and the damage that his mis-spent youth had caused. Dick mowed lawns and weeded pavements, washed cars, cleaned windows, and assisted a furniture removal company. His transformation was almost a miracle, and it seemed to hinge on the fact that he no longer had contact with the petty crime rings, and, more probably, he no longer had access to liquor or drugs.  Dick was rapidly being transformed back into the Richard of old once more.

The parish parsons lived in a 4-roomed cottage at the bottom of the church grounds in Diagonal Street. They shared a communal bathroom, a large dining room and a cosy little sitting room with a little fireplace for the cold winter nights and a television set donated by a member of the congregation. Richard occupied Room 4 at the back next to the bathroom during this time, and paid his own way towards food from earnings derived from all the odd jobs offered by members of the parish.

Richard had slowly become more accustomed to the daily evening prayer after the nine o’clock news, and participated when asked, if he felt able to do so. His style of talking had changed from the loose-living coarse jargon to the new revised proper English without the use of foul language.

And so it came to pass that Tom, whose elderly parents, his father also a parson, got a call from his mother inviting him to dinner in their Boksburg home the next Friday evening, to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary.

“And bring your new friend Richard along as well. Father agrees, from what you’ve told us, he sounds like a real interesting and colourful character. See the both of you at seven, darling.”

Friday evening arrived pretty smartly. Just before 7:00pm Tom and Dick arrived at Tom’s parents’ home in Boksburg in the cream and blue Ford Anglia 1100. His mother came down the steps to meet her son and his guest, and took them into the lounge for proper introduction to Tom’s dad.

As an appetiser, Tom’s mother poured out generous helpings of Sherry to open the conversation, which would naturally include tales of Richard’s reformation.

A tasty supper ensued, with idle chatter, mostly Tom’s mother questioning him about various matters regarding his parish, and the work that he had been doing. Tom’s father and Richard did not participate actively, and concentrated on their plates.

After dinner, Tom’s father rose from his chair and beckoned to the others to follow him to the lounge with the cosy fire. He poured generous helpings of Cognac, which he saved for those “special” occasions. This was apparently a special occasion.

Richard thanked Tom’s mother for the meal and complimented her on the way she had prepared the meat dish, especially.

“It is only a pleasure, lad. And it’s so good to see that there are still some young people around with manners. Don’t you agree, Bill?” This was the first time that Richard became aware of Tom’s father’s name.

Now, remember that a period of six or seven months had gone by during which Richard had been a teetotaller. That had been a condition under which Tom had been granted “custody” by the police.  When the spirit beverage touched his tongue, it was like honey from heaven, countless pleasant memories flooded back, as his blood pressure rose with the juice entering his circulation. And with this change, the looseness of his tongue increased proportionately.

Richard started speaking to Tom’s parents as if they were long lost friends, as he held his glass for a refill, and then another. Tom, a bit apprehensive, put up a brave facade and did not try to intervene in the distribution of the potent red juice.

“No, I have never been in a happier phase of my lie than since old Tom here rescued me from those fascist pigs who were only intent on destroying our lives simply for their amusement, rather than being real cops and hunting down real criminals,” Richard blurted out all of a sudden, changing the subject. “I was never actually imprisoned by a judge for any crime.”

“Oh, yes Richard, that is so nice to hear,” Tom’s mother smiled at Richard, “he is generous fellow and always shares with others.”

“You’re so right, Mrs Mac, Tom shares, he has even shared his bed on some cold nights. The rooms at the rectory are pretty cold, you know.” 

There ensued an awkward silence for a moment, until Tom’s mother slowly and softly uttered, “Shared his bed…?”

“Our beds are not very big, and snuggling up under two blankets instead of one each, is much more pleasant,” he explained.

Tom’s father, who had been rather silent for most of the conversation, said nothing as he stared ahead and simply grunted, almost inaudibly . He got up and looked at the face of the grandfather clock, and croaked, “Oh look at the time, I guess we better let the boys be on the way, Martha. I’m sure Tom needs the time to prepare for his sermon for tomorrow morning.”

A few minutes later, the Ford Anglia was moving southwards, back to Rewlath. Neither of the occupants spoke for quite a while.

Then Tom glanced towards his passenger, “What on earth came across you to make up that nonsense about sharing a bed? Are you crazy or what?”

Another long silence, the Richard replied quite casually, “The conversation was getting quite boring, and I though a bombshell might liven things up, but it seems I was wrong. Sorry, man.”                                                           

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[  1,640 words ]

[  The brief for Day 5 of the 30-Day writing challenge is: Your character has a date but decides not to show up. Your character believes he/she has a very good reason for this decision (you decide the reason). But your character's date is furious and decides to make your character sorry… ]