 
Strange Times;

Wacky Anecdotes

By

John M W Smith

Published by John M W Smith at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 John M W Smith

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Website: <http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

Hi, I'm John,

Over the past year I made a series of posts on my blog to relate incidents from my life so far.

Encouraged by the interest that they aroused, I decided to compile them into a free ebook to reach even more readers and this, then, is the result of my efforts.

So, as I value my reputation of getting straight to the point, I'll let you begin without further ado........and, who knows, you might even have time to visit my website.

I hope you enjoy the ride.

Love to you all,

John.

CONTENTS

A Pretty Face Is All You Need

Death Goes To School

Epiphany At A Roadside Diner

Gaby The Go-getter

In Your Dreams, Man!

Life Is Such A Fragile Thing

Love Works Best On A Desert Island

My Weird Job Interview

Of Such Things Are Made Heroes

Please Release Me!

Suicide Negotiator

The Best Place To Be

The Gaddafi Effect

The Gandhi Method

The Naked Assailant

The Night-time Spider

The Perils Of Long Distance Love

The Reluctant Voyager

Tragedy At The Duck Pond

True Love

"Yes, I'm Leaving You...."

A Pretty Face Is All You Need

It happened when I was nine years old. High up in the Himalayan mountains on a day out trekking. The memory still fills me with guilt and shame.

Although I can now rationalise what happened---and, of course, I was only a kid at the time---it makes little difference. I suppose it was just another mystery of nature that we will never fathom.

We had hired a couple of pack ponies and, when I got tired of walking, my parents allowed me to ride one of them. I was rather skinny, so my weight made little difference to the load they were already carrying---a carpet, lunch, a foam mattress (my dad liked a nap), some warm clothes, a fishing rod.

While my parents walked on ahead, my pony minder, the guy whose pony we had hired, made conversation with me. He talked about his miserable life, the children he had lost to disease. The struggle to find food, the wet winters, the icy cold, the draughty little hut in which his family huddled to survive the best they could. I felt really sorry for him and suitably ashamed of my own life which was luxurious by comparison. He said his wife was losing her sight and needed to make a trip to the doctor, but it was too expensive. So could I perhaps persuade my parents to give him a few extra rupees at the end of the trip? I know, I know, maybe he was taking me for a sucker. Did it matter? Not a bit. Just one look at his matchstick-limbed body, torn clothes and sunken cheeks made me feel for him---he needed the extra cash, if only to make his life a little more tolerable for a fleeting moment in time. Was that too much to ask? Of course I said yes, I would speak to my dad. I certainly would.

A while later, when we stopped, he helped me down from the pony. The cap he was wearing slipped off and into sight came his bare head. It was covered in sores. Horrible, livid eruptions. I stared at the revolting sight, shivering with horror.

At 9 years old I was not able to hide the disgust that jumped to my face. He caught my look and hurriedly pulled his cap back on, as if covering up some dreadful sin. We didn't talk much after that.

The trek ended. We were back at our well-equipped tourist bungalow. Our beaming cook appeared, anxious to serve us a delicious hot dinner. My father paid the pony-men. Whatever had been agreed. I looked away, aware of the supplicating look from the man who had almost become a friend. I turned my back on him forever. He had let me down. He was ugly. I couldn't stand him, the awfulness that lay beneath his tattered cotton cap.

Hard though it is to admit, that is the way that nature has programmed us. Appearances count. They count one heck of a lot, actually. There are loads of really good singers out there who never make it because they are not good looking. Then there are loads who cannot sing but easily make it to no. 1 in the charts. I've never seen a handsome beggar. Ugly politicians never make it right to the top. Even the baddy in a film has to have an evil beauty.. We judge people by their looks, like it or not. So, I say bring on the Botox, the cosmetic surgery, the prosthetic enhancements, the make-up that even men wear nowadays. For where would we be without them! Ugly people don't seem suited to survive, you see. So one day evolution will rid us of them. Or maybe they'll still be there underneath everything that they've had done to themselves, only we'll never know it. Unless you're a towering genius or a millionaire, your looks will determine exactly how far you will get in life.

What sad, sad human beings we are! How I still hate myself for letting down that pony-man. May God forgive me!

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

Death Goes To School

In my last blogpost I tried to illustrate how the mention of death is so unwelcome as to instantly unsettle the equilibrium of human interaction. The very whiff of it produces a primal gut reaction with which the rational mind struggles to cope. This week I again want to reach into my past to prove the point.

Mr Ostler was a teacher whom we 13/14 -year-olds heartily despised. He wasn't fair. He enjoyed meting out punishment too much. He took no trouble to disguise the fact that he had the lowest opinion of us, and that is hardly the way to win friends and influence teenagers, now, is it!

So why was he like that? Hard to say. Maybe it had something to do with him being five foot nothing and feeling intimidated by us towering over him. Or that his wife left him for a younger man. Or that he boasted about his connections in high places.....he had a photo of himself with the prime minister. What's so great about that? All you have to do is turn up at the opening of a new supermarket while the future PM is still an MP. There will be no minders around. Simply slip to the front, get next to the guy, and have a friend quickly snap you and voila.....but I digress!

Mr Ostler had a 4 inch long wooden rod that he held hidden in his fist. If there was a group of maybe four or five of us standing chatting in the playing field, this man would spring from nowhere, and, keeping his hand at waist height, he would prod us painfully, saying, "break it up. I know what you are up to. Enough of your bad mouthing (jab to the left) your teachers (jab to the right). You think you're great because your parents are important people (jab! jab!). Let me tell you, you're nothing here. Nothing!"

It hurt like heck. It was all we could do not to take a swing at him. But I think the unfairness of it all hurt even more. Bloodshot eyes. Spittle flying. Hoarse throated through constant shouting. Red faced and overweight. A truly disgusting spectacle. Funny thing is, the headmaster thought Mr Ostler was very good at his job. That it was he who single-handedly maintained iron discipline in an all boys school.

Okay, imagine the worst sergeant major you have ever seen caricatured, bullying and tormenting the new recruits, and you'll be looking at what Mr Ostler was all about.

His detentions were legendary, lasting 2 to 3 hours after school. Well, he had no home life so what did he care about getting home to chill out! And the creepy lectures he'd give us during those detentions, about foul thoughts, self abuse and its catastrophic physical consequences (all medically untrue--- what an ignorant man!), cold showers, the depravity of modern society, the obscene media imagery--- well, he more or less hated the whole world, this sad man did, and we had to sit and listen to him.

As they say, what goes around, comes around. Sooner or later, if you tempt fate for long enough, it catches up with you to level the score. And so it happened with Mr Ostler. Quite dramatically and very suddenly.

One morning the bell rang and we made our way into the hall for assembly. At once many of us detected a frisson of unrest among our teachers. Something had happened, but what was it? We did not have long to find out. A grim faced headmaster mounted the dais and collected his weighty thoughts as he adjusted the microphone over the lectern.

"This morning.....ahem....I have just received a phone call with some very sad news indeed. I am very sorry to inform you all that Mr Ostler passed away in the early hours, of a sudden heart attack whilst at home. This has come as a great shock to us all. He was a much valued and admired member of our staff and will be sadly missed.......(no there were no sniggers or smothered smiles from any of us. We, too, were shocked by the suddenness of it. Besides, we were far more decent guys than Mr Ostler had ever given us credit for being)......so, before we go any further, I would like you all to bow your heads and join me in prayer for our dear departed Mr Ostler........"

A collective rustle all around the hall as we composed ourselves, hands crossed in front, heads down, still taking in the news. Complete silence.......but not for long!

A plaintive cry at the main doorway. Heads jerking up, swinging around, everyone's eyes popping with disbelief. "I tell you, I'm here. I'm alive. I'm not dead. I never was dead," shrieked Mr Ostler in frustration as his squat figure stood there, silhouetted in the doorway against the clean morning sunlight.......and suddenly a rumble started from one end of the hall and swept, like an ocean wave, right across the expanse of the entire assembly. Laughter. Wave after wave of it. A nervous release from the tension? The ridiculous sight of Mr Ostler protesting his claim to life? Whatever it was, it rocked that assembly hall for a good few minutes while the headmaster, looking baffled and very displeased, made his way to the back of the hall, took Mr Ostler's arm firmly, and led him away to his office. The deputy head took his place and dismissed us as quickly as he could. Everyone seemed keen to be gone from the hall. That scene. The unpleasantness of death. The complete humiliation of Mr Ostler.

Well, despite extensive investigation no one ever found out which of us boys had, at dawn, crept into Mr Ostler's front garden and slashed the tires of his moped. Just as no one found out who had telephoned the school to say they were a member of Mr Ostler's family and had some very bad news. And Mr Ostler was late to school because he thought it wouldn't matter just this once, seeing as he wasn't familiar with bus timetables.

And now here's the really strange bit.

The whole affair seemed to affect Mr Ostler in some very profound way. Don't ask me what went on in his tiny mind. I don't know, and I doubt anyone else did. But he changed. He left us more or less alone, unless we had really done something bad. He became comparatively subdued. Frequently withdrawn. Diminished in some subtle aspect. He also became very religious, and started spending all his spare time doing good works for the church instead of haranguing us during detention--- which was fine by us. Yes, it could be said that death had a sobering effect on Mr Ostler.

As time went by, our attitude changed. Some of us even got to like him. After all, he had proved that he was human like all the rest of us. Death had seen to that!

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

Epiphany at a Roadside Diner

It happened on my way to spending the weekend at a friend's house.

It was still too early to wake him up, so I stopped, a few miles away, to have breakfast at a diner just off the road.

The place was empty and I ordered coffee and sunny side up eggs on fried bread ( I know, not healthy, but I like it). The lady behind the counter was middle-aged, about average in build with a detached air about her. It was as if she was physically there, but mentally elsewhere at a place that interested her far more, judging by the occasional glint in her sad eyes. Unfailingly polite, though, making a big attempt to smile cheerfully as she placed my breakfast on the counter. She intrigued me, with her 'inhabiting another plane' air of cool but polite reserve. I remember thinking that none of any nastiness from her daily customers would impact on her at all; they would be no more than shadows on a screen. Good for her, I found myself thinking. And that's because I'm one of those people who heartily dislikes customer interface in any line of work.

I glanced across and saw she had been doodling on a paper napkin. She had drawn a large door with a big handle. The door was half open, and outside was a swirling mass of flying birds, the sun, moon, trees and flowers, a rainbow-like arc. But inside the door was a carpet, a table lamp, ordinary objects in an ordinary room. She caught me looking, and quickly screwed up the napkin with a guilty air.

'Nice artwork,' I murmured, to put her at ease.

'It....it's nothing.'

She said it in a way that made me think it was far from being nothing.

'What we draw absent-mindedly shows a lot about our inner thoughts,' I added. Maybe I was trying to get her to talk a bit more? It's not something I usually try to do with strangers, but I was still curious about her. She didn't reply, and there was a dreamy sort of half smile on her face as she tidied away my breakfast dishes. I paid and was getting ready to leave. No sense in pestering people. It wasn't good manners, however curious I was about her. Then, just as I got up, she turned and said,

'It's where I go---you know, when I'm not busy.'

She glanced around nervously even though there was no one else around. I settled back on my stool and put on the kindest face I could.

'And where would that be?'

'Oh, it's just a place. An open place next to a wood not far from here. At the edge are some tall bushes, and if you go through them you......' she stopped, looking confused and breathing heavily, not meeting my eyes.

'There is nothing wrong with that,' I soothed. 'It's nice to have somewhere you can be alone.'

She brightened up even more.

'But I'm not alone. I'm never alone there.' Her vagueness had been replaced by a barely controlled excitement. She was now truly alive, a vibrant presence in the small diner. 'Joey is there. He's always there. I can hear him.'

Hoping she wouldn't notice, I measured the distance to the exit in case I needed to leave in a hurry.

'Joey is with you? Is he a friend?'

'Friend?' She seemed confused. 'Joey? No, Joey is my son. My little baby.'

'Er...... right.'

I nodded encouragingly, waiting for more, reassured that the wide and heavy diner-counter was between us.

'You must think I'm mad,' she burst out.

'No, no....never,' I lied quickly.

With what seemed a huge effort she controlled herself, taking long and deep breaths and sitting herself down. A little of her former sadness had returned.

'It was some 10 years ago. Alfie---that's my older son, had taken Joey for a walk. Joey was only four. It was a warm day. Alfie lay down under a tree in the wood---somehow he managed to doze off. He swears it was only for a few seconds. When he opened his eyes Joey was gone. We never found him.'

She fell silent, staring down at her hands where she had crumpled one corner of her dress into a soggy mess. There had to be more. I had to know.

'He couldn't have just disappeared,' I prompted gently.

'Didn't I mention....at the edge of the wood there were some bushes. Beyond them there was the....highway.' She spoke the word reluctantly. 'But Joey would never go there, we'd taught him to stay clear of roads.'

'Ah....'

That's what Joey had been taught, only he clearly hadn't learned. It was obvious that he had wandered onto the highway and been kidnapped or something. No one ever just disappears off the face of the earth. There was just one problem; try convincing the diner lady about that!

She looked up calmly and met my eyes.

'You can think whatever you want, but whenever I stand by those bushes---even now---if I stand for long enough I can hear Joey calling out to me. And I always call back, 'I'm here, my baby. Momma's waiting for you. I'll wait for you for always.' You know, Mr.....'

'Call me John.'

'..... John. I'm Sally. Have you heard of these time-slip places? Like in that Stargate film on TV? That's what's happened. Joey's slipped through one of those time-slip doors and the poor love can't get back. One day he will....it stands to reason, doesn't it, John? If the time slip door can open once, it can open again, can't it?'

'No reason why it couldn't,' I replied hastily, amazed at myself for going along with her fantasy. This had to stop. The poor woman was deluded. It wasn't right for her to torment herself like this.

'Um...Sally....has anyone else ever stood there and heard Joey calling out?'

I had to take it slowly. Sally shrugged.

'Can't say for sure. The newspapers talked to me. Folk came from all over. Most of them couldn't hear anything. But a few....a few did. And....'

By now Sally was slowly deflating---there's no other word to describe it better---back to her former self. Sad. Detached.

'.....the newspapers said they must have been just as kooky as I was. The world is full of oddballs like that, they said. After a while they left me alone....but I still go there. I sometimes take a picnic and lay it out in the shade of the bushes. I know that one day Joey will walk right back through again, and he'll sit down and join me. I always make sure I have his favourite peanut butter and jelly sandwiches....'

Sally trailed off. I knew I was losing her again. I was like the others. I didn't believe her. I was never going to be part of her world. It had been a mistake for her to think so. We were back where we had started, the distance increasing into a yawning gulf between us every second.

I got up to leave. She didn't bother to look up. She knew what I now thought of her. There was nothing I could give her.

'Must go.' I pasted a false grin on my face. 'Nice talking to you Sally.'

I edged sideways to the door. She didn't reply or even look up.

Outside, the sun was shining. It was a beautiful morning. I thought of my friend waiting for me and the fun filled weekend he had promised---fishing, some pheasant shooting, a ride in his new boat. It was great to be alive. Sure, it was tough for Sally, but I didn't belong in her world.

I got into my car and started the engine. And then I switched it off. I couldn't get Sally out of my mind and I felt ashamed of myself. All sorts of philosophical musings began crowding my brain. I thought of the way life throws bad stuff at us. The few moments of happiness that we must fight to achieve. How we are all too often buffeted by fate, hurled about like rag dolls, left shattered and bruised to struggle to our feet and start over again. All for what? It all seemed so pointless, yet here I was, perhaps able to show a brave woman like Sally that there might be a point to it after all! And what had I done? Why, I had turned my back on her and walked away, confident of my sanity and my grasp on reason and reality, no way prepared to believe a word she said.

Like all the others. That's what Sally had said.

I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. I had to put things right. I had the power to do it, because I had just remembered something....

With a new spring in my step I turned around and marched straight back into the diner. Sally was sitting exactly where I had left her. She looked up with glazed eyes.

'Sally, I was wrong. I just remembered---you know, when I got outside. I read this piece in a newspaper a while back---one of these true encounter things; there were witnesses, you see.....

And I sat back down on the stool I had vacated minutes earlier and told Sally, the diner lady, all about a similar case where long after a mysterious disappearance people could hear the voice of the person who had vanished. And at that moment, as I sat telling Sally about it, I swear I believed every word of it with all my heart.

Well, what more is there to say? The effect on Sally was a wonderful sight to behold. At first she was suspicious of me, then she got carried away by my enthusiasm. After all, she herself wanted to believe it so much.

When I had finished she got up and came around the counter to give me a great hug. I was no longer frightened of her any more, and I hugged her back. Sally smelled of newly cut grass, fresh summer air and dandelions.

'Bye, Sally,' I said gruffly, and headed out again before she saw the tears in my eyes.

We all have our own ways of coping. This was Sally's way. Who did I think I was, Mr Hotshot Writer with his superior education and reason.

Hah!

Why, I was nothing in front of people like Sally, who had the strength to survive such a terrible event in their lives. It had been my privilege to admit this to her!

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

Gaby The Go-getter

I like strong and clever women. Their company is stimulating. I can sit enthralled by them for hours. They make me feel alive, they rivet my senses.

Some men are different. They feel threatened by such women. This is the main reason why my friend Gaby, successful in just about everything imaginable, still remained bereft of a love in her life.

Me? Sadly, no. So powerful a lady is Gabby that even I am not man enough to handle her. So that is why we have always been just friends. Yes, good friends since school, even though nowadays we don't meet up for a coffee as often as we used to. Why? Well, I think it all goes back to one fateful afternoon when we met at a cafe for our once a month rendezvous......

The cafe was unusually crowded. Perhaps it was the good weather. Gaby was already there, spotting me instantly and waving even as she conveyed a large mug of frothy cappuccino to her lovely lips. I waved back.

To reserve a place for me, Gabby had placed her handbag on the next chair. I only vaguely registered the fact that it was unfastened. Even less did I notice the anonymous, shifty-eyed guy on a nearby stool.

A serial entrepreneur, Gaby owned a whole string of businesses--- and even the cafe we were in. Which is why I hadn't had to pay for the gigantic cafe-latte that I carried over to Gaby's table. Don't get me wrong, I'm no freeloader, but Alberto, the manager, had told his staff never to accept payment from me (no doubt on Gaby's instructions).

As usual, Gaby and I exchanged chaste kisses on the cheek, and, as usual, I looked across at Alberto and winked a greeting across to where he sat at his vantage point next to the cash register. Beaming from ear to ear, Alberto winked back. It was a ritual.

Finally Gaby moved her handbag so I could sit on the chair. She placed the handbag on the ground next to her own chair. The little guy on the stool hadn't moved after catching my eye and now he looked hurriedly away. He was small, wiry and muscular with a crappy earring in one ear, wearing a dirty T-shirt with cut-off sleeves, and faded jeans torn at the knee. A loser. Some small-time punk. I dismissed him from my mind.

Gabby was in her usual irrepressibly high spirits, immediately launching into a description of the psychological tactics she had used to clinch yet another lucrative business deal. I listened, genuinely interested, because she could bring wit and fun to even the most boring subject----and the way she had negotiated this deal was anything but boring. Time flew----I don't know how long, as I never cared about the time when I was with Gaby. And then suddenly she glanced aside----then glanced again. Her expression changed. 'Hey--- it's been moved,' she muttered.

With one swift movement she had retrieved her handbag off the floor. She began rummaging in it. 'My purse----it's gone!' She looked up and around. I was already scanning the sea of faces before us when I saw the Mr Nobody who had been sitting close to us at the counter---he was heading unhurriedly but purposefully towards the exit. Gaby saw him a heartbeat later. 'I bet it's him......' she whispered. 'I've got another cell-phone----he doesn't know that--- watch carefully, John, here we go now.....'

I was used to Gaby's mind moving at lightning speed. Thank goodness my own mind is only marginally slower, so I had no trouble grasping what was going on; in the purse that Mr Nobody had taken from Gaby's handbag was a cell-phone. But there was a second-cell phone in her handbag, and in a flash she had dialled the number of the cell-phone lying within her stolen purse. It's musically warbling ring-tone drifted over the heads of the other patrons in the cafe. Mr Nobody hadn't been expecting this. His step faltered. He looked around wildly, clamped one hand to his waist (yes, the wretch had a stuffed Gaby,'s purse down the front waistband of his tatty jeans)--- and began running.

'Stop him--- he's stolen my purse,' bawled Gaby, on her feet and pointing towards the man as he scurried away.

Now, he might have made it out if he had kept his head. But the ringing cell-phone had frazzled his brain. This cafe had electric sliding doors to keep their air conditioning in, and he had forgotten that it is no use running full tilt at electric sliding doors--- the sensors will not hurry for you, they will take their time, which is why Mr Thief ran smack into the glass doors before they could even begin to slide open.

Stunned, he fell to the ground. Alberto and two waiters piled on top of him. Gaby smiled. 'Gotcha,' she whispered to no one in particular. 'Call the cops--- I'm pressing charges,' she added loudly as she strolled through the surrounding coffee tables. Admiring heads turned at the snap of authority in the tone of this glamorous, sharply dressed lady. Taking her time, she approached the little thief. He had been hauled to his feet and was held securely. Gaby reached forward and in one fluid movement extracted her purse from the man's waistband. He was beaten, the misery of defeat quite obviously a frequent visitor to his face. Perspiration shone on his forehead as he stood drenched in shame. By now I had caught up with Gaby, anxious for her safety in case anything physical happened--- although I'm sure she could have looked after herself just fine.

'Thought you could get away, did you?' she said conversationally to the thief. He hung his head, a surly looking specimen, devoid of all dignity. He glanced upwards at Gaby and then quickly away.....and in that instant something passed between them. Something that even as a writer I find it hard to find the proper words to describe. Yes, there was the expected surly defiance, the pathetic challenge, the jeering acceptance, even some reluctant admiration, all that---and something more. Something primal, full of hopeless longing, all wrapped up in a wretched abasement at the feet of a greater God.

There was a flash of response in Gaby's eyes, so fast that I almost missed it. But it was there. She leaned close to him.

'You'll be really sorry by the time I'm finished with you,' she told him with a slight tremor in her voice. Oddly enough, the little thief seemed to relax at these words.

Well, two cops appeared and took the guy away. Gaby promised to follow them soon and file a formal charge at the police station. We tried to get back to our coffees and normal conversation, but too much had happened.

The next time we met for coffee was two months later. Gaby had been too busy. I noticed a change in her. She seemed---well, to put it simply, she seemed happy. Not that she hadn't been happy before---her life had been one merry-go-round of successes, so what had she got to be unhappy about, right? Wrong. This was a different kind of happiness. And what she had to say quite startled me, to put it mildly.

'John, do you remember Lou, the man who stole my purse? Well, I dropped the charges. Decided he would be more used to me that way. I've let him move in with me. He stays home--- my maids are gone, he does the housework--- he needs to be kept busy, see. And he's a pretty good cook, believe it or not.' She turned and gave me a dazzling smile. 'And, you know, he's not bad at looking after a girl. I've grown quite fond of him--- but he knows his place.'

I finally found my voice.

'But Gaby, hey, the man is a thief. He's no good. He'll steal from you again.....' I stuttered.

'No, the cops know him, I know him, he's got nowhere to hide. Besides he's got it made, living with me.'

'But.....but he's still a no good thief.....'

Gaby frowned.

'I think that was partly my fault." She turned to give me a sly wink. 'If I'm going to be careless enough to place my open handbag where he can reach into it, with my purse right on top in full view, mind, well, he was bound to be tempted, see.'

I was aghast. I felt my jaw drop.

'Gaby, you don't mean it was a setup, you----'

Gaby's bubbly laughter cut me off.

'Oh, come on, John. You know me well enough by now to know I always get what I want,' she sang gaily.

Well, each to his or her own, I suppose. And why not. I'm pretty sure Gaby and Lou will be happy together for quite a while yet. And what's wrong with that? Why nothing! Nothing whatsoever! So there!

I do miss not seeing her so often, though. Still.....

websites:

http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/

In Your Dreams, Man!

In my waking world I am a slave to rules, routine, and tiresome responsibilities. The people are stuck up and boring, so anxious to make the right impression. My surroundings are wishy-washy shades of grey. No, give me my dream world any time.

In my dream world I'm on a well-lit movie set, vibrant with colour. Anything is possible, everything is just waiting to happen. The freedom is breathtaking. The people can be unpleasant, downright weird, or just plain defective--but never boring. And I ask myself, now who in their sane mind would rather live in their waking world?

When I was 13 my dad took me bear-hunting in the Himalayas. We climbed to 14,000 feet and trudged through old snow in the middle of summer. My dad had a .375 Magnum Winchester rifle that went off like a cannon, but we never shot any bears. I'm glad about that.

In the night we slept in an empty shepherd's hut. At that height the sky is crystal clear, the stars a dense carpet of pulsing pin-prick lights. Everywhere it's almost as bright as a football stadium. Forget the moon. You hardly notice it.

While my dad snored in his sleeping bag I lay reading about how Sherlock Holmes set about attacking The Speckled Band with nothing but a thin, wooden cane. But so magical was the night that after a while I put my book aside and simply gazed up at the dazzling, swirling, canopy of stars. It's unbelievable how many satellites were wandering past. I began imagining that one of them was a 1957 Cadillac Eldorado, just about the most beautiful car in the world, cruising sedately along a diamond-strewn highway.

But in the end even this sublime moment couldn't keep me away from my dream world.

Besides, I was really tired. So my eyelids drooped shut and I dreamed, as always, of faraway places and fantastic goings-on; fierce creatures in dense jungles, tank brigades swooping across rolling battle-plains (you'd be amazed at how fast a modern tank can go!). Of riding a 1200cc Yamaha bike with my babe sitting behind. When I accelerated powerfully she clutched me tight and gasped and squealed in my ear. Then I was deep sea fishing with blisters blooming on my hands as I wrestled, Ernest Hemingway style, with a giant marlin at the end of a heavy-gauge fishing line. Hang gliding over war-torn mountains where bearded outlaws fired up at me, their spent bullets only reaching far enough to clink harmlessly off the aluminium struts of my glider...

I couldn't believe it when morning came and our guides spoilt it all by shaking us awake with steaming mugs of tea. I'd been having such fun! My dad smiled sleepily and pointed at the horizon. Ice cream mountain-tops were turning to pink sugar confections under a honey-gold sun. It was my turn to gasp (I try not to squeal too often!), because I had never seen anything so mind-blowingly lovely.

On the way back down we breakfasted off cherry trees and later we caught trout from a mountain stream. They tasted fantastic after we'd tossed them in flour and fried them in butter.

Yes, this was the only time in my life when my waking world managed to be every bit as good as my dream world. I'll never forget it...if only there were more moments like that then I wouldn't get tired of my waking world so often.

Sometimes in my dreams I can fly. Yes, fly, simply by climbing an invisible staircase and just sort of, well, taking off from the top. Once, half awake, I got up from bed and stubbed my toe when I tried to climb. It really hurt!

I find anything is preferable to the disappointing reality of my waking world – – but I can only sleep so much. So what about when I'm not sleepy any more? Well, I have this marvellous companion called a lapdog. Lapdog? Sorry, laptop, which has far more interesting worlds nestling within its cute little 14 inch face than all the spreading vistas of human struggle outside my front door. Hey, listen, it might not be for everyone, my kind of life. Or even good for everyone. I think I can handle it, though; my books, my sheets of lined, A4 paper for writing stories...stories that just keep tumbling around inside my brain. A warm kettle and a nearby bed are everything else I need.

And to anyone who says to me, hey, get a life, man! I say, thank you very much, I already have one. And you, man?

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

Life Is Such A Fragile Thing

Yes, and I think that if we really appreciated just how fragile it was, then we would spend less time being bad and more time being good to one another. One minute you're here, and the next minute you are...well...nowhere. It's over. Nothing. El Blotto.

It just so happens that now and again we are given a wake-up call when something truly awful happens. Jolted back into cold reality. We do not like it. Death is bad news. We treat it as if it doesn't exist. And one day, bang! We are face to face with it. And we flounder breathlessly, helplessly, like live fish cast onto a river bank.

And it can happen any time, and as human beings we understandably shy away from this fact, because constant reminders of it would drive us insane.

So prepare yourselves for one such startling, life changing encounter with death that I am now going to tell you about. But don't worry, I'll be gentle with you. I promise.

Some years ago I worked at an exclusive girls' boarding school. It was run by a good and honest God-fearing staff of women teachers and house mistresses. Every summer there were many events, trips and outings, functions and fetes. Extra hands were needed to supervise these enjoyable occasions, so university students from overseas were often invited over. They were given board and lodging and enough money to go and see the tourist attractions, so everyone was happy. We all liked them, and meeting anyone from foreign lands is always stimulating.

One summer we invited over a half dozen of these girl students, in their late teens. They came from various parts of the USA and Canada. Lovely girls, full of the joys of life and living it to the full, as is right and proper. They worked hard, assisting staff with the summer events and looking after our boarders. In the evening they would return to their lodgings a mile away, a big, multi-bedroomed house owned by the school, and, rather unimaginatively called The Lodge.

One weekend these girls from abroad planned a little private event of their own, a small party at the lodge. A bit of music. Some dancing. Nothing that would disturb the neighbours. They were responsible, grown-up young ladies who had been working hard and they deserved time to chill out.

So after work that evening, to save time, they asked if I could drop them to their lodgings in the school bus. A short journey, but very enjoyable. They were looking forward to the little party, confiding to me that they had met a couple of lads in town whom they had invited as a means of livening up the proceedings. It seemed reasonable. They lived with each other day and night and needed a couple of fresh faces around.

As we drove along, I remember one of the girls, Jeanette, seeing a banner for a local amateur production of Oklahoma, and she began singing "O-o-o-o-aklahoma, where the wind comes sweepin' down the plains!" Another girl, Ruby, was worried that they might not have enough bottles of white wine. A lot of laughter and giggles, asking if I would join them, and getting a regretful 'no thanks' as I didn't think it would be appropriate.

Exotic little songbirds, brimming over with excitement and loving life, eyes sparkling, rosy cheeked and smiling. I was captivated, my spirits lifting after a long and tiring day, even in that short mile to The Lodge.

When we were there, they got off the school bus just as Matt and David arrived, the two local lads they'd invited.

Now these two guys----well, they seemed kind of okay, but I wasn't too sure. You didn't notice anything if you just glanced at them. But if your glance the lingered it was impossible to deny something vaguely furtive and worrying taking place behind their eyes. As if they were going over some secret agenda. I said "hi", and then looked away, frowning. The girls didn't notice and thanked me amid peals of laughter, now that the party could get started.

I drove away, still on a high after sharing a mile in the school bus with a group of girls who had made me happy to be alive. But still, I remember a vague unease deep down in my heart. Matt and David. Surely the girls could handle just two guys. They outnumbered them at least two to one!

I parked the school bus and went straight to bed.

It was a warm night, and I had trouble getting to sleep. Besides, I was still uneasy. Then, around 6am all hell broke loose.

A woman was screaming outside. Always on call for any emergency, I was into my clothes and out the door in under 2 minutes.

Miss Prendergast, one of our cooks, had stumbled out of her car down the driveway. She was on the ground, seemingly unaware of the gravel digging painfully into her hands and knees, her face a terrified mask of anguish.

I reached her just as the headmistress appeared.

'They're dead,' gasped Miss Prendergast. 'Lying out the front of the lodge.....call the police...please...help!'

She was hysterical, collapsing in a heap and sobbing in huge convulsions. I looked at the headmistress. We both knew we wouldn't get any sense out of Miss Prendergast. With shaking fingers the headmistress pulled her cell-phone from her dressing gown pocket and called the police.

I stumbled to the grass and sat down heavily, my mind numb with grief. What had happened? Those poor girls. I should have stayed with them, gone to that party. I knew those two guys hadn't looked right and I had ignored my gut feelings and done nothing. It was something I was going to have to live with for the rest of my life.

'John.... John....'

The headmistress seemed to be calling me from a long distance away. I looked up in a daze. I had no idea how much time had come by. The headmistress was staring at me. She knew I'd dropped the girls off the previous evening, and now she wanted some answers.

House staff were pouring out into the early morning light. Pale oval faces were peering through the bedroom windows. I struggled to my feet just as two police cars, blue lights flashing, pulled up. Two grim faced officers got out. One of them nodded.

'We got 'em,' he said. I just stood frozen while the headmistress talked in low tones to the two policemen as the staff crowded around to listen.

The minutes ticked by. I still couldn't move. It was all my fault. I should never have left them. Now, what was going on? The staff were looking....not shocked any more. But angry. Miss Prendergast was still curled up in a tightly heaving ball on the driveway. Who were they angry with? Me? I had to know. I walked towards them. A couple of faces turned towards me---and then swung away.

The headmistress looked around. 'Ah... John. There you are....feeling better?'

Then she began talking to me as the officers studied my tense demeanour with curiosity. Gradually my stiff limbs relaxed---and I, too, began to look angry.

Well, I'm glad to say Miss Prendergast had got it wrong, but it wasn't her fault. Driving past the lodge that morning, she had seen two sprawled and lifeless bodies, one draped over a handrail and another lying headfirst down some steps. Mark and David, the local lads whom I hadn't liked the look of the night before. After drinking all the white wine they had started misbehaving so much, coming on to the girls and being generally obnoxious, that in the end they had been ejected from The Lodge by their hosts. So drunk that they couldn't make it anywhere, they had simply passed out outside.

Sadly those really nice girls whom I had come to like were packed off home in disgrace. Too much fuss had been created. It wasn't good for the image of the school. "Dead" people in the driveway of school property---whatever next!

Oh, the newspapers didn't get hold of it. Everything was hushed up. Many of the parents of the boarders were very important people.

It might have turned into something of a joke in the end---but for the fact that death had been brought into the picture. No one had been prepared for that. It couldn't be forgiven. Somebody had to pay.

I drove the girls to the airport in the school bus the next day for their journey home. It was a far cry from the jolly time we had all had on the drive to the party.

Death. No one likes it. Go away, death. You're not welcome.

Well, I did promise I'd be gentle with you, didn't I......

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

Love Works Best On A Desert Island

Her name? That's private. Let's call her Kimberly. A party at a friend's house. Suddenly there she was, sitting right next to me. I couldn't speak. Was she beautiful? I'm not sure. It's a word that means different things to different people. What I was sure about was that her face would haunt me forever. I was in love instantly. Utterly, hopelessly. I couldn't take my eyes off her. In her face lay all my answers. It was like a homecoming, providing refuge, nurture and rejuvenation.

Then she turned and looked at me. I was a skeleton, the flesh stripped from my bones by some scorching, nuclear wind.

She spoke. It was something fairly banal. My wits lay scattered, the blood hammering in my brain, powering my eyes to drink in her image. You only ever meet someone like that once in a lifetime. I was excited and afraid. It was as if I'd been down on my luck and had found a suitcase, not knowing if it contained either a million bucks or a bomb to blow my head off. And there lay the problem............

Anyway, I don't know what reply I finally managed. Something garbled. But here's the thing-----she heard my words differently. She knew exactly what I really wanted to say and, to my swooning joy, she let me glimpse an answer in the depths of her eyes.

Friends jostled around us. The spell was broken. I lost sight of her. I hated everyone for being there. I wanted to push my way past and find her. But great fear was washing over me. It was as if I had caught a whiff of nitro-glycerin from the still-closed suitcase I was holding. So I put the wretched thing down and my thoughts went like this........

Now you might not agree, but it is so easy for even the most solid relationship to slip away. It's this world we have fashioned, there are too many distractions. Too much temptation, conflict, and disappointment. Sadly, the demands of modern society are too many. Yeah, yeah, I know. I haven't forgotten; and people can change! Well, of course they can, but I honestly believe that true love can survive even that. No, the problem was that what had sparked between me and Kimberly was just too damn downright dangerous. Forget the suitcase, I'd left that behind---it now felt like someone was pressing an unknown, experimental, heavy gauge weapon into my hands which I had not been trained to use. A weapon to be used against the rest of the world, and maybe, if it came to that, on Kimberly. Forget afraid. Forget frightened. I was terrified.

Now, if we had both been the only ones on a remote desert island with endless days and nights of sea and sand, I'm sure it could have worked. No weapons needed there, end of story. The trouble was, I did not know of any handy desert island.

Kimberly had now completely disappeared in the crowd. I tried to find her, but couldn't. I was crushed. How could she leave me like this? And then I saw her.

She was at the door, leaving the party. I had to stop her. I lurched forward, but her eyes stopped me like a gentle hand to my chest. The tiniest sideways shake of her head. I knew what she was saying; its best this way. Don't follow. This is too big. It will annihilate us and maybe others too. So be sensible, even though love is never so. We can't let it happen, not here in this world. And, since you don't know of any handy desert island to whisk me away to, well........

And she was gone. I did not follow. I knew she was right, that she was much wiser than me.

Some years later I learned she had married a B-movie actor. Someone maybe like David Carradine, Dennis Hopper or Bruce Campbell, but not nearly so talented as them. Then they split up and she went to live abroad. Her ex died shortly after. I understood that.

Now the point is that I might have taken a chance and risked us losing our lives because men like me do not have much wisdom. Besides in matters of common sense and emotional savvy women are always many leagues ahead. Most of them are very sharp, very clever, and they know exactly what must be done and how to do it. This so intrigued me that years later I explored this theme in my writing. And often the first few lines I wrote would come out all shaky as my Kimberly's face swam briefly before me. I still miss you, Kimberly, but you saved our lives---and life is so very precious, even if mine is still empty without you. I'm just an ordinary man, only you were no ordinary woman.

Many of you reading this might say I was a coward. So be it. I'm still alive, aren't I? And so is Kimberly. And life is so very----- yeah, yeah, there I go again! But you might be right, though, since I sometimes think, what with the life I have now, maybe it would have been worth losing it over Kimberly? Wouldn't even a few moments in her arms have been worth my entire life? Did I do the right thing? Should I have gone after her? I still wonder..........

websites:

http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/

My Weird Job Interview

For my first job I applied to be selected as a top management trainee with a very successful corporation. Every year they selected their high fliers of the future. The selection process was notoriously rigorous, several thousand applicants being whittled down to only a handful of lucky ones.

My written application was successful. I had been admitted to the interview process, no mean feat in itself.

Over the following weeks we went to Head Office for a whole battery of written tests, each one designed to gauge one aptitude or another. I'm glad to say that I managed to hang in there, if only just!

And I was still there when it came to the face to face interviews.

I cannot even remember half the faces on the many interview panelists who grilled us, made us feel as uncomfortable as possible, yes, tormented us in every which way to assess our characters under just about every kind of pressure. After several hundreds of candidates had been rejected, our numbers were reduced to only a few dozen. Again I marveled at how I had survived.

Rumour had it that this was it. Only one final ordeal lay before us, the likes of which was the stuff of nightmares.........

The big day arrived. By that evening we remaining few bone weary and trembling wrecks, just about wiped out in every which way, would either be able to make it home with a soft song in our hearts, or......no, none of us wanted to even go there! To be rejected at this final hurdle was just too awful to contemplate.

So what about this final day of the selection process?

All we knew was that about 24 of us remained, and that there would be another series of interviews; this time with the very top executives of the corporation, the ones with the pool table sized desks and tennis court sized carpets that tickled your ankles.

My turn came. I was led into the office of Mr Peters by the drill sergeant, as we had come to call him, because this man had a voice like a foghorn and eyes like lasers. The drill sergeant had been our guide through the selection process from day one.

Mr Peters was a tiny man and he sat on a raised dais behind his desk. This enabled him to look down, in a godly way, upon anyone who sat opposite him. Surprisingly he talked about his family. His wife's fondness for Gucci handbags. The Maserati his son owned. Their skiing holidays in Gstaad. Now and then Mr Peters would throw in a quick, piercing glance in my direction. But I think I did all right.

And then he abruptly got to his feet to indicate that the interview was over. The drill sergeant appeared as if on cue. I wondered if he had been spying on us from another room.

Just as the drill sergeant was ushering me out, I noticed something odd; Mr Peters was turning away and I saw that he was wearing his light cashmere V-neck sweater back to front. Oh, well!

The next guy, Mr Heckman, was someone high up in the finance department. I was on full alert. I sometimes came unstuck with numbers. But again he didn't talk about work at all. From his desk drawer he took out a big fat register-like book. Inside the pages he had pressed and dried flowers from all around the world. He'd gathered them from the exotic places where he'd been a holiday, he told me. He wanted me to name them and looked disappointed when I couldn't even manage one. Again, the drill sergeant must have been watching, for Mr Heckman only had to raise his voice a little for him to reappear.

Mr Heckman came half way around his desk to shake my hand. I noticed he was wearing a pale shade of pink nail varnish. Or was it only a trick of the light? By then I had enough on my mind, regretting the fact that I hadn't taken a degree in botany. No doubt Mr Heckman had already crossed me off the list, thanks to my woeful knowledge of plants!

The drill sergeant took me to the next floor in a silent elevator, all polished brass and mirrors.

Mr Gaffney was the third and last top man to interview me---even if these meetings were beginning to seem more like social chit-chat sessions.

Now this was really embarrassing, because Mr Gaffney seemed perfectly normal in every way, except that he reeked of booze. From under his chair he took out an old biscuit tin containing hundreds of little toy soldiers. For the next hour he insisted that I helped to arrange them, by regiment, along his long windowsill overlooking the ant-like traffic far down below. Okay. Either the guy was on the skids or he was some kind of financial genius whom they had to keep at any cost. He laughed a lot, and it was all I could do not to gag at the raw liquor fumes. However, his hands as he arranged the soldiers were amazingly steady, which was something that I just couldn't understand.

Once again in came the drill sergeant to usher me out. He didn't seem to notice anything wrong.

I was led to a tiny room with a single chair and no windows and told to wait. So I waited. I needed the toilet, but I held on. I was thirsty. One hour passed. Two. And three. Now I wasn't just bursting for the loo. I wasn't just thirsty. I was hungry too.

I tried the door. It was locked. I began to lose my cool. Just then a key turned and in came the drill sergeant. Seeing me standing, he sat down on the only chair in the room. My chair!

"Well, John. That's it. It's over. Finished. Before I tell you if you have been selected, do you have any questions?"

I needed to get this over. I was dying on my feet. All I could think about was whether I had been selected. For that moment in time, nothing else mattered.

"No," I replied. "It's fine. No questions."

I waited. The drill sergeant's bushy eyebrows went up a fraction.

"None at all?"

"No."

I was trying my best not to let him see my acute physical discomfort, and it was all I could to stop myself from reaching forward and throttling him in an attempt to get the answer I so desperately needed. After all I'd been through, how could he be so insensitive!

The drill sergeant pursed his thick lips and leaned back.

"Okay, I'm sorry to tell you that you have not been selected, John." He got to his feet. "Well, it happens. Only a very few make it, so this is no reflection on you." He showed his teeth in an unpleasant, wolfish smile. By now my mind had gone blank with shock. Time slowed down so much that when I finally got my mouth open, all that emerged was a croak. For a moment the drill sergeant looked uncertain. Then he recovered, and placed one meaty arm across my shoulders.

"So sorry. Come now, old chap. I'll just show you out........"

I think that's what did it. If he had just turned around and walked out, then that would have been that. However, this last bit of patronizing hogwash with the close physical contact was more than I could bear. Something snapped inside me. A burst of adrenaline flooded my brain. I shook his arm off and rounded on him

"I can manage, thanks," I rasped. "Actually I don't want your crummy job anyway. Your top bosses stink. The last one, Mr Gaffney, of booze. And your Mr Heckman would be better off running a museum, and he should stop using his wife's nail varnish if he wants to be taken seriously. And as for back-to-front Mr Peters, I doubt he even knows which side of his bed he got out of this morning. What have those morons got on you guys that you continue to employ them? You're all nuts. I'm out of here."

I turned away.

"John, wait!" Quick as a snake the drill sergeant had leapt between me and the door. "Calm down. It's all right. You passed the test. Welcome to our graduate management training program." I blinked, I was sure I'd fallen asleep from exhaustion and was now dreaming. "It was a setup. Mr Peters, Mr Heckman, and Mr Gaffney---they are all actors. It was the last test. We need people who have the courage to speak out if something isn't right. Who are not overawed by their surroundings, their big pay-checks, the glamour of the corporation they are working for. More than half of you candidates remained cowed down and accepted the three men as perfectly legit. Top players who were above the laws meant for everyone else---they saw nothing wrong in top executives behaving badly, or at least very eccentrically. We don't want people like that. People who keep quiet, no matter what. We need lions, not lambs. And you just proved which one you really are!"

I didn't speak. I was too stunned. For a moment I stared at him, glassy-eyed. Then I said, "thanks. I accept. Now, if you'll excuse me......."

I only just made it to the loo in time!

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

Of Such Things Are Made Heroes

A hero is a person noted or admired for courage or outstanding achievements. It brings to mind someone of great physical strength. Cool. Calm. Quick of thought. Someone with a strong character. A person of iron will and determination.

In short, a magnificent specimen of the human race. Tall, open faced, good-looking, defiant and powerfully built. And such a hero can, of course, be either a man or a woman.

However, sometimes a hero may be none of all that.

He or she can be a very ordinary person in every way.

And this is the kind of hero that really intrigues me.

I have a friend. His name is Gus. He is short, rather skinny, and so unremarkable in appearance that he often gets shoved aside in a queue--- simply because it is difficult to notice he is there at all. In fact, to all appearances he is a born loser; lazy, can't hold down a job, unreliable, scared of his own shadow. Sometimes I wonder why I ever befriended him. Maybe it's because I can say just about anything I like in front of him. He just listens with a kind of weary half smile and forgets everything I have said an hour later. I like that. Don't get me wrong. I'm no loudmouth, but sometimes it feels good to let off steam in front of a friend.

But the bottom line is, heroes are heroes. Exceptional people. Highly motivated, passionate, and brave. They will lay down their lives without a second thought for what they believe in or care about.

I once read about a mother and child who were attacked by a cougar in the Brazilian rainforest. The woman placed her child behind herself, and squared up to the cougar. Time and time again the cougar attacked, fearsomely wounding the poor woman, but every time her determination to save her child was so great that she survived each onslaught. This went on for six hours before help arrived and the cougar was driven away. The woman died of her injuries, but her child was saved. Now that's what I call a real hero. An ordinary person. A mom. An unremarkable being in every way until the arrival of that fateful moment in her life. Newspaper archives are full of people like her. Look for one, and you will find many.

Now, Gus has a friend called Jerry, who lives alone on a farm because his wife left him when she tired of his drinking. Besides Gus the only other person who ever visited Jerry was Jerry's grown-up daughter called Emma.

Now, when people are drunk, they often like to show off. It is also a fact that some people get a kick out of showing off in front of losers like Gus; they know that guys like him can only clap and admire, because never in a thousand years could people like Gus seek to emulate them.

One day Gus dropped in on Jerry, who had been drinking as usual. Jerry had just decided he needed a water-butt. To make one, he had pulled out an old metal drum from his barn. As he explained to Gus, it would only take him a few minutes to grab an angle-grinder and cut the top off the drum, and so have himself a perfectly good water-butt.

Jerry flexed his muscles and picked up the angle-grinder. Sparks flew when the saw-toothed blade bit into the drum. This scared Gus. He hastily took several steps way back to watch from a safe distance. It was just as well, because seconds later the drum exploded.

Unknown to Jerry, it had been half full of gasoline when the sparks from the angle-grinder had ignited it.

Jerry lay motionless on the ground, hideously injured. Gus approached his friend timidly, took one look, and promptly stumbled away to get violently sick.

When he had finished, he turned back towards Jerry, took a deep breath.........

and in that instant Gus was transformed into a hero.

Gus tore a strip off his own shirt to form a makeshift bandage. Gently he pushed Jerry's right eyeball back into its socket, and tied the bandage over to prevent it from dropping onto his cheek again.

Jerry was a big guy, but somehow Gus managed to lift him up into a position from where he could half carry and half drag him along. It was unfortunate that Jerry's cell-phone had been smashed in the blast, because he didn't have a landline back at the farmhouse. Gus? Oh, Gus never had much use for a cell-phone as no one would ever have called him.

Gus couldn't drive, but somehow he managed to drag/carry Jerry one-mile across a field to a hospital. On the way Gus slipped and fell into a ditch, breaking his left hand, but he kept going somehow, no doubt in excruciating pain.

It was all over the papers next day. Gus was a hero. Who would have believed it! Jerry lost his eye, but he kept his life, thanks to Gus.

When I met Gus he had an assurance that had not been there before.

"Come on, Gus. I'm your friend. You can tell me,' I coaxed. 'I never had you figured for a hero--- hey, where did all that come from?'

I was only kidding, but Gus didn't seem at all amused. To my surprise he looked slightly embarrassed. 'Look, it doesn't matter, Gus. You're a hero. That's all that matters, isn't it?' I tried to reassure him, already regretting my teasing.

'Erm.....' Gus cleared his throat and his face turned slightly pink. 'It's like this, John, see.......' I nodded encouragingly and waited. 'You know Emma--- Jerry's daughter who comes to see him?'

'Yes.' I nodded again.

'I asked her for a date, but she turned me down flat. When I told Jerry he laughed in my face. "She's too good for you, pal," is what he said. But now--- now I'm a hero, and everything has changed. I did it for her, not for Jerry." Gus suddenly grinned from ear to ear. 'I've twice been on a date with Emma already,' he finished triumphantly.

Now that's what I also call a real hero. Oh, did I forget to mention that Emma is a magnificent 6 foot tall lady? I reckon she's about twice the size of little Gus.

Way to go, Gus!

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

Please Release Me!

Once, in the distant mists of time, I read this fairy story. I've forgotten who the writer was, but the story itself has never left me. And frankly, I'm amazed it is not better known. For if it was then many of our relationships---and not just the romantic ones---would survive and flourish so much longer. This I truly believe.

I cannot find a copy of the story to hand, so let me tell it to you in my own words. You can then decide whether I am right or wrong.

There was once a king. He had most of everything, but that did not stop him from wanting to find that one elusive something that most of us need to find at some point in our lives. So, at last, world-weary and bowed under by the weight of his duties and responsibilities, he sickened and took to his bed.

His physicians could not find any illness that they could treat, so the king rid himself of them and resigned himself to that lonely journey we all have to take, sooner or later.

Every day the king grew weaker, until at last he sensed the end was near.

One evening he was lying alone in his bed chamber, drifting in and out of consciousness, when he heard a sound. He listened. It was like no other sound he had ever heard. He opened his eyes. A bird sat on his windowsill, and it was singing the most beautiful song he had ever heard. The king's heart was filled with joy. His exhilaration was immense, so much so that he could actually feel the strength flowing back into his limbs.

After a while the bird stopped singing and flew away. The king's family and courtiers were dumbfounded by the sudden change in him, all in the space of a single evening.

The next evening the bird appeared again and sang to the king. And once again this made the king so happy that he recovered his health even more. And so it went on for several days until the king had just about regained his former good health.

At this point the bird, one evening, after singing as usual, said to the king, 'Your Highness, I've given you all I've got. You are now well. I'll come back and sing for you one more time tomorrow, and then I'll have to say goodbye.'

The king was appalled. 'But why do you have to go? Why can't you stay? I can give you anything you want.'

The bird just looked up at the blue sky outside and said, 'but I am a creature of the air, and I need my freedom. To go where I want to go and do what I wish with my life---that alone is what can make me happy.' And so saying, the bird flew away.

The king thought long and hard. He could not see any future for himself without the bird. Nothing could ever make him happy the way it did.

So there was only one solution.

Next day the bird appeared to sing its farewell song. And as usual, the king listened. And when the bird's song was over, out jumped the king's courtiers and quickly captured the bird in a gilded cage. 'I'm sorry, but I can't let you go,' said the king to the bird. 'You are everything to me. Without you I cannot live, so I must have you to myself. I can only hope you'll forgive me.'

The days passed, and gradually the king noticed a change in the songbird. Something was wrong. Although it was trying its best for the king, the song it sang did not sound as good. 'I told you, O king,' the bird said. 'I am a creature of the air. I am not suited to the life in this prison that you have placed me in. Much that I care for you, I cannot be with you while the blue skies yonder beckon to my soul.'

'Well, it's either you or me then,' replied the king. 'I cannot do without you, that's for sure. So you have to stay and do your best and--- well---that will have to be good enough for me, I suppose.'

However, it was now the bird that went into decline. Day by day it grew weaker, and it hurt the king deeply to see this, because in all truth he loved the bird dearly, more than anything else in the world, for only that bird could nourish his soul. To witness its painful deterioration simply tore the king apart. He could not bear it. Finally he knew what he had to do.

The king went to the cage and opened the door wide. 'Go,' he said to the bird. 'Fly away and be happy, for I cannot stand to see you unhappy any more. I would rather die than make you unhappy.'

And the bird flew away.

The king missed the bird. He hungered for its song. The sight of it sitting and singing to him, it's wonderful presence in his life. And slowly he fell sick again and took to his bed.

The days went by until there came that fateful day which was to see the end of his life. With all his courtiers and family surrounding him, the king was ready to breathe his last. This time, however, there was a fierce contentment in his heart. He was happy he had let the bird go even though he could not do without it. Because he knew he had done the right thing. As his eyes were closing, the king whispered, 'oh, sweet bird of mine, be happy. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. I've loved you so much for the song you gave me that your happiness meant more to me than my life, and by keeping you against your will I had already lost you.'

Just then there was the soft flutter of wings. Everyone looked around. The bird had reappeared on the windowsill out of nowhere. 'Sing for me--- just one more time?' pleaded the king. So the bird sang, sweetly and strongly, in all the glory of its beautiful voice, and thus the king died a happy man. For he knew he had done the right thing. He had let the bird go. Given it the freedom it craved. Even if it had meant his own death. So much did he love that songbird.

To keep someone to yourself, to try and change them by forcing them to live in your environment, by your rules, away from their natural desires---this will make them unhappy. Which is why you must accept whatever love someone is prepared to give you and not ask for more. And if you cannot live without them, so be it, for if you really love them you will allow them their freedom, to choose their own life and destiny even at the expense of your own. Don't try to change people. Let them be who they really are. And, above all, never try to keep them all to yourself. For verily in this lies the test of true love........

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

Suicide Negotiator

I once had a friend called Maurice. He wasn't exactly ugly. But he was no oil painting either, with his roadkill-squashed nose and birds-nest eyebrows.

But my friend Maurice had a very special talent. A talent big enough for the police forces of three different counties to keep him in ample employment.

Maurice was a suicide negotiator.

Whenever someone climbed to the top of a building to throw themselves off, it was Maurice who was called to change their mind. He had a good head for heights and would sit beside them with what he called his "lunchbox".

Now, I first met Maurice in a bar through a mutual friend one evening. I was so intrigued by the man that I turned up at his house two days later.

I'd guessed right. He was a lonely guy and welcomed company. Within minutes we were happily chatting in his front room with cans of beer from the chilled six-pack I'd brought along. I was dying to know more about his unusual occupation and the even more unusual talent that made him so good at it.

But it would have been bad manners to hurry him.

I could immediately tell that he lived alone. No woman would have stood for his untidiness. Catching me glancing around he said, "my wife--Nancy--er, she died five years ago. I try my best. Still miss her like crazy."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Maurice." There was a pause. "Um....five years is a fair while, though. You're an important guy. You earn good money. It's nice to have a woman in one's life."

Maurice glanced at me and immediately I regretted my words. There was a flash of anger mixed with sharp pain in his eyes. "No one can take Nancy's place, d'you hear?" he grated. I looked down, kicking myself for my big mouth. Finally Maurice relaxed. "Besides, take a look at my face. How many women do you think would fancy waking up to find a gargoyle sleeping beside them?" I kept quiet, convinced I'd done enough harm for one night. "I do miss a woman though, you know?" Maurice went on into the silence.

I nodded. "Yeah."

We sipped from our now lukewarm cans of beer. It was time to change the subject.

"Maurice, I don't care what you say, but I find your line of work fascinating. What does it take? How do you do it? And that night at the bar, you mentioned some kind of lunchbox? Hey, what's with the lunchbox?"

Maurice's eyes twinkled and suddenly he laughed, his little pot belly jiggling up and down with genuine merriment as he drained the last of his beer. I immediately opened another can for him.

"Ah---thanks, John. It just sounded so funny, the way you said it. But, you know, it's deadly serious stuff---at least to the person I'm trying to convince not to take their own life........"

Maurice reached sideways to a shelf and picked up what certainly looked every inch like an ordinary semi-transparent white plastic lunchbox. He opened it and pulled out a little screw-top cylinder. "It's only after I've talked to them for a few minutes---got them to relax a bit. That's when I open my lunch box. Here, have a whiff of this...."

I took the little cylinder after he'd opened it and cautiously brought it up to my nose.

"Wow! That's incredible, Maurice," I gasped.

Maurice looked pleased. "A chemist friend of mine got it together. Good, isn't it."

"It sure is. It's fantastic."

What did I smell? The loveliest perfume in the world? The balmiest Caribbean sea breeze?

No.

It was the marvellous aroma of freshly baked bread. Absolutely one hundred percent authentic.

"Well, they smell it the way you just did," Maurice went on, "and I say to them, listen, ain't that the best smell in the world? Wouldn't you like to live to taste freshly baked bread rolls again? You can't do that if you're dead, you know."

"And what do they say?"

Maurice pulled a face. "Nothing much. Not at first, anyway. And then I take this out."

Maurice handed me a stunning full-colour 3-D picture of a school of dolphins playing in the sea. It was a great shot, full of movement and gay abandon. And the dolphins had the biggest smiles you have ever seen---or at least it looked that way! "See how happy they are," Maurice murmured. "You can be just as happy if you want. Just by going and watching them---and there are thousands of sights like this all over the world just waiting for you--- but how will you be able to see them if your eyes are closed for ever?"

"They're lovely. Beautiful. I know this place called Ocean World that do dolphins, and......." I caught myself and grinned sheepishly.

"See?" Maurice chuckled happily. "I'm getting you hooked already. And you're not even one of my suicides!"

I was now fairly bursting with curiosity. "What else have they got in there, Maurice?" I wanted to know.

"Listen to this." Maurice pulled out a tiny digital recorder and switched it on. I pressed it to my ear. At first all I heard was birdsong. All sorts. Totally enchanting. By the sound of it I guessed there must have been some really exotic tropical birds among them.

And then I heard another sound.

A tiny baby crying, far away in the distance. Insistently and plaintively.

"Hear him?" whispered Maurice. "A newborn infant. And you d'know what he is saying? 'I'm here, folks. I didn't ask to be here, but here I am, and you've got to listen to me. I don't know what kind of life I'm going to have---how the dice are loaded. What will happen to me, good or bad. But out of millions of other souls it was me who was chosen. Get it? Me! I was selected for this brief gift of life, and let me tell you, I'm gonna make sure I enjoy it, one way or another, 'cos I just can't believe how lucky I was. So here I am, naked and cold, flailing my arms and legs to grab your attention. To make you listen!' "

It was more than just the words Maurice was saying. It was the way he was saying them. In a low, bass drone, full of intense emotion. Almost hypnotic. Sort of drew you in. Maurice leaned closer to me.

"And that's you, John. That baby is you when you were born," he whispered.

"You're right," I replied huskily. "That could be me."

Despite myself I was moved. I swallowed the lump in my throat and gave a nervous sort of laugh. Either Maurice was a genius or he was completely nuts! But whichever one he was, he obviously knew how to make it work.

"Is that it, then?" I mumbled in a daze. "Anything else?"

"Oh, just one more thing, John. It's this......."

Maurice pulled out the last object from his lunchbox. A tiny biscuit tin. He reached forward, took my hand, and poured out some pink crystals into my palm. "See, John? By this time they've got to trust me---most likely enough to let me take their hand. Okay, go on, then. Taste it."

I did.

What did the crystals taste of? The best gourmet meal in the world? The most sublime ice cream? No.

None of that.

It was strawberry popping candy.

It took my breath away with the riot of sensation that exploded inside my mouth. I felt my head was about to hit the ceiling. I couldn't help it. I began giggling helplessly.

"Maurice, you're completely out of your tree," I managed to get out. I really hadn't tasted popping candy since I was a little boy. And this stuff was really good. Electrifying!

"There....you see?" said Maurice softly. "You'll never be able to taste anything as great as that again if you are dead with your mouth closed forever, now will you?"

A shiver went down my spine as I turned to look Maurice in the eye.

"I have no intention of taking my own life, Maurice, wha.....?"

I was doing it again!

"Yup." Maurice's face relaxed into a triumphant smile. "It works, doesn't it!"

I was impressed.

The thing is, as I keep saying, it wasn't really what was in Maurice's lunchbox. It was the way he did the whole thing. His tone of voice, the way he said it, his body language. He just had this way with him. He made you believe every word.

"Yes, Maurice. I now have absolutely no doubt that it works." I said. "But what does it matter what I think? You've proved it again and again, every time the cops call you out. You know, you're really something!"

Maurice looked faintly embarrassed.

"Ah---forget it." He waved a hand dismissively. "All this talking has made me thirsty. How about another beer?"

I dropped by to see Maurice off and on. And he was always glad to see me. A very private and very lonely man. Cheering everyone up except himself. Performing miracles in getting people to believe in life again, but unable to do the same for himself. It was so sad. I so wanted him to be happy. He really needed a woman in his life---some guys can get by without one better than others. Maurice wasn't one of them. I knew this because it was easy to read between the lines when we chatted about stuff.

It happened about a year later. One afternoon I got a call while I was at work. It was from a hospital in the next county.

"We have Mr Maurice Nesbit asking for you. How soon can you come? I'm afraid he doesn't have long."

Yes, that's the way they gave it to me. Right between the eyes!

"What....what happened?"

"He was talking a jumper off a window ledge." Yes, apparently 'jumper' was what they called them. "Something went wrong. The guy jumped, but suddenly changed his mind and grabbed hold of Mr Nesbit. They both went down. Jumper's dead. Not much hope for Mr Nesbit either. Sorry to break it to you like this." There was a pause while I absorbed all this. "Can you come or not?" This time the voice sounded irritable.

"Of course I'll come. As fast as I can."

Five minutes later I was doing everything I could not to break the speed limits down the highways and freeways in my haste to get to the hospital where Maurice lay dying.

Maurice had the usual tubes and wires entering him this way and that. He opened his eyes at the sound of my voice.

"John---you've come," he mumbled. "Didn't know who else would come. Never made many friends. Seemed to kinda spook them, what I do. But you were different....."

"Maurice, you're going to be fine. You need to get out of this, my friend. Use the same techniques you're so good at, but this time on yourself. You want to live, I know it."

This was crazy. Here I was trying to get Maurice to do what he'd tried to get all those would-be suicides to do.

"Do I? I don't know, John. It's tough living all alone in this world. I wanted to see you. I enjoyed your being there. But there is this thing going drip-drip-drip inside me and I know I'm hurt real bad---and I was only really hanging on for you to get here....."

He was slurring his words now. I felt tears pricking my eyes.

"I'm still here, John. Because I need something. One last thing. I hadn't the courage myself. But now you're here I think it can be managed....that is, if you can help."

He glanced across to where the nurse was standing at the far end of the intensive care room. She was gazing out of the window, not really listening, trying to give us some privacy. I leaned closer to listen to hear Maurice's words. He was getting fainter by the second.

When I heard what he had to say I shook my head in wonder, and yes, I couldn't help a smile tugging at the stiff muscles in my face.

I went over to the nurse and repeated what Maurice had said. Her eyes sparked into life and one hand flew to face. "Of course. No problem." She nodded vigorously.

She walked briskly over to Maurice. "Why didn't you say so? All you had to do was ask," she chided him gently.

Reaching to his face, with infinite tenderness the nurse smoothed the shock of grey hair away from his brow. Slowly she massaged his temples with her fingertips, then let the back of her hand sort of trail down the side of his face. I couldn't believe it. Maurice looked at least ten years younger. An instant transformation.

"Gee, thanks, nurse," he got out in a slightly stronger voice. "You can keep my lunchbox, John. It's yours now. But let me tell you, there's nothing quite like the touch of a woman. Nothing to beat it in this whole wide world......and now I can take it with me, see....."

Looking supremely at peace with himself and everyone else in general, Maurice closed his eyes and was gone.

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

The Best Place To Be

Everyone has their own best place to be. Their favourite place. Their chill-out zone. For some it is in their bed, others have a particular park-bench. The garden. A work-shed. I know someone whose best place to be is sitting in the loo!

Mine is in my car.

I am alone in it most of the time. I like that. I can talk to myself. Sing. Listen to music. Put on my shades. Switch on the air-con. It is my home from home.

But most of all it gives me thinking space.

Driving is like knitting, or weaving, or hoovering the floor--- it concentrates your attention so the thinking part of your brain can get on with the important stuff.

And what do I think about in my car? A lot. My brain just freewheels and latches onto something. I know someone won't walk into the room. And there won't be a knock at the door. My cell phone is switched off (isn't yours? Well it's a good idea when driving). And if I get tired I can pull over and still enjoy my solitude, my quality time and space.

Sometimes it's memories. People. Like the young girl I used to know. I was 12 and Celia was 16. Our families were friends, we went on trips and outings. She was quite pretty and had many admirers. Her little handbag was crammed full of highly emotional love notes from the guys at school who daydreamed about her. I wasn't into Celia romantically. I was a slow developer, I suppose.

Once we shared a tin of condensed milk we'd stolen from the kitchen. I was fine with it but Celia got sick, her slight frame heaving and twitching. I wanted to comfort her by putting an arm around her, but I was too shy. I regret that.

Celia was always smiling or laughing, never moody or sullen or simply detached like so many girls at her age. People loved her. Celia bewitched them. You can't cultivate that talent, you either have it or you don't.

One day, when she was still 16, she came home from school. Said she was tired. Her mom went to heat up Celia's usual cup of milk. When she returned Celia had fallen asleep. Or so her mum thought. Only Celia wasn't asleep. She was dead. Her heart had failed. It was some sort of congenital birth defect that no one had ever been aware of, they said afterwards.

And then there was Josh. A friend of mine from school. Rich parents, very spoiled. But still vulnerable and lacking in confidence, due mainly to having two much older brothers who bullied him. I liked Josh. I could relax with him because he looked up to me. We'd drive long distances in his car, with him trying to find shops where he could buy the coolest new in-car accessory. Completely pointless and unnecessary, very silly and expensive bits and pieces, but try telling that to a teenager wanting to prove himself!

He had a sound system I envied, and I'd go to his house simply to listen to his music. His favourite was The Moody Blues' beautiful album In Search Of The Lost Chord, which, strangely enough, many years later became my favourite too. I still adore it!

And then one day after a massive argument with his loutish and drunken older brothers, Josh left home in little more than the clothes in which he was standing. Now, teenagers do that all the time. It's nothing new. But this was different. Josh never came back home and they never found him. His parents scoured the earth for him--- they were able to, they were rich. No sign of him. Not a trace.

I remember some years later when I bumped into his dad he simply looked at me in a stunned sort of way--- and burst into tears. I didn't know what to do. It felt terrible.

So you want to know what I think happened to Josh? I'd rather not say. It just depresses me. But if you insist I think he hitched a lift from someone and then something terrible happened.

Well, back to my car, my moving grooving meditation chamber. Now, I want to get one thing straight. I wasn't extremely close in any way to Celia or Josh. But I've always found myself missing them like crazy over the years. There's something about having someone snatched from you suddenly and forever. At least if they had decided to emigrate to the other side of the world there would have been a chance I might, one day, have seen Celia and Josh again.

Now you'll probably think me strange for saying this, and perhaps you'd be right. But there is still a place where I can meet up with them. Yup. You've guessed it. Alone, in my car.

All I have to do is to think about Celia and Josh, and they will open the back doors of my car and slide right in.............

websites:

http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/

The Gaddafi Effect

I'm sorry if this blog-post ends up reading like a twist in the tale short story by Jeffrey Archer---or even a wacky story by yours truly. Alas, it isn't one. Every word is true.

I was there. I heard it with my own ears.

Now, let's get one thing straight. I'm not really into politics, but I am interested in what it can do to people. Sure, a dictatorship often appears to be the most expedient option at a chaotic time in a nation's development. But it should not be allowed to endure after order has been restored. Because a dictatorship is the worst form of government. It breeds the worst kind of human beings, and brings out the worst in the hapless people whom they tyrannise. And this produces a severe brutalisation of the human soul, as I am about to illustrate in this blog-post.

Yes, Gaddafi is gone, and many cynics would say that his country is in a bigger mess now than before. But this will not last. It cannot last. Because most human beings are good people at heart and want to live in a decent and civilized environment in which to bring up their children. What we are witnessing now in Libya is the transition of a wounded society from its sick bed to full recovery---and this, of course, can often be painful. It was right of the Libyans to rise up against Gaddafi. It was right of the West to help. And when you have heard the anecdote that I'm about to relate, I am sure you will agree.

Now remember, this is not about Gaddafi. It is about the effect that any malevolent dictatorship can have on ordinary people. Let's call it The Gaddafi Effect.

At one time in the recent past I worked for a large multinational corporation with interests in the Middle East. Our regional office was in Egypt, while in neighbouring Libya Muammar Gaddafi was still very much in power. We had a rep---let's call him Sayeed. An Egyptian. Intelligent and charming. A family man.

Sayeed volunteered to make a business trip to Tripoli, Libya's capital. And on his return he looked profoundly shaken. When we picked him up at Cairo airport he was wide-eyed and paranoid, his soft brown eyes darting around like frightened mice. So I shall edit out some bits and relate only the gist of his experience; it is more than enough, I assure you, to support the point I am trying to make about The Gaddafi Effect.

When he arrived in Tripoli, Sayeed finally cleared the airport after several hours of mind-numbing formalities. We had booked him into a five-star hotel---it was the least we could do to make his brief stay comfortable.

Tired and sleepy, Sayeed dialled room service and requested some food to be sent up to his room. There was a long pause. Then he was rudely asked if he was ill or had a handicap of some kind. Somewhat taken aback, he answered no. Then why did he need room service? Why couldn't he come down to the restaurant like everyone else? Sayeed replied that surely it was normal for a five-star hotel to provide tired business travellers with room service. The answer was no. He shouldn't be so damn lazy. Who did he think he was!

Somewhat bemused by this response, Sayeed had no choice but to do as he was told. In the restaurant he was served food that had gone cold, by a waiter who slammed the dishes down. Sayeed said he was sure the waiter had nothing against him---he was an Arab, just like Sayeed, and Sayeed had spoken to him politely in Arabic---it's just that the waiter had never been taught any proper way to behave. It was not uncommon to see waiters suddenly helping themselves to food from the buffet table with no one saying anything.

To cut a long story short, Sayeed concluded his business in Tripoli as best he could, and then it was time for him to return to his native Cairo.

However, on the way to the airport he saw a horrifying sight. Through the open gates into a university campus he glimpsed some students hauling a fellow student up a tree with a noose around his neck.

'They are executing him,' the taxi driver said conversationally.

'Why?' asked Sayeed.

The taxi driver shrugged. 'He must have done something wrong. Or said something wrong,' was his matter of fact reply.

Sayeed glanced at the taxi driver's face in the rear view mirror. The man's expression held both disgust and a deep fear mixed with a furiously simmering resentment. 'I can speak freely to you,' he went on to Sayeed. 'You are not from our country. You will be getting on a plane and you'll be out of here soon. You see, we are so tired of this madman Gaddafi. Look at what he has done to us. We are no better than animals. It is a terrible time. And all because of one man. A man who has the power of life or death over everyone. How I hate him. Wouldn't you?' He glanced enquiringly over his shoulder at Sayeed.

'Um---I don't know. I haven't seen enough of Libya to form an opinion,' was Sayeed's reply.

'But from what little you have seen---how long have you been here? Two days? Surely you can see what that bastard has done to us? Don't you think we should get rid of him?'

'Er---I've never met your leader, so I can't say,' was Sayeed's careful response.

The taxi driver gave him a scornful look.

'What are you? Call yourself a man? Surely if he did to your family what he routinely does to ours you would want to pick up an AK-47 and let him have it in the guts?'

Sayeed shook his head sadly.

'I'm just a visitor. I'm sorry to hear all this, but how can I comment on something that I haven't experienced myself?'

The taxi driver's face contorted in rage.

'Pah! You're nothing. A hypocrite. You don't want to help or even sympathise. Go back to your cozy little country to your wife and kids---what use are you to anybody?'

Under the circumstances Sayeed thought it best not to reply. The rest of the journey to the airport went ahead in silence.

When they got there, Sayeed could see the planes lined up on the runway tarmac and his spirits lifted. Soon he would be in one of them, flying away from the terrors of Libya.

And then, without warning, two grim-looking soldiers appeared out of nowhere, guns pointing and blocking their path. The taxi came to a screeching halt. Sayeed gazed longingly at the airport entrance only a few feet away.

'Dear God, not now.......' he breathed in quiet prayer.

The taxi driver wound down his window. A stony-faced soldier peered inside.

'Well?' he demanded of the taxi driver. 'What did he say? Did he say anything against our leader?'

The taxi driver cringed and smiled sickeningly as he reached into his shirt pocket to switch off a voice recorder.

'Believe me, sir, I tried,' he whined. 'I tried my best to make him say something against our great leader, but he wouldn't.'

The soldier reached inside and delivered a swift, stinging slap that rocked the taxi driver's head backwards. Then he gave Sayeed a long, cold stare from eyes like those of a dead fish. Straightening up, he waved the taxi on.

When Sayeed had finished talking, none of us said a word for quite a long while. Then Ahmed, our office cleaner, an old boy with a long white beard, piped up, 'but Sayeed, what would have happened if you had said something against Gaddafi?

Sayeed shivered.

'Why, for sure, they would have thrown me in jail, taken every last American dollar off me, beaten me to a pulp and sent me back to Cairo on a stretcher. Why, what do you think would have happened, you old fool?'

There was no answer to that.

websites:

http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/

The Gandhi Method

Near where I live there is a tiny airport. I sometimes park outside to sit and watch the planes. They are small ones. Mostly it is a training school for pilots from abroad. I watch in a trance-like state as the planes gather speed along the runway until, as if by magic, they suddenly become airborne. I watch them land. The gradual, circling descent, lower and lower, nose flaring briefly upwards before the wheels touch down in a quick puff of dust. It is so calming. So satisfying to watch these two simple events---takeoff and landing---over and over again. It enables me to let my thoughts wander into hidden territory. Explore what lies behind the mental armour I wear against the rough and tumble of daily life. Forget drink. Forget drugs. They don't work for me. This does. Give me a sunny day with small planes endlessly taking off and landing. There is no greater release. There is no greater pleasure.......

......... and I think of the people in my life who have passed by. The ones who have done me right. The ones who have done me wrong. And the ones to whom I have done right or wrong. Somehow the "right" ones don't matter so much. It is the "wrong" ones who fill my thoughts.

I form the words and sentences that I should have said to the ones who wronged me. Sometimes even speeches telling them about how they made me feel. I yearn for an explanation. I need to understand why they behaved as they did. Because I want to forgive them. No, I need to forgive them. I also make up excuses for the times when I wronged someone, in retrospect blaming it on pressure I had been under at the time.

And I like to think that those who wronged me had similar pressures at work on them. But I can never be sure, can I? Maybe they just perversely enjoyed what they said or did to me at the time. I don't like this thought. I want to forgive, but I need a reason to forgive. An expression of remorse from them. Otherwise how can I forgive? I am only an ordinary human being.

So through this morass I wade, in my relaxed and freewheeling state of mind, and the planes just keep coming and going in the distance. And sooner or later my thoughts turn to one particular person who came and went in my life.

The cleaning lady. Let's call her Anna.

She came to our house every day. Squatting down on her haunches and pushing her voluminous garments out of the way, she would hand-mop our smooth-tiled patio floors. My brother was two, and I was four years old. We would approach, and for no reason at all we would kick Anna the cleaning lady's shins. A small first layer of skin would detach on her ankles, and a white patch would show through. She would moan, but she never retaliated in any way. Not even telling our mother to obtain the sound spanking that we little monsters so richly deserved. So we did it again and again. Why? Because her acceptance bothered us. We needed a response. We did not understand this lack of complaint. And until it came, something in us would not let it rest, so we went on doing it. Kicking the shins of this poor cleaning lady.

We overheard Anna speaking to our mother once, but it wasn't about us. She was describing a visit she made to the government hospital. The doctor who told her she needed treatment for some ailment. The huge hypodermic syringe that she saw him preparing through a chink in the curtain, the sight of it unnerving her so much that she quietly slipped out and away. "Well, whatever has to happen, will happen," I remember her finishing as my mother sat staring at her with a bemused look.

And one day I overheard Anna softly humming a sad song to herself as she wearily massaged her well-kicked ankles. And I felt really bad. But the next day I was back at it again, inflicting needless pain on the poor creature. Because I could not understand her. I needed her to do something that would put paid to these horrible and mean acts she suffered from my brother and I. I needed her to stop us. But she never did, and in that lay her victory and my defeat. By acting thus she inflicted on me a deeper, longer lasting wound than any sound spanking could ever have done.

Many years have passed but she still haunts me. Whenever I have the time for introspection I remember her. Wishing I could return and find a way to make some kind of reparation for what I did. To make it okay. I cannot tell you how much it hurts me, how much it cuts me up inside not to be able to do this. But I wouldn't be able to trace her in that far off country we lived in. She's almost certainly dead by now anyway. She was quite old.

And so I look up again at the clear blue sky through the windscreen of my parked car and watch the approach of another metallic bird, a shiny dot out of nowhere, slowly swooping earthwards to land gracefully with a small puff of dust that the old cleaning lady would have got rid of so effortlessly with one sweep of her hand. For she knew a secret. A mighty secret. It was the same secret that Gandhi knew. The secret knowledge that he used to defeat all the soldiers of the mighty British Empire.

Non-retaliation. The Gandhi method.

You see, people just can't understand it. When they go on being violent this non-retaliation eats away at the souls of the aggressors faster than battery acid spilled onto a pile carpet. It rots their very core. Because ordinary human beings like you and me are usually not psychos. We do have sensitivities and feelings even if we might often forget them in moments of self interest or self gratification. And the wrong that we have done, if left unpunished, becomes too much for us to bear.

The British rulers imposed an unfair tax on salt---and salt is something that even the poorest could not do without. Gandhi's response was to march his followers to the sea to make their own salt by evaporating sea-water. Soldiers armed with heavy bamboo staves stood in their way. Each time Gandhi's followers advanced to make salt they were beaten to the ground, bones cracking under the bamboo staves of the waiting soldiers. And there they lay, groaning in bloody heaps. Then Gandhi would signal and a fresh wave of his people would advance, only to be beaten to the ground again in similar ghastly fashion. This happened so many times. The soldiers were sickened. The newspaper accounts were even more sickening. Even in smudgy black and white photographs the blood stains were clearly visible---perhaps more so because Gandhi's followers always dressed in white.

So okay, the bones would mend and the wounds would heal. But the damage could never be repaired. This is the way they eventually triumphed. Gandhi's followers were quite happy to be beaten up again and again, on every occasion when brute authority needed to be challenged. There came a point when enough was enough, the British government could not take it any more. They gave India her independence. They wanted out of that "crazy" place and its "crazy" people led by that "crazy" man. But was Gandhi crazy? Far from it. He was a very clever man indeed. He knew how to hit and hurt people in their conscience deep down inside where no one else could see, where the wound would never heal.

And Anna, our old cleaning lady, knew this too. And I am suffering to this day, and will probably do so until I breathe my last.

Clever Gandhi. Clever Anna, the cleaning lady.

I start the engine of my car and drive home. My peace is gone. My spirit is restless once more........

websites:

http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/

The Naked Assailant

My great-grandfather was a most peculiar man. And by calling him peculiar I am aware that I am exposing myself to the perfectly reasonable assumption that I, too, might be peculiar; this concerns me, as my great-grandfather's peculiarity was of an unpleasant and bizarre nature.

Now, I believe that everyone has the strength to control the beasts that dwell within them. However, fate and circumstance can invade our lives to create pressure, and, as we know, under pressure sometimes the best in us is revealed......

....and sometimes the worst.

At this stage you must have a good idea of where I am going with this from the subliminal hints by my use of four simple words: peculiar, exposing, naked and pressure. So let's cut to the chase.

My great-grandfather was a high-ranking government official in a small town. He had immense power and authority, and had cultivated an appropriate image of great respectability and impeccable morality. Remember, we are talking about quite some years ago. Nowadays people in similar positions in public life routinely behave very badly and get away with it---indeed, often their outrageous behaviour is applauded. They can attract thousands of followers on Facebook and Twitter. Such are the times we live in! But not then, not in the time of my great-grandfather. It is important to bear this in mind.

For my great-grandfather had a terrible secret. And the funny thing was that many people knew about it. Nowadays such a secret could get splashed across the tabloid newspapers. But not then, not in those times. Not in that small town. It was just too darn risky.

People were upright and moral, and they didn't take kindly to having their idols smashed to the ground to discover that they had feet of clay!

The problem was this; every evening my great-grandfather would set out on his after-dinner walk. Except that he wouldn't go far. Just outside the imposing, wrought iron gates to his driveway was a leafy tree. He would take off every single stitch of clothing, smear his naked body with ashes, arm himself with a stout bamboo cane, and climb to the top of the tree.

And there he would wait.

Most people passing by underneath the tree would carry on past unmolested, unaware of the eyes watching intently from above. Now and then, however, along would come someone whom my great-grandfather did not like the look of at all.

So he would shimmy down the tree and, bamboo-cane in hand, waylay the hapless passer-by and deliver a few good whacks to the unfortunate guy. And a particularly objectionable-looking person would receive nothing less than a damn good thrashing.

It is difficult to fight back against an armed man, for even a bamboo cane can be a formidable weapon. But it was not this that prevented the bruised and battered wayfarer from fighting back or complaining to the police. Rather it was the fact that they managed to recognise my great-grandfather. Yes, even in his birthday suit and ash-grey as a London sky, the honourable deputy collector could not be mistaken for anyone else. The good looks, the gravitas, the high-browed intellectual's profile were all abundantly well known. Sooner or later everyone needed the help of this powerful man.....and, well....and so he got away with it!

No one dared speak. No one even dared spread the word around to stop the innocent from using that particular road where, if your face didn't fit, you were made aware of it in no uncertain terms. A few bruises and lacerations were no big deal when compared to the negative fall-out attending any accusations against such an august personage. Such was the awe and respect in which people like my great-grandfather were held in those days.

So why did he do it? Was he mad? Far from it, my family maintains. He was not insane. So why?

Many years after he was dead and buried everyone was finally agreed. It all came down to one word.

Stress!

This was his way of unwinding. At work there were high expectations of him, and at home it was no different. He had 14 spoilt and squabbling kids and a wife more or less pregnant the whole time. Different people have different ways of dealing with stress. For some it is involving themselves in a favourite hobby. Others have music, art and sport as diversions to provide release from the inter-cranial pressure of a demanding life. And, if nothing works, we can always try a different line of work if we are sensible about it. My great-grandfather, however, had no such choice.

Too many people depended upon him. Relied on his advice and direction. He could not let them down. Circumstances had painted him into a corner. No one cared about the pressure-cooker that was bubbling away inside his head.

Nowadays we know much more about stress. How to recognise the symptoms. How it is caused, how to deal with it, yes, we know all that. For stress is surely a sickness but,---and this is a big 'but',---it is a self-inflicted sickness. We needn't put ourselves under such pressure. There is plenty of alternative employment around---admittedly often with less money, but with more long term happiness in prospect. Fewer broken families, more time for the kids, leisure to enjoy ourselves and appreciate the true joys of being alive.

And, as for those of us who want more from our careers, fair enough, if that is what turns us on so be it. But even this can and should be negotiated with our employers to enable us to have more time off to enjoy life. There really is no excuse, you know. Because in the end the root cause of our apathy....the main obstacle to a better life and the reason for this neglect of our souls comes down to one word.

Greed!

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

The Night-time Spider

Being in hospital is bad. Being hounded by a large black spider is bad. Combine the two situations and what you have isn't something bad.

It's a living nightmare.

I won't bore you with the details of the illness that took me into hospital. Some of you might be squeamish. Suffice it to say that when it was over and the general anaesthetic wore off, I came awake to the strains of Rod Stewart's excellent song 'I am sailing.' Someone later explained that this is what the nurses do; when it is time for you to regain consciousness they put on some loud music to give you that little extra nudge into wakefulness. Sure beats being shaken by the shoulder!

Somewhere underneath the sheets I had endured a 5 inch gash to my tummy. A canula from a drip was embedded in the crook of my left elbow. A catheter had been inserted into a most tender part of me, all the way up into my bladder, because it was going to be some while before I could move enough to use a 'bottle'. Well, that's what the nurses called it. Quite appropriate. Anything that is designed to receive and safely contain a quantity of liquid has to be called a bottle, hasn't it? Sorry, I promised not to go into my illness and here I am going on about it like a right old drama queen!

The nurses were like the ones we usually encounter in big hospitals. There are good ones. There are bad ones. It depends very much on your luck as to how many of each you encounter. There was a highly dedicated young male nurse called Pramot. Always smiling, always helpful, very capable. And an English nurse called Christina who clip-clopped up and down in her high heels all night long, entirely oblivious of the fact that the noise was keeping sick people awake. Now, it's better not to complain about such things as then they put an asterisk against your name on the board at the nurses' station, and from then on you are labelled a troublemaker and treated accordingly. It's not very pleasant, as I quickly learned.

There was an elderly nurse called Alice who mumbled and fumbled and got things so wrong that it was all I could do not to scream out in frustration. There was angelic Angelina, a wispy and pale nurse with a voice like a softly-played harp. I decided I wouldn't have minded going to heaven right there and then if it were peopled by ethereal beings like her.

But this is about my living nightmare. A recurring one. The terror of it had been driving me insane. Even the weak morning sunshine through the tinted windows could not dispel it.

I am a light sleeper. Which is why the tiniest sound brings me awake. And this is what would happen........

Coming awake with my head all fuzzy, I would sense a presence on the floor, just a few feet away. Out of the corner of my eye I would detect a massive black spider. It would inch purposefully towards me where I helplessly lay, unable to defend myself. Closer and closer it would come. All I could do was wait. I hate spiders.

Now, it's not so bad when you can actually see one from a distance. But believe me, it's a steady descent into gibbering insanity when you are lying helplessly and it begins inching closer. And closer.... and closer....and then simply disappears under your bed. And you lie there, heart pounding, mouth dry, every never jangling, waiting for it to appear over the side of the bed to enfold you in its hairy embrace.

The agony I went through!

Until one night I decided I'd had enough, I couldn't take it any more. Somehow I was going to stay awake. Somewhere deep down I was convinced that the spider would stay away if I was wide awake. In other words it was all a dream. Sorry, a nightmare.

Well, my mind had almost completely gone (more than half way to Timbuktu, I imagine). But enough of my brain was functioning to enable a simple exercise in cunning.

I waited until Pramot appeared to administer the customary sleeping pill that I had been prescribed. Even as he watched me with a wide and friendly (and quite unnecessary) smile, I hid the fact that I hadn't swallowed it. If I didn't fall asleep then the spider couldn't get me, right?

Wrong!

Now, one fact I clearly remember; it always happened at around the same time. About 12 o'clock. I knew this because it was the time that I would hear the faintest scraping sound. My eyes would snap open, my body convulsing, and there I would lie helplessly, drenched in the sweat of mortal fear, waiting for the spider to start crawling towards me.

So now 12 o'clock arrived. Nothing happened. I watched the dimly lit face of the clock on the wall opposite as the second-hand ticked away. Yay! No spider tonight! It couldn't happen after 12 o'clock. It had never done so in the past, therefore it surely stood to reason that it couldn't happen now. I made up my mind that I would train myself to stay awake until 12 o'clock every night. Goodbye, hairy black giant spider!

I was still congratulating myself on this significant victory, so at first I did not notice the familiar looming shape out of the corner of my eye. When I did my breath caught in my throat as my eyes bugged out. It couldn't happen. Not now. It was 12:05! I was wide awake, I had to be. Look, there was nurse Alice, mumbling and spilling multi-coloured pills across the counter as usual. There strode Christina, heels clip-clopping as she sailed past with her nose in the air. There was Angelina--- well--- just floating around looking fantastic as usual.

And then there was the spider. In the semidarkness, still advancing towards my bed.

This was not a nightmare. The spider was real! It was finished. I'd gone crazy. A shriek of utter desolation burst from my lips.........

Lights went on. Patients started yelling. Everyone was staring at me. Something touched my left arm.

Aaaaargghhh!

I jerked my head sideways to look....

It was only a hand, small and chubby. Pramot's smooth and beautifully sun-tanned hand.

'I'm sorry, John. Did I startle you? So sorry, I didn't mean to.'

Pramot, super efficient and calm. The best nurse on the ward.

Pramot, my night-time spider.

I felt such a fool when he explained.

He had only been doing his job. At 12 o'clock every night he would squat down on his haunches from a distance of 6 feet away. It was the only way he could get a proper look underneath my bed. Vaguely, in the gloom, he could then make out the silhouette of what he had come for--- the bottle into which had drained the liquid contents of my bladder. He needed to empty the bottle. Obviously! And he would approach me in crablike fashion, across the floor. Squinting in the dark with his head twisted sideways. Doing his best to keep in view the bottle so it would be easy for his questing hands to locate when he reached underneath my bed.

Well, you know what everyone called poor Pramot from that day onwards, don't you?Spiderman.

A superhero, was Pramot. I, of course, had never doubted that!

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

The Perils Of Long Distance Love

It happened a couple of years ago. Her name was Mandy. A pale, wisp of a girl hiding behind a thick fringe of mousy hair and heavy-duty glasses. Shy, awkward and withdrawn, she slipped in like a wraith, hardly ever looked up from her computer screen, munched a sandwich from a white plastic box at lunchtime, and slipped out when it was time to go home. Of course, she would talk if you spoke to her---that is, after she'd jumped a foot into the air. So after a while no one took much notice of her any more. No one bothered.

And then one day it all changed.

Actually the change had been happening gradually, only it hadn't registered in anyone's consciousness. And then it did. Because the creature that Mandy had become could not be ignored any more; the heavy glasses were gone to reveal eyes with the silvery blue sparkle of a mountain stream. The hair now cascaded in glossy chestnut waves around her shoulders. The pert lips had just the right amount of lip gloss........but all that was nothing compared to the real difference in Mandy.

This was something from deep within, as if a light had been turned on inside. Mandy was vibrant and sparky with the sheer joy of being alive.

In short, Mandy was beautiful.

Everyone was stunned. No one had ever seen such a metamorphosis before--- a multihued butterfly, calm and confident of its glorious presence among lesser beings. Everyone was bewitched---especially us guys. But we were to be disappointed.

"His name is Mark," said Mandy. "We met at the bus stop. He's the best, he is really something else," she enthused. "Of course we've got to be sensible. We mustn't rush things. It's important that we take the time to get to know each other properly. If you try to fast track a relationship, it will fail. Happens all the time," she finished with a superior air. But we didn't mind. This was Mandy's time. Even some of the more envious girls were forced to concede that it was time she had some fun. Because Mandy was a nice person. Always had been, now that they thought about it.

Every day Mandy prattled on and on about Mark. We glanced at each other and smiled. She was in love. Utterly and completely. Good for her! Just look at the change. Just look!

And every day she floated among us, speaking in this quietly excited voice, and all of us were happy to behold this radiant girl who made our own day a little brighter.

So it wasn't too difficult to notice when everything wasn't quite the way it should have been.

A slight tension in the air, the lightest of frown lines on Mandy's brow. We feared the worst, and nodded wisely. Haven't all good things a nasty habit of coming to an end? Wasn't it all just a matter of time?

But no. Mandy and Mark were still together. Only now she had a framed photograph of him. On her desk, just a glance away from her computer screen. So she had no choice but to fill us in on that aspect of Mark which she had been reluctant to mention all along.

Oh yes, Mark was a handsome, dashing figure of a young man, fresh-faced and so elegant even when standing quite stiff and straight in his brown soldier's uniform. "It's been my worst fear. And now it's happened," moaned Mandy. "He's been posted to Afghanistan. What's really worrying is that he'll be going to the Helmand province. One of the worst places to be, so I've heard. Terrible things happen there." Mandy's lips quivered. I noticed that her eyes had become dark-circled and haunted.

We all made the usual reassuring noises.

What else could we do? On the other hand if Mark had chosen to be a soldier, then he had to be ready to man up and take his chances when the time came. Duty is duty. I was careful not to say this out loud, though.

But Mandy was tough, as are most people who are in love for the first time in their lives. It was true that most of her effervescent cheer had gone, but that deep down contentment was still visible. She was going to pull through this difficult time. Mark would be fine. Yes, it wasn't going to be easy, this long and agonizing wait. But it would be over one day. And then he would be back home again and they could go on making those wonderful plans for the future. All those plans that had been so cruelly cut short by his departure.

And, sure enough, the days went by and there were only two weeks left to go of Mark's tour of duty.

It happened around 11am one morning, as I remember. A day just like any other day, as the words of the song go. We were having a coffee downstairs, when some of us glanced up. A cell phone had started ringing. It was Mandy's, and she was standing right at the top of a long flight of stairs, about to take her first step to come down and join us in our mid-morning coffee break.

Mandy had the 'phone out in one fluid movement, faster than you have ever seen any cowboy draw in a Wild West movie.

"Hello?" she said.

And then her face went blank, the way a creased shirt does when you pass a hot iron over it. She swayed, clutching the banister, her eyes rolled up, her mouth opened in a soundless scream. And she crumpled, her knees bending, pitching her forwards. A sickening 'thunk' and Mandy began rolling down the rock-hard flight of stairs, banging on each step, arms and legs flying like a demented puppet, even as we ran up to stop her.

It was a very long flight of stairs. She was way up, and we were way down below. Somebody called an ambulance. Mandy's eyes were closed. Limp, lifeless limbs jutted out at unusual angles. We thought she was dead, but they revived her in the ambulance. And at the hospital she went straight into intensive care.

None of us were fit for any more work that day. We were too badly shaken and were sent home.

It wasn't until the next afternoon that we heard the news.

And the news we had went like this;

Mandy had concussion, a fractured skull, several broken bones, bruises and ruptures. She would need at least three months in hospital and a series of operations to recover fully. But recover she would. Everyone was certain. Why? Because she had every reason to want to recover, that's why.

The voice on her cell phone had been that of Major Calhoun, Mark's commanding officer in Afghanistan. Mandy had recognised him instantly, and collapsed, certain that the worst had happened. The shock had been too great, her nightmare suddenly a living, breathing, evil thing as it clutched her in its cold embrace.

Sure, Major Calhoun had been calling from base camp in Helmand province in Afghanistan, and yes, it was about Mark. He had taken a gunshot wound and was being flown back home that evening. He was out of danger but would need one month in hospital---compared to Mandy's three.

Someone joked that it seemed you could get hurt worse just staying at home than you would ever get being sent to old Helmand. No one laughed.

Well, there they lay, by special arrangement, side by side in their hospital beds in the same room. Bruised and battered young lovers, holding hands across the bed sheets and taking up from where they had left off planning their future together, surrounded by the big bunches of flowers we had brought in. "So romantic!" whispered one of the nurses.

After all, it has been said that the path of true love never runs easy.

Anyway, all the likes of me can do is to raise a glass and say, "here's to you, Mandy and Mark. May you live to be a hundred!

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

The Reluctant Voyager

I switched off the engine and gazed through the windscreen. The grass in the park was so green that it hurt my eyes. The old oak trees, branches bowed low, had trunks of melting brown chocolate. I felt a huge longing to go up to the man walking his dog. To join in the carefree frolic as he let his pet off the leash and it went scampering about, sniffing everything, remembering the smells as if they would be gone tomorrow.

But I had a voyage to make. The hardest one of my life.

I looked in my rear-view mirror. The angular concrete and glass hospital was a brooding monster, awaiting me with its busily-chewing mouth of revolving-doors. My hand shook as I locked the car. I tried to swallow past a tongue that felt thick, hot, and dry, as if my head had already entered a crematorium furnace.

And the worst bit, of course, was being alone. But I hadn't wanted anyone to come with me. It was one of those occasions which a man needs to attend on his own.

In Reception a wild, swinging party was going on, tempting me to stay awhile. But I knew I had to keep moving, and I knew where to go.

My footsteps echoed along shiny corridors. I looked up. A hazy fluorescence from the overhead lights spun angelic halos around faces from my past. Some comfort, then, in this promise of an afterlife.

Then I froze, wide-eyed and still. Two snaggle-toothed demons had just scuttled sideways around a corner with a whispery chuckle. Pale figures passed by like ghosts, satisfied with my credentials for entry to their world, glancing at me---then glancing away in tacit acceptance.

There was a long queue outside hell. I awaited my turn patiently. My mind had gone blank. I wouldn't think. I couldn't. When I got to the top of the queue I watched the nurse's lips move but could hear no sound. And then she pointed to where the others waited, sitting in chairs. I walked over like a zombie and sat down, going semi-catatonic, staring down at the threadbare, tea-stained carpeting.

It was a three hour wait. More than long enough to go to hell and back.

Rocking slowly, to and fro, and then a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Er..... Mr Smith?"

I got up stiffly, and made my way to the curtained cubicle, suddenly eager to see the tele-transporter that would whisk me away to unimaginable worlds. I even managed a tight, grim smile. But the nurses were used to it.

Then a face I recognised. Alicia!

Our eyes met. Nothing. My knees turned to jelly. I slumped down heavily in the chair opposite her desk and she looked up in alarm from her notes.

"I----I'm all right," I muttered.

Nurse Alicia's face thawed into a smile. "Of course you are, John. Your tests were fine. The cancer hasn't spread. Once we remove that awful polyp from your bowel your troubles will be over. You're booked in a week from today......."

I staggered out. A drab and normal hospital corridor greeted me. The party in Reception was suddenly over, and now there was only the monotonous bustle of people coming and going. The scuttling demons had turned into cast-off plastic shopping bags. Outside, the grass was its usual semi-yellow colour, the bark on the oak trees chipped and faded. But I just stood there, feeling all the strength of the world flowing through me, inhaling lungfuls of diesel-tainted air that to me were as intoxicatingly sweet as if fresh off the powdery slopes of some alpine resort.

Yes, my heightened sense of awareness had vanished, but I didn't care. It just felt so darn good to be alive!

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

Tragedy At The Duck Pond

At my day job there is an artificial pond. It is surrounded by grass greener and flatter than a millionaire's golf course. A 200-year-old tree overhangs it. In the middle is a powerful fountain. It jets skywards as if to wash out the eyes of the Almighty so he can see better the helpless agonies of his creatures below.

Every spring a new pair of ducks appear. They swoop down, as if by appointment from some celestial estate agent, to check out the suitability of the pond for bringing up a family. Sometimes they stay, setting up home in a small area of long grass specially cultivated by my employers to provide duck accommodation.

Just over a year ago a half dozen ducklings were born, little downy balls, cheaping in single file behind their mother, proudly marching across the billiard-table-like green.

Idylls never last. Nature always sees to this.

One day two huge black crows appeared like harpies to inflict bloody murder on the manicured green grass. Three ducklings were eaten, a hideous open air picnic which office staff witnessed, open-mouthed in horror, from their windows.

Of course this had happened before, in years gone by, and this is why an area of long grass had been grown. But, as we all know, it is not possible to stay at home all one's life for fear of venturing out into a hostile world (or am I behind times and, thanks to galloping technology most humans need never leave home nowadays as long as they have a computer and an internet connection).

But this is about the ducks. Three ducklings are dead. Three survive. They grow rapidly into what resemble loutish teenage ducks, sleek and bulky. Mum lays more eggs. More ducklings are born. Dad comes and goes as takes his fancy, alas, like some human dads do.

We hoped that with their older siblings to protect them, the new brood would thrive. Far from it. Two of the seven were pecked to death by the teenagers in acts of sheer jealous spite. The crows, to be fair, must also have had young to feed, and they lifted another two. Three were left. Deep breath. Surely the worst was over. A brief respite to enjoy something of life is surely the right of every living creature?

Not so. The teenagers ate all the available food. We rushed out with breadcrumbs and bird food, but this was also eaten by the crows and the teenagers while those it was meant for cowered abjectly in the long grass. Sadly bad behaviour so seldom goes unchecked nowadays – – and therefore the teenagers loutishly went on an attacking their tiny siblings until, driven to distraction and not thinking straight, mother duck resorted to drastic action.

Before our horrified eyes, one morning, she left home forever, the three remaining downy bundles in tow, away through the big gates and onto the bustling pavement outside with the giant wheels of passing traffic only inches away. There was nothing we could do. Bicycles swerved, cars honked, people sidestepped. Through this intimidating maelstrom strode mother duck with her charges cheaping behind, off into the distance, waddling determinedly. We closed our eyes and looked away as they disappeared. Where were they headed? Where would they go? The odds were against any of the ducklings surviving. It was a tragedy, but mother duck had opted for this rather than stay at home and see her young ones slowly murdered.

I don't know what became of them.

This year a new couple arrived.

Ducklings were duly born. Crows appeared and said ducklings were duly eaten. Even a fox laid in this time, crawling furtively, low to the ground and under the front gates in dead of night. I suppose it had its cubs to feed. A security guard chased it and it disappeared somewhere. Someone said it must have climbed the tree. But, as I pointed out, foxes can't climb trees, as Aesop so vividly demonstrated.

But joy, oh joy – – – sooner or later good must happen. Ill tides must turn. The heavens must open with sunshine and trumpeting angels to uplift the downbeaten and weary hearted – – – one duckling had survived even the fox. With its mother it had swum to a small concrete island in the middle of the pond where no fox could follow. Even crows were loathe to venture beneath the protective cascading arcs of the central fountain. We rejoiced. The news went around. All our lives got a morale boost from the triumph of the weak over the mighty. More breadcrumbs. More bird food. Even digital photographs.

I once said to someone that good times never last. They argued back, saying neither do bad times. Hmmm....sure seems like there are more bad times than good, though. Or maybe that's just me?

Little duck was growing fast, but not fast enough. Meanwhile mother duck was spending more and more time with new suitors. Two weeks ago I got to work and a colleague told me that little duck had died. He'd been found lying in the pond, face sideways, one eye fixed on an impotent sky. "I think it died from sheer loneliness," said a colleague. "Its mum was neglecting it. It had no one to play with....." I thought about this. "I don't know. Maybe you're right," I muttered. After that mother duck went on being courted by three handsome drakes. Whenever I appeared she followed me, irritably quacking for breadcrumbs. I couldn't be bothered any more. "On her own. More kids on the way. Loads of boyfriends. Next she'll be wanting assisted housing," someone remarked. "She already has that. The pond is all hers now," I replied bitterly.

But apparently a pond is not enough, even for a duck. As I pen these lines just a half hour ago mother duck wandered into the road outside and was hit by a car. We all heard the bang. A brave cleaning lady lifted the twitching and bloodied body onto the pavement, where mother duck finished dying. We had been feeding her so much that she had lost her natural caution of all things human.

Next year there will no doubt be more ducks. None of us seems to be looking forward to that so much any more.

"But at least mother duck is back with her ducklings," someone said.

Yeah. Okay.

websites:

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

True Love

I want to tell you a story. A true one, like all my other stories on this blog. But first I need to get something off my chest, so bear with me for a moment.

Take the time to listen to some pop songs from the 50s and 60s. Listen to the lyrics. Note the innocent passion with which the word love is used. The immense importance given to love as being something meaningful and desirable above all else. Nowadays, however, its meaning is vague---the very word has become devalued; I love chocolate ice cream. I love that song. Loved that book. Love your wallpaper. Love that car. Love your new dress. Love your new hairdo. Worst of all over the 'phone, "love you lots, 'bye." How fake. How shallow.

So yes, the word is still used. But so guardedly, so hesitantly, so reluctantly in any romantic sense when describing that powerful emotion for someone, that feeling that transcends every other kind of worthwhile feeling.

What am I on about, you are wondering by now. I'll tell you. I think love has fallen out of fashion. It's not believed in, really. Come on, be honest. People talk about relationships now. Not about love. They wonder and estimate how long a relationship is going to last. Because every relationship nowadays is time limited. Like a loaf of bread on a supermarket shelf. And it can be entered into in the same casual way that you would reach for that loaf of bread which is needed to satisfy your hunger. And once that hunger is satisfied, well.....it's time to "move on", isn't it. To pastures new. To other "partners". How I hate that word. As if we have entered into a mutually beneficial business association with someone.

Well, isn't that what all relationships are about now? Sooner or later someone else will come along. One or the other of us will simply get bored. The habits of our "partner" will begin to rankle. We'll begin snapping at each other. The Magic's gone. Was there any magic in the first place, we start asking ourselves. Call it a day. Done well to last the time it did. Never mind the children. They will survive and grew up to be just like us. How sad. How very sad.

How depressed it makes me, this all-embracing cynicism when it comes to the possibility of any likelihood of a deep attraction, a passion that goes beyond the physical and up onto a plane that makes us dizzy with joy every time we look upon or even think about that someone whom we love. No, we've lost faith in love. Romantic love. It's a temporary feeling, like standing close to a fire to warm your hands for a few seconds. We don't really believe in it, because we've come to believe that it never lasts. And that's a mistake. An absolute tragedy.

Is it because we simply have, so readily available, far too much of everything else to satisfy our needs nowadays? It seems as if all it takes to make us happy are the miserable little faces of our mobile 'phones and iPads, which we sit hunched over for hours on end like succubi. If so, then we can no longer call ourselves human beings.

Now for the story.

Some time ago I was commissioning editor for a publishing company. I went to visit a couple of authors up north about the new edition of a book that they had jointly written. Let's call one of them Dr Sam Hudson and the other Prof Luke Martin, because names don't matter. Only love does, whatever you might think. But back to my story.

Sam and Luke were two of the most wonderfully charming guys I have ever been fortunate enough to meet in my life. They put me at ease instantly, and we had an enjoyable meal amidst much talk and laughter at a local restaurant.

I noted that occasionally Luke would look up and out of a nearby window, into the distance, as if searching for something, and his expression would change so swiftly and so briefly that in the beginning I was convinced it was only a trick of the light. For in that instant he seemed to be looking into a dark and bottomless abyss into which he was about to tumble with no hope of rescue or last-minute deliverance. A sheer horror that made dark pools of his eyes.

But then he'd turn back to us. Warmth would flood his eyes. A smile would reappear. This happened several times.

Towards the end of the meal, which to be honest we had hardly noticed having been enjoying each other's company so much, Luke excused himself to go to the washroom. Sam and I were left alone.

'Going through a rough patch, is Luke,' I heard Sam mutter.

'Oh?' Yes, I was really concerned. I'd got to like these guys very much.

'His wife's very ill. She's only got a little time left.' It was as if someone had come up to our table and upended a bucket of cold water over us. I didn't know what to say. Sam looked very sad and began fidgeting with the cutlery. 'They've been together a long time. Practically worship each other,' he added quietly.

And then Luke was back with us again and Sam and I hurriedly re-composed our expressions to mirror the former enjoyment that we had been deriving from each other's company.

Talk turned to business. This was good, because I sensed that neither Sam nor I were comfortable going back to the former atmosphere of social enjoyment. Luke didn't seem to notice anything amiss. He went on being a jovial lunch companion. The perfect gentleman in every way. Hiding his terrible secret because he wanted our brief time together to continue in a happy tone.

Six months later I went to see Sam and Luke again. Sam had warned me that Luke's wife had died.

There was a different atmosphere, as was to be expected. I still didn't know the right words to say to Luke, because I did not think any words could mean anything at a time of such devastating and mind numbing grief of the kind that Luke was going through. A wan smile. The life washed out of his eyes. A pale blankness and a strange kind of withdrawal from the world around himself--- no other way to describe it.

Well, since I couldn't---no, it's more a case of I wouldn't---say any words of condolence, we rapidly moved on to discussing the new edition again. And there we sat, in a quiet corner of the university library, at a round table, discussing business and nothing else.

Luke's grief was so huge and awesome in its intensity that I was scared. It shocked me just to look upon it. I felt bad about this as I so wanted to say something.

We got into my company car and went to the restaurant for another meal. The conversation was subdued and mainly to do with work. Then, with the meal over, I drove both Sam and Luke back to the university.

And then suddenly, out of nowhere, Luke began reciting funny lines from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland and Through The Looking Glass.

"The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things; of shoes and ships and sealing wax. Of cabbages and kings.

And why the sea is boiling hot. And whether pigs have wings."

(Almost without a pause Luke went on,)

"You are old, Father William," the young man said. "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head---do you think at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; but now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, why, I do it again and again."

It was back, that warm buzz which we three had felt at our first meeting! His face wreathed in smiles, Luke had said the lines so perfectly, in such a comic tone, that both Sam and I were laughing our heads off like maniacs. It was so well done, such a neat delivery. Sam and I had tears rolling down our cheeks. Lots of them. Sure, tears of laughter to begin with. Then tears of grief for Luke, because we could show them freely now and make believe to each other that we were still laughing at Luke's performance.

Back at the university Luke wanted to get dropped off at the library, saying he didn't wish to go home yet. Goodbyes were said. For the first time I rather belatedly noticed an air of neglect about Luke. His hair was too long and unkept. There were little red nicks where he had cut himself shaving. A button was missing off his shirt. He didn't look me in the eye when we said goodbye. I suppose he didn't want me to see the darkness he was slipping back into.

I dropped Sam off a little further on. He wouldn't look at me either. I understood that. We didn't want to end up crying for Luke again. Couldn't have that. We were professionals. This was meant to be a business meeting.

I went up again, a year later. In my hands I had a copy of the new edition, hot off the press. But this time it was only Sam I was meeting. Luke had died. No surprise to either Sam or I. We'd both known it was coming. So did Luke. For Sam, Luke and I were men together; we knew about love. And Luke had loved his wife too much to survive without her......

Forget finding someone else. That doesn't happen with true love. Forget getting over it and moving on. That doesn't happen either with true love......

......there is no future. There is no life. Nothing matters any more. It's the end in every way. No? Am I being silly? If so, then you, dear reader, have never experienced true love. You have no idea what it is like. Which is just as well, isn't it. Because there is so much in this world for you to enjoy---good books, good food and wine, lovely holidays, fine clothes, fast cars. And don't forget your fancy electronic gadgets. Yeah. Who would want to stop you enjoying all that just for the sake of true love! Go find yourself a time-limited "partner". It's what you understand.

websites:

http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/

"Yes, I'm Leaving You........"

'Will you do it for me, John?'

I shifted uneasily in my chair, moving my coffee mug on the table this way and that.

'I don't know, Harry. Hey, it's a personal matter for you to sort out. It's just not right for me to be there.'

It was as if my friend hadn't heard me.

'I don't know what will happen when I ask Sue. I trust you, I need you to be there for me.'

A spurt of alarm raced through me as an awful thought reared its ugly head.

'Harry, you don't mean.....'

You see, I hadn't figured Harry to be a violent man. Far from it. But why then would he want me there other than to restrain him if his wife gave him the one answer he'd been dreading?

I'd known Harry for over a year. He had once come to my aid when I needed him. That's how we had become such good friends.

It had been an inky-dark night when I was driving along this winding country road on my way to visit a sick aunt. As I rounded a corner the tiniest, fluffiest little bunny you have ever seen hopped across the road. I swerved to avoid it. There was plenty of room, even if I was going a bit fast. What I hadn't seen was the patch of engine-oil. Suddenly my car began spinning crazily as the steering wheel became a living thing in my hands. Next second I was off the road and into a ditch as red lights exploded behind my eyelids. The stick-shift had dug deep somewhere into my middle, and for a moment I blacked out.

When I came to, the pain was worse. I could actually feel something grating inside me.

I somehow got the door open and staggered away. How I made it out of the ditch I'll never know. And so I stood, clutching my belly, trying to stand as straight as I could to flag down any passing car.

Finally one appeared. I waved desperately. It didn't stop. If anything it put on speed as it passed me. I realized how I must have looked, a tall figure, staggering on the road in the dark, one arm raised threateningly---only I wasn't threatening anyone. I needed help badly, that's all.

Another car came by. It didn't stop either. The pale oval of the driver's face looked terrified. I could see his point. Only the extras from The Night Of The Living Dead behaved like me! I cursed loudly as fresh pain lanced across my belly. I'd had it. This was where I was going to die. Alone, in the cold and dark, in this miserable place.....

And then the lights of a third car came around the bend. I raised my arm again. It slowed. It stopped. A man got out.

'You all right?'

What a silly question! Another kind of darkness, more complete than the one we stood in, descended across my eyes. I was falling...and someone was holding onto me. Guiding me towards the car.....

A month later I came out of hospital with my ruptured spleen more or less mended.

'Why did you stop?' I asked Harry when I went over to see him. 'Everyone else was too scared.'

Harry smiled.

'It was your face in the headlights,' he replied. 'You looked an okay guy. I can tell. You wouldn't hurt a fly.'

Yes, Harry was proud of his peculiar knack of being able to read people. It had never let him down – – – until now, apparently. You see, Harry had decided to marry the woman who became his wife the moment he saw her. Forget love at first sight, it wasn't that. He just knew she was 'okay'. That she would never let him down. Only now she had and he had to confront her. And he wanted me, a guy many years his junior, to come along to give him moral support. Or maybe he was scared out of his mind; he really loved that woman, and he wasn't sure what would happen when he got the truth out of her. So it was my turn to be there for Harry. Just the way he had been there for me.

'No, John, it's not like that. I'd never hurt Susan,' he said now in response to my earlier unfinished question.

'Right,' I replied. 'I'll come with you. Even if I still think it's wrong for me to be there.'

Susan had been cheating on Harry. Harry knew it. He was good at reading people.

Susan and Harry had been married for 20 years. They had settled into a comfortable, routine coexistence, the way most middle-aged couples seem to do. Just chugging along sedately. And, as we all know, this is where the danger lies. The deadly danger of boredom. The longing to recapture an almost forgotten excitement before it is too late. The need to feel alive again in a way that can only happen in the throes of passionate ecstasy. A last gasp reaching out for physical fulfilment.

I got up from my chair. Again I hesitated, even though I knew I had made up my mind.

'You're sure about this, Harry?'

My friend hung his head.

'I'm sure,' he whispered. 'It isn't natural, John. A week ago in the morning she caught me looking at her and she suddenly pulled me close and kissed me. She made me my favourite dinner, roast chicken, that night.' (Harry's tastes were fairly mundane). 'She strokes the back of my head when I'm leaving for work – – – she hasn't done that since we were young and.....and in love,' his voice had become shaky. 'It's a guilty ruse that many partners try when they are being unfaithful. It helps to make them feel better about what they are doing. It also quashes any suspicion which a new pattern of behaviour is producing.'

I nodded. It all added up.

'She bought herself new dresses. Started taking extra pains with her make-up and even forgets to take it off when she's home. There is this wonderful perfume – – – must have cost the earth. It's got to be someone at work,' Harry pondered glumly. 'Because she always makes it a point of being home on time.'

Harry couldn't take it any more. It was killing him he said. He had to have it all out in the open, even if the act of doing so in itself killed him. That's the way brave men behave. And Harry was the bravest. It was the aftermath that scared him. The fallout from what his wife would admit. The effect on him. I was beginning to understand it now. Men like Harry could lay down their lives for people they loved, without a second thought. But they needed someone around when something bad was about to happen to themselves. Nothing wrong with that. It doesn't diminish their bravery.

We set out in my car. Harry's hands were shaking so badly that he was in no condition to drive. There was no more conversation. We were each steeling ourselves for the ordeal ahead.

Susan certainly looked good. Okay, she was old enough to be my mum, but even my mum can still look fantastic if she tries. Well, that's my opinion anyway.

'Come in, come in, John,' she gushed as she ushered me warmly inside. 'Haven't seen you for ages. Harry should be getting out more, I keep telling him. It's good to widen one circle of friends – – – make new friends – – – you know, have a social life – – – have fun!'

Harry could take it no longer. Without further ado he took Susan's shoulders and turned her gently around to face him. Taking her hands in his own he raised them to his chest.

'Susan, tell me. Now. Don't lie, give me that much respect. I can't take it any more. I've got to know. Are you having an affair?' Susan's smile slipped. 'Who is it, Susan? Is it someone I know? You've got to tell me. I'll understand.'

The words were spoken softly but in a curiously flat and resigned tone of voice. Like a man's last words as the hangman tightens the noose around his neck.

'Harry, why do you think....?'

'Shhhh....don't. No. Just give it me straight my love. Tell me.'

There was a long silence. Then Susan's shoulders slumped. She looked down at the ground as Harry continued to hold her hands on his own. Two large tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. I was embarrassed and wanted to turn away, but I couldn't. An icy calm had descended over Harry. He was doing the decent thing, giving her time to find the right words. She hadn't been expecting this right now.

'I....I....Harry, I'm sorry,' she whispered.

We waited, frozen like statues, not daring to move.

'I...I couldn't help it...' Still we waited. 'I had this dream,' Susan went on. 'You and I...we were sitting at the breakfast table...and you suddenly put down your newspaper.....turned to me slowly....your face like a stone mask, and you said to me, "Susan, I don't love you any more. "I... I'm sorry, Harry my love. But it made me panic. I thought it might actually happen.'

Life began seeping back into Harry's dead eyes.

'So you've been doing everything you can, not to let your dream come true?' he asked. Susan nodded, fresh tears appearing in her eyes. Harry pulled Susan close. 'Dreams are just that. Only dreams....' he murmured into her hair.

The atmosphere in the room had changed. There was something new and dynamic being born, a kind of electric charge that was making the very air sizzle.

Susan put one hand to Harry's face. And at that point I decided I just had to back out of the room. So I did, and I didn't stop until I driven all the way home.

Women! Wonderful, aren't they?

Aren't they?

Of course they are!

<http://johnmwsmith.my-free.website/>

Twitter: @wackyscribe

 Facebook

END
