I was walking dreaming when I passed the Thai restaurant and thought I saw a slight movement or perhaps sensed the spark of life.  And there, clinging to the blood red wall, was an exotic creature.  I guess it must have stowed away in a crate of restaurant supplies.  After making good its escape it was now resting a while and trying to get its bearings before it made its way in this strange cold place.   I look at its beautiful camouflaged pattern wings dusted with gold; wings that should be warmed by the slight stirring of a sub-tropical breeze not the hot oily discharge from a dirty restaurant extractor fan.  It had perhaps found a tiny oasis of warmth.  Seeing this doomed being though struck a chord in my heart and I felt once again the soft touch of your finger tips sending shivers up my spine and the warmth of your body.  I felt sad though too knowing that this beautiful little creature would die soon, cold and far from the warmth of its home.  I had not dared to breathe and then as if knowing its fate it appeared to give a small bow. I bowed too in return then it flew off into the night leaving me alone again.

I took a deep breath.  There was a storm coming and the night air was heavy and charged with energy. The click of stilettos on the street behind me seemed to mark out my time too.  I closed my eyes and realised I had been mourning for all those who had lost their way.  I touched the wall where moments before a small creature had trembled before following its nature and flying out into the cold unforgiving world.  Did I feel some echo of its presence? The wall felt rough and crumbled as I touched it reminding me that even the most solid and lasting of our creations is in fact in the process of returning to the earth.  Nothing is ever truly still and unchanging.

I looked at my fingertips, now red with brick dust, and suddenly there was a gust of warm moist air and I could smell lemon grass and jasmine and in that moment I was bathed in the fragrant warmth of a tropical evening.

I had a lot on my mind and when that happens I know that I won’t get anything written. The only cure I know is to go out and bring some paper and my trusty fountain pen and find somewhere different to write. On this occasion I took a bus into Newcastle and after walking around a bit found a cafe and purchased a BLT and a Mocha. The music they were playing was some kind of Jazz fusion thing and I put my squidgy earphones in to deaden the sound a little. I was just about to put pen to paper when a large middle aged man mumbled something and took a seat opposite me. The cafe was not busy so I looked around as if to give him a non-verbal message that there were plenty of other seats. He had a Diet Coke and was drinking this in a fairly animated way. it occurred to me that in fact the can was empty and he was in fact pretending, fairly unconvincingly, to drink it presumably for my benefit as there was no one else around. When he finished this he placed the can on my tray next to my half finished coffee and sandwich. I raised an eyebrow and at this point I slowly began to realise that this man was perhaps suffering from mental health problems. He was staring at me.

I had written three words on my paper and he was reading these out loud, ‘What’s going on?’ he then proceeded to answer this question, that he presumably thought I had posed for his benefit. I pretended not to be aware of his monologue as I had the earphones in and couldn’t really hear what he was saying in any case. He then got up and left and I felt a bit relieved. By this time the cafe was empty except for a busker sitting near the window. I started writing again and switched off from my surroundings when I was suddenly aware of a large middle aged man sitting down again in front of me this time with a Diet Coke and a BLT. He stared at me as he ate his sandwich in silence and then drank the Diet Coke without once taking his eyes off me. After he had almost finished (almost is an important word as will become clear) he let out an enormous belch that sent several soggy crumbs of partly masticated BLT over my own sandwich and into my coffee and most annoyingly onto my paper forcing me to stop writing. I wiped these off with a paper napkin and closed my pad. He continued to stare at me as I did this with no word of apology. I felt a growing sense of unease, a feeling that has served me well over the years when dealing with some very challenging people. The time had come to depart as writing was pretty much impossible. I put away my precious pen with care and without removing my headphones or saying anything I left the cafe without looking back.

After I had walked a little way the feeling of intense annoyance began to subside. I thought to my self, ‘Why am I annoyed?’ I had been mildly irritated earlier by some teenagers playing music on their mobiles on the bus. I cannot remember doing anything that would particilarly annoy anybody else on a bus. Was this a sign of age where little things irritated me? I started to think a little more charitably about my dining companion. He wasn’t much older than me and maybe he had had a tough life. Perhaps he had just wanted some company and someone to have a chat with him. He was certainly lacking in social skills and graces. He had probably had his fair share of rejection in the past. Something terrible might have just pushed him over the edge. I was thinking of many people I had known who had suffered mental breakdown or suffered from other mental health problems. Maybe this guy had a learning disability and I had just reinforced the many negative experiences he had already had. I ran a number of scenarios through my head including one where the guy had just arrived from Eastern Europe and knew very little English and just wanted to make contact with the locals. I felt a bit guilty and made up my mind that the next time something like that happened I would be a little more gracious and understanding of the rich spectrum of humanity and be a little more humane.

I did some shopping and cheered myself up. I had almost forgotten about the guy and was on my way back up the high street to Haymarket Bus Station when I saw an ambulance parked outside the cafe. I walked towards it and just as I arrived the crew were stretchering out the young busker I had seen by the window. A couple of the staff came outside too and a small crowd of onlookers had gathered. Someone asked one of the staff what had happened and he told them that some guy had just flipped and attacked the poor busker, who had just been sitting by the window minding his own business, and ran off. I had no doubt which guy may have flipped out. I thought about this on the bus on the way home. Maybe I had had a lucky escape but I shuddered to think that maybe by ignoring him I had triggered the impulse for him to hurt someone. This led to a whole other chain of thought about the interconnectedness of things and how karma might have a basis in fact.

He lay in bed reading a book but found he couldn’t concentrate. The bath was taking a long time to fill and she was humming tuneless to herself as she was taking a pee. After what seemed an age the toilet finally flushed and moments later he heard her lowering herself inch by inch into the bath making tantalisingly suggestive noises. The water must be as hot as she could bear it and he imagined her face flushed and pink.  He found himself fantasising about her outrageously and he felt a little guilty about it.

The hotel room was very reasonable.  When he was told the hotel would be supplied by the company he was meeting with he had just been expecting a fairly featureless box in which to spend the night but instead had been pleasantly surprised by the extra quality of the room and the hotels friendly and efficient service. The one drawback it seemed was that the walls were not very well soundproofed. In fact it was true to say that you could hear everything.  He was surprised that he had voyeuristic feelings.  He had an overwhelming desire to see her but not be seen. 

A friend of his had recently bought a wireless CCTV camera detector that he now took on business trips.  He had laughed when his friend had told him this until his friend had told him the story of his colleague who had been enjoying herself with ‘a friend’ in what she thought was the privacy of her hotel room in China but had been secretly filmed by a miniature camera that had been concealed in the TV set.  This was bad enough but later the next day she had been most upset when, during a business meeting, a company representative, she had been negotiating with, started playing the footage on his laptop.   She had not realised it was her at first.  Needless to say her negotiations were somewhat compromised. 

It all went quiet except for the quiet drone of the extractor fan as she lay back in the hot water a while later her heard her sit up he heard and wash herself and then heard her getting out of the bath. He thought of her drying her body on the large fluffy white towel. He then supposed that she sat behind him in front of the mirror applying moisturiser to her body. He imagined her slowly massaging moisturiser all over. She was humming quietly what sounded like a lullaby. Once this task had been completed she was probably getting into her night things and then folding back the sheets and quilt and sliding between them into bed. She turned out the light straight away. He imagined she was warm and drowsy from the bath and ready to sleep.

They had checked in at the same time and had walked along the identical corridors looking for their rooms together. She had smiled at him as they pushed their key cards into their respective doors simultaneously and entered their rooms. He thought about her smile now and wondered about her. He couldn’t help looking at her when they had been looking for their rooms. She was wearing black figure hugging trousers and from what he could tell she had a body that looked firm and athletic.

He turned out his own light and was soon asleep. It was a several hours later that he heard  the muffled sounds of her crying. She was sobbing gently, probably into her pillow. Every now and then she would blow her nose. This went on for over an hour until he heard her pick up a glass and fill this with water in the bathroom. He then heard her talking to herself, though he could not make out the words.

He felt he wanted to talk to her but could not think of any excuse that he could possibly use to knock on her door.  How would she respond if he just called to her through the wall to ask her if everything was ok? That would give everything away and she would guess that he had been listening to her.  With these thoughts turning in his head he fell asleep.

In the morning he woke late and after a quick shower he dressed and left the room. As he walked past her room the cleaner was already in there and it was obvious that she had already checked out. He wondered for a while how he might possibly contact her.  Maybe the hotel reception would forward his business card to her or he could pursuade them to give him some information.  However, he knew that this was just one of those things and he would forget her in a few days and she would just be a woman in room 418.

It was November 1994. Sitting at the junction I listened to the gentle purr of the VW Golf’s engine and I felt a deep sense of calm. Traffic was light and the next car that passed was also a VW the same colour as mine. Something registered in another part of my brain about this car. I noticed the driver first and as I looked at him we recognised each other and then I saw you. It is an image etched in my mind as you were wearing that long black coat that your father had given you. You had complained it smelled of mothballs. Had your father bought it for your mother? You looked pale your expression fixed as if you were in pain. I could not tell if you had seen me or not.

For a few seconds I could not move as every thought I had was frozen in that instant. Until that point I could tell myself that you were just away visiting your aunt, your brother or even your dad. I had been living in a fantasy world where you were there really but always just around the corner, at the supermarket,  in the bath, or the kitchen. I could tell myself that and feel ok but not any longer. There he was sitting where I had always sat before with his hands firmly on the steering wheel of my car driving away with you beside him. He not only had you but he had our dreams and everything we had worked for too. I knew with agonising finality, as I eventually lost sight of the car, that the last sliver of hope I had been clinging to with, it has to be said, increasing desperation had disappeared forever.

I cannot say what route I took after our all too brief encounter but I found myself on the motorway with my foot firmly on the accelerator. I didn’t notice anyone else on the road. I am usually a very restrained and careful driver but now all I wanted to do was to drive very fast feel something other than this numbness. As the car reached its top speed a tiniest flicker of a thought crossed my mind that I had only to turn the wheel a little to connect with a concrete bridge support then my life would almost certainly be extinguished and with it all the intense emotional pain I felt. I could visualise the impact and the crushing weight as that beautifully over engineered engine was forced into the space currently occupied by my body and g-forces dealt a death blow to my cerebral cortex. Fortunately, I was travelling so fast at this point that I was already under the bridge by the time these thoughts had been considered and instead of surrendering to it my body appeared to be acting independently in automatic self-preservation mode as I felt it easing my foot off the accelerator and releasing the muscular tension in my shoulders. I suddenly felt better than I had done for days and turned off the motorway at the next exit and headed for home clearly flooded with endorphins but knowing that however bad I had felt it was never that bad.

As I finally parked outside my home I knew that the crisis had passed. From that moment on I felt a lot more in control of my life and I finally felt free to live my life the way I wanted to again. It was my life again and this time I was in the driver seat going where I wanted to go.

I am looking into your eyes and I see the eyes I looked into so long ago

we were careless with love but it was the start of our lives.

Friends and lovers have come and gone.

Did we ever think of each other in times of trouble or pain?

I am looking into your eyes and I see all that I loved before long ago

when we promised to love each other always.

We have travelled far and sometimes alone.

Did you remember what we had said back then?

I am looking into your eyes and you look just the same as long ago

When we parted you said ‘I wish you all the happiness that you wish for yourself’

What had seemed like goodbye now seems like an opportunity

Did you know the happiness I wished for was to be with you again?

As I look into your eyes I know that we are back in the right place just as long ago

to have the chance to be with you again.

Hope is blossoming where there was once an empty space

Did you sense the ache in my heart that could never be filled by another?

I am looking into your eyes and I know that even though it was long ago

I have never stopped loving you for a second.

I have found that to love without hope is to really love

Did you ever think I would forget you or never want to cherish you again?

A first for the site as a link to an article about Okinawan Glassware appears in the New York Times.

http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/02/27/the-tea-bag-basks-in-its-moment-to-simmer/index.html?hp

I am searching for the source of the feeling you gave me and moved me to tears. The individual notes can be notated and are there for anyone to read in black and white. Your timing can be timed and found to be either slow or fast. The pattern of your voice can be mapped and analysed from every angle for pitch, volume, cadence, and other innumerable qualities but there is nowhere in the melody that gives me the answer. Can colours be expressed by numbers or the subtleties of thought by a machine or the power the music has to stir feelings by a mere theory.

In dreams I seek you out like a spirit guide. Is it only in dreams that we can truly understand each other? You speak to me softly, and with perfect clarity, your carefully chosen words are at once hypnotising and stimulating. You say something, that those of us who listen very hard can hear, like feint voices on the breeze. How can you take hold of my mood and pull it this way and that showing me paths I did not know existed or fear to tread. Did you say, ‘It takes two to know?’

I am waiting for you at the edge of this dream. I found you here before and you showed me all the images that your mind had created so effortlessly. Ideas, associations and sequences streamed from you like a high speed train flashing by, leaving me staring in awe at the station. These thoughts and images sang and buzzed in my mind and I realised that the medium you had then was never enough to express what you saw and felt. In death you are a legend and freed at last from the burden of your flesh, your essence saturates the stars, and if we open and still our minds, and listen ever so carefully, we can still hear feint voices on the astral breeze. Speak to me now.

Feet by Mel Yong http://voices-deep-within.blogspot.com/

I was met as I came in the door by a woman with a name badge who remembered my name.  She took my card and I sat down and waited for my name to be called.  I looked around there was a woman in her early twenties staring at the wall with her hand inside her shirt absent mindedly adjusting her bra strap oblivious to the hormone charged  youths oggling her casually exposed cleavage.   The chav next to her was making obvious attempts to cop a sly look down her front and sniggering about it with his similarly gibberring, spotty, chav, friends.  They smelled of cigarettes and vinegar.  Like other youth cults they looked ridiculous to most people who saw them with their little duck billed baseball caps, mobiles, and baggy trousers and all labouring under the bizarre mistaken belief that they appear cool or attractive, presumably only to others of their kind.  What government scheme could possibly move these young people into paid employment. 

Wanted by no sane employer ’chav’ type person, no experience, skills or obvious redeeming qualities. To be given money for doing absolutely nothing whatsoever without anyone checking you have done anything.  Must be able to shout across town squares at other chavs and know how to operate a mobile phone whilst doing so. An interest in ringtones and the ability to converse in what is mistakenly thought to be a rough incomprehensible approximation of Jamaican patois would be an advantage.  Please continue to sign on at your nearest Jobservice indefinitely as there is no way you will ever actually apply for a job.

An older guy beside me was muttering to himself something about locking them up, giving them a bloody good hiding or putting them in the army.  I noticed hate self-tatooed on his knuckles indicating a less than squeaky clean past.Another man was being interviewed and he kept repeating the same phrase over and over. ‘Would you give me a go, well would ya?’  I looked at him and at the same time became all too aware of the source of the smell that was reminiscent of a foetid combination of stale sweat, decaying fish, trainer odour, and dog shit halitosis -a potent ey watering crap cocktail.  If ever a person wanted to make himself unemployable by the deployment of noxious odours alone this guy would get an award.  The man interviewing winced every time the malodorous man spoke to him. He was short, fat, and bald and his greasy dandruff encrusted hair was combed over a milky white scalp like a messed up Bob Hoskins clone.  I guess he had to work on his interview skills, presentation, personal hygene, and a multitude of other social graces before he was ready for the world of work.  I had a brief slightly disturbing vision of this man naked being roughly depilated by small people and scrubbed in a mixture of orange disinfectant whilst someone in a white clipboard shouted questions at him.  ’Lemme go I aint done nuffink’.  His screams seemed to echo on in my head until I realised there was a baby crying nearby.

I remembered a story I had once heard about a man who worked as a bacteriologist in a yogurt factory.  He worked alone at night stirring in the cultures into the warm vats of milk to make the yogurt.  One night he leaned too far over and fell in.  Finding that it was quite pleasant in the vats he decided that instead of using the paddle he stripped off and simply swam in the warm milk.  He did this every night for several months until one night he was caught by the management who simply walked up to the vat where he was at the time floating on his back and told him his services were no longer required.  Now there were a couple of things I haven’t told you about this man.  His entire bloated body was covered with unusually thick black coarse hair.  He was also prone to sweat profusely at the slightest exertion.  He blamed his job but he stank of more than just sour milk and admitted to his friends that he had not been looking after himself so well since his wife had run off, apparently taking the washing machine.  A well known supermarket chain had contacted the factory management when a customer found what appeared to be a 4″ male pubic hair in her Peach Melba Surprise yogurt.  She secured the hair together with the yogurt lid to some lilac note paper with a question ‘Was this the surprise?’ I hoped that the other man was not going to be employed anywhere near a food preparation area. Mr Peach-Melba-Surprise must have ended up in a place like this too.

Another woman with a name badge called my name and I was invited to sit in a seat in front of her desk.  She asked me how my job hunting had been going in a monotone that managed to convey such bored disinterest that I was tempted to say ‘you first’.  I told her everything I had done to find work in some considerable detail.  Then I looked at her and I could see that she wasn’t really listening to anything I was saying and we were just going through a process that neither of us really wanted to engage in.  I decided to do a small etnomethodological experiment that Harold Garfinkel himself would have been proud of. She stared at her computer screen then typed ‘actively seeking work’ on my record as I told her I had phoned ET but HMP said that UNCLE had no vacancies so I might as well be a poor writer.  I paused to see if this nonsense had registered a smile but not a flicker of a response as she navigated to the close record tab.

After I had stopped recalling the genuine efforts I had made she told me to sign my name and that was it for another two weeks and by the way my signing on time was changed to 3.30 and was this OK.  I said it wasn’t ok but she told me that was the only time available.  She smiled weakly to indicate that I was now occupying the seat beyond my alloted time and that I should vacate it so that she could get on with processing the rest of the human flotsam now backed up behind me.  You aren’t supposed to actually talk about what you’ve done because after a while you become like all the other lost souls and just tell them you are trying to get a job sign the paper and go.  What I don’t understand is that they put temporary staff on this one job that requires face to face contact with the punters whilst the experienced ‘qualified’ staff sit around surreptitiously surfing the internet. Noone wants to deal with the public really.

 I got out of there as fast as I could, away from the people whose paths now intersected with mine, away from the air of hopelessness, away from the complete lack of genuine interest in human struggles however unique they might be.  Outside people in black sobbed in the street a reminder of how fragile this existence of ours really is and even when you think you are becoming less you are a lot more than someone who has nothing left at all.

The water was as hot as he could bear it to be and he deliberately tilted his head from side to side to fill his ears with water and lay quite still with his head immersed.  He had missed baths and this is what he liked to do in them.  He closed his eyes and relaxed in the darkness letting it wash over him in waves.  The thought comforted and caressed him. 

The world seemed far away now and he allowed his mind to drift.  Only pale and insubstantial moonlight filtered through the skylight.  He closed his eyes again slowly and relaxed again.  For some reason he felt emotional and wasn’t entirely sure why.  Some old hurt seemed to want to be released and though he could not quite remember which one it was he felt himself at the point of tears.  He allowed himself to cry and was soon sobbing. He was overwhelmed with sad thoughts.  All the rejections and put downs he had ever known came flooding in as if some gate had been opened in his mind.  All those people who had somehow slipped out of his life came back now with such emotional intensity that it took his breath away with harsh words and betrayal.  

Finally, he sat up and hugged his knees wondering where it had all come from and why and thinking that he wanted it to end.  He lay back down and felt better.  It had all gone wrong hadn’t it but he was still here and even if he had nothing there were few people that could claim to have led a more interesting life.  He felt good.  As he pulled out the plug he imagined all that sadness was draining away and he could finally let it go and fill his life with love and laughter.

It was a new start.  He must have walked past that boarded up house a hundred times and not noticed it.  The front garden had a high wall with a substantial iron gate and the bushes must have been ten foot high with only a small gap between them through which to glimpse the front door.    Most of the other houses in the street had been converted into apartments or offices but somehow this one had weathered the property booms, buy to rent fads and all the other property trends, relatively untouched.  It was a chance meeting few weeks before with an old school friend who had joined the legions of financial advisors always on the look out for those in a job who had not yet hung the mill stone of a mortgage around their neck or succumbed to life on a credit card or a taste for expensive cars or hobbies.  He had spent his time drifting and though being a professional he was not ambitious and was pretty much living out of a suitcase in a bedsit.  He had seen the world and indeed had many friends who often called him.  He had a role of sorts as a listener as those he knew met their partners and went through their various ups and downs.  Actually this bedsit land lifestyle had suited him for some time with its floating population of interesting characters who populated the fringes of respectable society. 

His friends were keen to hear his stories of real people.  Students, teenage mothers, heroin users, lesbians with piercings in unusual places, misfits, and oddballs of every description seemed to be disproportionately represented amongst his neighbours.  When word got around he was a social worker he could expect a knock on his door at any time of the day or night to find some poor soul wanted a free counselling session.  He often thought about how there seems to be an unwritten rule that if you know a nurse, a social worker or a teacher it is ok to procure their professional services gratis day or night but he same didn’t seem to apply to lawyers or plumbers who were always willing to help for an additional charge.  But saying this he was always generous and only firm when absolutely necessary as he was well aware of the potential problems of opening up his humble abode to every stray that he might have let through his door.

His friend had told him how much money he could borrow and this had surprised him because he had always imagined he would never be able to afford to get on the property ladder.  He now had a mortgage offer.  He had a habit of saving for his next excursion but had failed to keep track of his account recently.  By chance he now had a not insubstantial sum of money tucked away for a rainy day.  He had not planned to go house buying and had seen a notice about the house auction purely by chance and as it was raining he decided to wandered in and take a look.  He was handed a catalogue by a porter and had a browse.  The auction room was not crowded and the first few lots went to the same person at what he thought were extraordinarily low amounts.  He recognised one of the houses and decided he would try his luck.  To his great surprise two bids later he had won and was sorting out the paperwork with the auctioneer’s clerk.  It was a very smooth transaction requiring only a 10% deposit.   A few weeks later he had the keys and had joined the ranks of other house owners.

It transpired that the house had been boarded up in the early 1970s having been bought by a company who converted it into a staff training centre but never actually used it.  The company had been bought out by a large corporation and the house having never actually been used for training had simply been forgotten about until a keen eyed auditor had discovered it.  So when he went inside he was pleased to note that the entire house had been rewired and was in a remarkably good state of repair.  The good news was that it was huge and empty with plain industrial grade carpeting everywhere and blinds on every window that were still boarded up.  It was a bargain by anyone’s standards.

On the top floor there was a small kitchen with a view over rooftops complete with old style cooker and also a bathroom so he made this floor his base.  It was wonderfully quiet but also extremely cold until he purchased several oil filled radiators.  He discovered that the central heating system had been plumbed in but a boiler had never been fitted to it and had not as far as he could tell ever had water in it.  Fortunately the water tank on the top floor had an emersion heater fitted so after some careful research and stop cock manipulation he had hot water but the beautiful cast iron radiators would remain cold until he could install a substantial boiler downstairs in the cellar.

Before attaining the status of being a home owner many people had looked down on him with a mixture of suspicion and surprise.  Surely he wanted to have his own home.  Had he got a poor credit history?  Did he have something wrong with him?  Was he a member of some weird cult or something?  He was always being urged to own a house.   Now he was the owner of a very large empty house that was the envy of his friends who assumed he had come into a large amount of money.  The fact of the matter was that his monthly mortgage payment was less than he had been paying in rent and in ten years time would be completely paid off.  However, he was now seen as being normal and to a large extent he felt as if he had crossed a boundary.  His friends now set about the task of finding him someone to share his living space with.  It is a very strange thing that his friends naturally assumed he was lonely and in need of company.  It was apparently unthinkable that he might just enjoy the freedom of having space of his own and just being left alone.  He now had a stream of visitors and invitations to attend various social events.  There always seemed to be so and so who had just been through a rough patch and was looking for someone or Felicity who was still single.  After a while his friends seemed to give up and resign themselves to the fact he did not really want anyone else to share his domestic haven with.

It was not that he was not busy.  He took his job seriously and worked hard for his employers.  He was promoted several times and became a lecturer in social work at the college near to his home.  The staff group all got on very well and as they had not known his previous existence put no particular pressure on him to settle down and do the usual things.  He took a great deal of interest in the well being of his students and was a popular and well regarded teacher.  He continued to work on the house.  A suitable boiler was purchased and installed by a plumber he had known for many years.  He restored much of the exterior of the house and set about restoring the interior of the house that had many beautiful original features.   He enlisted the services of a carpenter who specialised in period restoration.  Gradually the grey carpeting was removed and tiled and oak floors were revealed and polished.  Fireplaces were put back in and chimneys repaired.  Original sash windows were restored at great cost.  Blinds were removed and replaced with heavy drapes.  An alarm system was installed.  Two en suite bath rooms were installed and a large and well equipped kitchen was created with a view over the newly landscaped back garden.  Where possible he used the original materials or something of higher quality.  He carefully chose plain well crafted furniture avoiding plastic and laminates looking instead for quality.  Slowly he created a stylish comfortable home that would have suited a very large family indeed.

His approach was to do things properly and to take his time to get things right.  The house and garden was a new focus in his life and for the first time he started to accumulate possessions such as books and paintings and even bought a serious audio system.  His friends came to see him and sat in his living room or out on his patio.  They ate good food and drank fine wines and talked about all manner of things.  He felt himself feeling content with his lot.  He never really missed his previous life other than the people he used to meet.  He missed something about the randomness and chaos.

It was whilst sitting in the gardens of a nearby museum that he met Tanya.  She was a Russian computer programmer and had come to England to be with her boyfriend.  When she arrived to surprise him it was she who had been surprised by a large breasted French woman who it turned out was her boyfriend’s fiancé and who knew nothing at all of Tanya.  Her boyfriend had said to her to go back to Russia.  Here she was sitting in the park in a foreign country, hungry, with no money, and nowhere to go.  He offered her a room for the night.  At first she refused but after they had spoken for a while she shouldered her bag and they walked together to his house.  She was very impressed and said that she loved it very much.  She moved in to the top floor where there were four rooms including a kitchen and bathroom. 

He made one of the rooms into an office for her complete with a powerful computer and supplied her with everything she needed.  She got a job and her employer sponsored her visa.  When she started working she gave him regular cheques.  He never asked her for any money but she insisted on paying him.  She stocked her own kitchen but she prepared a meal for him every evening in the main kitchen.  She also cleaned the house and to his amazement did the laundry telling him that she liked to do it.  He found that he very much enjoyed having her around.  She spent most of her time working but every now and again she would come to his living room with a book and curl up on the sofa catlike in front of the fire.  Everyone assumed they were a couple.  Sometimes she would accompany him to her friend’s houses and was delightful company making everyone laugh with funny stories.  His friends often said he was a lucky guy to have met such a wonderful woman.

She had changed since she had known him.  She discarded the clothes she used to wear and now wore dresses and had her hair styled.  She loved the garden and took a great interest in every plant.  In the summer they dug a huge pond together and they both enjoyed watching the Koi carp from the patio.  She became like many of his friends wives in fact and began to spend time with them shopping or socialising.  She had slipped into his life quietly as if she had always been a part of it.  They often hugged each other when either of them returned home and she would sometimes cuddle up to him affectionately on the sofa.  When they were at friends houses she might hold his hand or place her hand on his knee.  He would stroke her hair and kiss her head gently and she was affectionate to him too.  Though it was never said they clearly loved each other and their relationship worked.  Neither of them showed any interest in anyone else.  They went on holiday together and shared a room together.

It was a winter’s night that things changed a little.  A storm was raging outside and the wind was howling.  He heard a quiet knock on his bedroom door.  She entered his room and as she did so she let her dressing gown fall to the floor revealing her thin pale body to him for the first time.  She got into his bed and asked him to make love to her.  He asked her awkwardly if she was sure and she told him that she only wanted him.  He made love to her the first time slowly and gently.  They told each other how much they loved each other and wanted to be with each other forever.  Their lovemaking was tender and sensual and when both were satisfied they fell asleep in each others arms.  Nothing else changed.  Sometimes she would come to his room and sometimes he would go to her room.  

Tanya got a higher paid job that also gave her more time at home.  She had a busy social life and she had also started studying for a mathematics and computing doctorate for fun.  She worked hard and her tutors praised her work.  He was so proud of her when she graduated.   When she became pregnant he was as excited as she was.  She took a job as a part-time lecturer and enjoyed her pregnancy.  They both studied all the books and had a wonderful time deciding what car seat was best and buying baby clothes.  He often arrived home to a living room full of pregnant women who had chosen their house to do their pregnancy workouts.  Tanya had a problem free water birth and Hannah was born after a relatively short labour.  Tanya loved her new role as a mother and they both adored Hannah who certainly made a big difference to their lives.  He couldn’t wait to get home to see her and Tanya dutifully recorded each stage of her development and gave him detailed reports about everything she had done that day.

He felt so happy he could burst.  It seemed that he had everything he needed and was indeed a very lucky guy.  As he left that morning he kissed Tanya and Hannah and for some reason said thank you.  As he travelled on the bus he thought of the chance meeting with Tanya and what he now had.  They were so precious to him.  That day he had to lecture but his mind was not really on the job.  He thought about them all the time but today he seemed to think about them more than ever.   He had a strong feeling that he needed to get home.  It was about 2 o’clock when his manager knocked on his office door and informed me that the scheduled staff meeting had been cancelled and he was welcome to work from home.  He hurriedly packed up his things and ran to the bus stop.  He decided not to ring and thought how surprised she would be to see him.

He smiled to himself as he walked along their road noticing as if for the first time how wide it was and the trees planted each side made it so attractive.  Just as he crossed the road he saw someone come out of their house with a holdall over his shoulder and walk off in the opposite direction looking back over his shoulder as he did so.  He didn’t like the look of this man who was dressed in black.  When he arrived home the front door was ajar and there was no sign of Tanya or Hannah.  He went through to the kitchen and saw the remains of a meal and the living room appeared to be in a bit of a mess.  He went upstairs to the third floor where Hannah and Tanya had their rooms and looked into Hannah’s room.  She was fast asleep with a smile on her face just like her mother.  He went to her mother’s room and she too was asleep on her bed.  He was just about to leave when she murmured something in Russian.  To turned around again and noticed what looked like blood on her pillow.  He came towards her and this time knelt down near to her gently pulling the sheet back to reveal her body.  She looked as if she had been beaten.  He let out a cry of surprise and she woke with a look of terror in her face but once she recognised him she buried her face in his jacket.

He took her to the bathroom and gently tended her wounds.  Fortunately she was not too badly hurt.  She told him that she had been out shopping when she had been approached by her ex-boyfriend who demanded to know what she was doing and to give him money.  She had not wanted to talk to him but he had apparently followed her home and was shouting outside the house.  Eventually she had spoken to him and made him some lunch after he promised her he would leave.  She had been putting Hannah to bed when she heard things being thrown around downstairs.  When she had returned to the kitchen she noticed that her purse was on the table and he was searching the house for valuables.  She had tried to stop him but he was too strong and had beaten her.  She was afraid he was going to hurt Hannah so she gave him what he wanted.  He held her and reassured her that she had done the right thing.

They called the police and told them everything.  They took fingerprints and made a note of everything that had been stolen.  Tanya had to attend a doctor for her injuries to be examined and recorded.  The worst loss was his watch and Tanya’s laptop but most things were covered by the household insurance.  The most worry thing was he might try to come back or contact Tanya again.  He knew she was alone in the house apart from Hannah.  He called his boss and explained to him what had happened and he was granted study leave for four weeks.

In the weeks to follow they were never out of each others sight and their love for each other appeared to grow every day.  In the fourth week they received a call that her ex-boyfriend had been picked up.  In questioning he had made a full confession to the incident involving Tanya, as well as admitting a number of other matters, and would be appearing in Magistrates Court; where the matter would no doubt be sent to the Crown Court for sentence.  The prosecution were asking for deportation to be considered.  It was a relief to know that he had been remanded in custody and unlikely to be back on the streets in the foreseeable future. 

A couple of weeks later they went on holiday together to Barcelona and upon their return to the house that had always been their home he proposed to her.  At first she was shocked and then she laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.  He asked her if she accepted and she told him it was about time he asked her as she had given up hope he ever would.

 Will Sutton was a second year philosophy student who knew he was in a considerable amount of debt.  He woke up in the mornings and worried how he was going to eat, as he ate his meagre breakfast of cornflakes with barely a splash of milk.  He worried in the shower how he was going to pay the rent until the end of term.  His parents were coming to visit him today and he would probably have to explain to them why, despite the fact he had a part time job, that he constantly asked them to send him money.  His parents, though not poor, were not wealthy people and already gave their son a sizeable allowance each month that should have been more than enough for him to live on.  It was therefore a puzzle to them why he constantly pleaded poverty and begged them for more.  They had decided to visit him, determined to try to get to the bottom of the matter, and fairly firm in their resolve that enough was enough.

Will knew very well why he was in debt and it was something he really did not want to share with his parents.  It came down to a fundamental cash flow problem.  The monies going out of Wills bank account exceeded the amount he had coming in.  The reason sat in the corner of Wills room under a white bed sheet.  Even when covered it was oozing with designer style.  He had gone into the Proton shop that day to buy a Probook but the assistant sensing a young man impressed by the technology on offer had told him to pocket money that he had saved and to go for the top of the range Proton Pro special with everything for just a small monthly sum -the ‘fastest most configurable Proton ever’.  It had seemed like a bargain when the assistant had convinced him that it was less than he had imagined.  He knew at the time he should have been stronger but he knew that he was in love.  When the black boxes were delivered he opened them with trembling fingers.  He had to find a way to keep up the payments or he would lose her forever.   Yes, he had decided that the computer was the only thing that mattered and was practically glued to the screen for days on end.  He barely went out anymore preferring to spend his time delicately tapping her keyboard as lightly as possible.  He could not bear to be parted from her and after eating hurried meals and attending essential lectures he returned as quickly as he could, his heart racing with anticipation, until he saw her again.

At 1:30pm Will reluctantly met his parents at the station and they hailed a cab.  ‘Why don’t you take us to your digs Will?’ His mother smiled at him with all the maternal warmth at her command and he almost agreed as he too wanted to return to his room but just stopped himself remembering.  ‘Not today Mum it’s in a bit of a mess and the landlady might be home.’ ‘Your Father and I would like to see where you live Will I am sure your landlady won’t mind.’  He knew he was on extremely shaky ground.  ‘There is a strict rule of no visitors so I’m sorry Mum I am going to have to say no.’ His Father looked at him suspiciously.  ‘So what do you do when you want to show someone you want to know a bit better like a young lady your room?’  His father was a lot harder to fool than his mother.  ‘I don’t have time for girlfriends Dad.’  At this his mother burst into tears ‘I knew it.  Didn’t I tell you? He’s got himself into trouble.’  The cab driver looked into the rear view mirror to check all was well.  Will and his father both looked a little puzzled.  ‘Don’t you realise what he’s been trying to tell us?’  Wills father shook his head.  ‘He’s gay.  I knew it I’ve always known it.’  His father looked at him.  ‘Is that what this is about Will? Is this why you need so much money?’  Will shook his head in disbelief.  ‘I’m not gay and even if I was do you think I am going to ‘come out’ in the back of a black cab with Mum in tears and the cab driver no doubt listening in.  I am not sure I follow the logic here.  I said I don’t have time not that I don’t like women.’  The cab driver smiled in the mirror.

The cab arrived at the city centre and they made for China Town.  ‘It’s just expensive living in the city I keep running out of money.’  He realised he would have to come up with something better than this.  They went to an ‘eat as much as you like from the buffet’ restaurant.  Will didn’t seem to have much of an appetite.  He was aware his father was watching him intently as he went back for his fourth extremely small helping. ‘You are either not hungry or you have gone off Chinese food Will.’ His father looked thoughtful and whilst his mother was looking for the ice cream he turned to him with a serious expression.  ‘Tell me what’s really going on.  What’s the problem?  Is it drugs,  a woman, alcohol, gambling?  Is someone taking your money?’  Will looked at his father and saw the concern in his face.  If there was one person in the world who he could tell it was his father.  Suddenly he felt an overwhelming urge to share his problem ‘It’s a computer.’  His father shifted uneasily in his seat.  ‘I see.  So, what are we talking about?’  Will could see his mother piling ice cream into three bowls.  ‘She’s a Proton Pro.’  He could see a flicker of surprise in his father’s expression.  ‘You have expensive tastes son I’ll say that for you.   I was looking at that particular model the other day as a matter of fact.  I expect she’s the latest model with all the add-ons -am I right?’  Will hung his head in shame.  His father could read him like a book. His father’s first computer had been a standard model and he had worked long and hard to save for it. ‘I thought so.  We can’t tell your mother she’s a good woman but she wouldn’t understand.  I’ll ring you tonight and we’ll work something out.  In the meantime don’t worry.  You must be missing her pretty bad right now -am I right?’  Will nodded his head. ‘OK after this your mother and I will scoot off to the shops and you get back to her.’

That night his father phoned him as promised.  Will felt a lot better with some food inside and also he knew his father would do his best to help him.  His father told him to pack up his things as he was driving down to pick him up.  Apparently he had spoken to the university and he was taking a year off for personal reasons.  His father had also spoken to his landlady and paid her an extra months rent.  Will packed all his things and of course his computer was carefully placed back in its black boxes and carried these downstairs.  Just as he finished the doorbell rang and his father helped him to load everything into the car.  Once everything was placed securely inside he climbed into the passenger seat and tried to relax as much as possible until they reached his parents home in the suburbs.

It wasn’t long before Will had all his things back in his old bedroom.  It felt a bit strange being back home again but the prospect of home cooked meals and being looked after again was a welcome relief from the stress he had felt in recent weeks.  He relished the prospect of being able to spend even more time with his computer.  Of course he attended to her as a matter of priority and by 11:30pm he was once more bathed in the glow of the screen and his fingers once more danced lightly across her keyboard as he spoke to her reassuringly.  He had a feeling of deep satisfaction and realised that all his anxiety about making payments had prevented him from truly giving reign to his feelings for her.  He felt as if he was really connecting with her for the first time and as application after application flashed onto the screen he experienced himself becoming more and more excited until he could almost bear it no longer.  Just at that moment he heard a knock on his door and his father’s voice calling him.  He went to the door cautiously opening it a crack.  When he saw it was just his father he let him in.

‘She’s a real beauty isn’t she Will?’ His father bent down and looked closely at his computer.  The fans purred almost silently and the screen saver pulsated rythmically in synchrony with his heartbeat.  His father ran his fingers lightly across the edge of the keyboard.  Will suddenly anxious took a step forward defensively, standing between the computer and his father.  His father noticed his discomfort and backed away raising his arms.  ‘Oh, I am sorry I couldn’t help my self.  She’s like a work of art Will.  I’ve never seen a computer like her.’  Will started to feel a little uneasy to hear his father talk about his computer like this.  He had never shown his computer to anyone else and even though this was his father he couldn’t help feeling that this was a very personal part of his life that he did not want to talk about.  ‘What I’ve decided to do is to pay the debt off from my savings.  I was going to buy you a car when you graduated but that’s not going to happen for another three years now so I guess it won’t hurt but you need to get a job and start paying me back the rest.  I’ll tell your mother that I bought it for you and that you are paying me back.’  He was impressed by his father.  Of course he didn’t have to do this for him at all.  ‘Thanks Dad.’ He father paused to glance at the computer again.  ‘You’re welcome. Believe me I understand how you feel.  Maybe some day you will let me have a closer look at her.’  Will knew that he meant it but he felt uneasy because until he had paid his father back he could never say his computer was completely his after all two was company and three was too many.

In the weeks to come Will found a job and couldn’t wait to get home every day to be with his computer.  He felt such a deep attachment to her that it was all he could do to concentrate on his work.  He had a Polaroid of her in his pocket that he would look at on his numerous trips to the toilet.  His workmates teased him and wanted to know all her specifications in intimate detail. He talked about her a bit but always felt uncomfortable especially when his workmates left computer magazines around with full spread articles featuring his model left open tantalisingly.  They all swapped all kinds of stories about their computers that didn’t make him feel better at all.  Many had had problems and a few seemed to be veterans of computer relationships and carried the scars of past affairs.  He was however only interested in his own computer and talking about other computers did nothing for him at all.  All he lived for was to see his computer when he got home and it became increasingly difficult to wrench himself away from her in the mornings.

It was about his fourth week living at home that he began to notice a few things that began to worry him.  He came home one day and noticed that his chair had been moved and also a slight hesitancy when he booted her up.  He asked his mother if she had been in his room but she told him she never went in there since he had told her not to.  A few days later he was returning home and he was certain he heard saw a light on in his room.  Entering his room he stood on his chair and felt the light fitting - it was still hot.  He looked around but nothing else seemed to have been touched.  About a week later he came home and had a strange feeling.  He went to his room and could not see anything out of place.  He powered up the computer and for a brief moment saw an image on the screen that he had not seen before.  Her response seemed a little sluggish and he worried whether she had some kind of virus.  A full system check reassured him.  It was then that his father began to visit him regularly asking him many questions about his computer.  He told him he was thinking about getting one of his own.  Will smiled.  ‘Won’t Mum be jealous?’  He joked.  His father didn’t reply.  That night Will had a nightmare.  He dreamed that there was a smudge on his computer screen and he had taken a soft cloth to remove it.  The more however he tried to remove it the bigger the smudge became until it filled the screen.  Will woke up sweating and could not get back to sleep.

It was a Friday when he returned from work a little later than usual.  He opened the front door.  He could hear his mother crying before he had the door open and ran to the kitchen to see what was wrong.

‘What’s the matter Mum?’ He looked at his mothers tear streaked face. He had never seen her like this before. 

‘It’s your father.  He’s left us.’

His father was always away on business but Will knew this was a bit different.

‘What do you mean left us?’

 ‘Oh Will, haven’t you noticed how strangely he’s been acting lately?  Didn’t you notice the new clothes and all those brochures everywhere?’

Will had noticed a few brochures around but put this down to his father taking an interest in his welfare.

‘Ever since you came home he’s been obsessed.  How can I hope to compete?   I’ve been turning a blind eye to it but I couldn’t stand it any longer and now he’s gone.’

 She put her head down on the table and sobbed loudly again.

‘Gone?  Where has he gone?  What’s happened?’

‘I knew he was up there I could hear the floorboards creaking.  I shouldn’t have done it but I went up there anyway.  I opened the door and saw him at it.  I told him what I thought of him carrying on like that with his own son’s computer in our own home.  He’s taken her with him.  The pair of them have gone away together and left us.  I’m sorry Will I know how attached you were to her.  I couldn’t stop him.  It’s too …’

Will didn’t bother to listen as he was already bounding up the stairs two at a time to his bedroom, a feeling of sick dread already taking hold of him.  He burst through his bedroom door and saw that it was empty.  He spun round and ran down the stairs again and out the front door.  His father’s car was missing.  He let out a howl of frustration and rage and sank to his knees pounding the pavement with his fists until they bled.  He flopped forwards and lay there crying his heart out until his mother opened the front door and taking him in her arms half carried half dragged him back inside.

It was a cold wet morning and the rain drummed mercilessly on the little skylight in her office letting in a small dribble of natural daylight.  She was one of the lucky ones as the other archivists had desks between the endless shelves stacked with university records under fluorescent tubes.  Flooding was a constant worry here in the basement when it rained.  She was the veteran of two floods one of which had reached her door the result of a leaky roof.  She used to tell people that she kept an aqualung in the bottom of her filing cabinet and few realised that in fact this was true and not a joke at all.

 She leaned against the solid fins of the cast iron radiator and let out a small sigh, barely audible above the noise the rain was making, and looked up at the skylight.  She was a woman with a problem and somehow the solidity of this particular piece of 19^th century technology was reassuring.  Having inherited something of a mess four years ago she had set out to impose order upon the haphazard chaos that had existed prior to her arrival.    Her predecessors had each had their own approaches to the problem but had ultimately failed to deal with the ever increasing flood of paper that had been carted down to the archives by the barrow load.  Now they were getting requests from an ever increasing number of past students and her in-tray groaned under the weight of letters demanding information that she didn’t know if they had or not.  Of course the backlog was a serious problem and also the methods her predecessors had taken to trying to solve it -including leaving it near an area prone to flooding- were not a comfort to her.  As a result there were gaps in the record and for an archivist this, coupled with uncertainty about what records they actually had, was not a good state of affairs at all.

Just then she heard a very timid knock at her door.  It was the kind of knock that someone makes when they would much rather not be knocking on this particular door and could only be made by one particular person working there who had recently acquired a most important job.

‘Come in Sandra.’

‘Oh thank you Miss Hart.  Sorry to disturb you Miss but I brought you your tea.’

‘You are not disturbing me Sandra and I wanted to have a quick word with you to see how you are settling in.’

‘Sorry Miss Hart shall I put it on your desk.’

Sandra set the white porcelain cup and saucer down on the desk her cheeks reddening.

‘No need to apologise for bringing me a nice cup of tea.  So, how are you getting on with the work?’

A recent graduate she had just started working with them as a trainee and was somewhat in awe of the senior archive officer.

‘They say I am doing OK Miss but I’ve got so much to learn.  I am trying to take it all in.’

‘Don’t worry there is no hurry.  Have you got everything you need?  Do you have any questions?’

‘Yes Miss I’ve got everything and Betty helps me with everything.  Everyone has been so kind to me.’

‘Good.  I am glad to hear that you are settling in.   Betty tells me that you are very keen and often work through your breaks.  If the weather is fine please remember that it is a good idea to get some fresh air and do have a break.’

‘Thank you Miss. I really like it here.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.  Any problems just let us know.’

‘Yes thank you Miss I will but I am sure I won’t have any problems.’

‘OK then thanks again for the tea.’

‘You’re welcome Miss.’

She remembered when she had first started as an archivist in a large London hospital along with three other women graduates.  It had been great fun as they were all about the same age and the porters, doctors and other medical staff would often wander down for a chat only to be shooed away by their supervisor Miss Perkins who worshipped the senior archivist Mr Browning who as far as we could gather sat most of the day in his office typing frantically behind a huge wooden desk in a grey Harris Tweed jacket smoking his pipe, reading the paper and drinking cups of tea at regular intervals.  He occasionally strode around his archive like a lord surveying his manor before swiftly returning to his office leaving a trail of stale tobacco and damp wool in his wake.  Nobody had any idea at the time what he was typing as he rarely posted any letters.

Whenever they had knocked on his door he would pretend to be taking an important call on the large black telephone on his desk and point to the chair in front of his desk with a large fountain pen. Eventually he would finish his fictitious call and appear as if he had forgotten we were there and start filling his pipe -a procedure that was both elaborate and time consuming.  After he had lit his pipe and taken a long draw on it he would then sit forward in a cloud of recently exhaled smoke and ask us what we wanted as if our presence in his office was interrupting some great task that he was engaged in.  Then after listening to whatever it was that we came to say he would usually ask us if we had consulted Miss Perkins before making any comment.  However, if we consulted Miss Perkins about even the most trivial matter her usual response was that she would talk to Mr Browning, whom she told us was always very busy and might not have time to talk to her. However, whenever we saw Miss Perkins enter his office the phone would go straight down and Mr Browning was all smiles and when Miss Perkins left the office her cheeks appeared a little rosier than usual and there was a definite spring in her step as she smoothed her clothing back into place. 

One day she was called into the administrator managers’ office and asked to her surprise if she was willing to act up for a while until they found a new senior archivist and appointed a new supervisor.  Apparently both Mr Browning and Miss Perkins had decided to resign quite suddenly due to reasons of a personal sensitive nature.  She found herself temporarily promoted to senior archivist and then simply asked to continue in that role and appoint someone from the existing staff as the new supervisor.  In fairness she interviewed everyone and eventually picked someone she knew would get on with everyone and knew what they were doing.  Noone questioned the decision. 

They eventually found out what happened to Mr Browning and Miss Perkins who were the subject of considerable speculation for several weeks.  One of the assistant archivists became engaged to a young surgeon who had been told the truth by one of the board of directors at a party.  It seems that Mr Browning had been writing a novels in his office, a fact the hospital were apparently fully aware of, and he was a well know writer of romantic fiction that he  wrote under a female pseudonym.  After making a large sum of money from the sale of these novels; enough to retire comfortably and buy a house in the South of France; he had decided to divorce Mrs Browning and share his wealth and new life with Miss Perkins instead. She was sure this matter could have been worked out amicably enough between the parties concerned had it not been for a flaw in Mr brownings character.  He was filled with a sense of his own importance and liked to belittle and humiliate others.

However, what Mr Browning had in mind was to backfire on him badly and was apparently as much a surprise to Miss Perkins as it was to his wife.  He decided to use the whole story of his relationship with Miss Perkins, including detailed descriptions of their close liaisons in his office,  to form the very thinly disguised storyline of a new romantic novel.  His publishers apparently had no idea that the novel was in fact largely a work of fairly accurate non-fiction.  When he left his wife he had handed her the novel in a somewhat dramatic fashion.  She was then able to read in some detail about his affair, that had until that moment been a secret from her, and also read about his future plans and even a description of his assumed favourable divorce settlement with her.  This helped his wifes lawyers no end in the eventual messy divorce proceedings that, due to the bizarre nature of his announcement of his intention to divorce her, eventually became front page news in both the UK and around the world.  His new found notoriety, together with the ensuing  publicity however, increased the overall sales of his books, particularly the book, and his wife walked away in the end a very much richer woman -especially when she successfully claimed that she had collaborated on many of his earlier works and therefore claimed royalties.  Mr Browning paid up and kept paying and no doubt regreted his rash behaviour and the fact he had not asked Miss Perkins advice before delivering his botched coup de gras.  Miss Perkins however very much disliked being the centre of media attention and was dismayed about the fact that her personal life was now readily available at practically every bookshop in the country; she promptly packed her bags and left him.  She never was able to get rid of the smell of pipe tobacco from that office and it was something of a relief when she began working in university archives in a newly decorated office.

It was amazing to her that all that happened about thirty years ago now and here she was working for the university in charge of a large archive with a team of women mostly in their fifties and one new graduate who was helplessly mothered by the others.  It was no job for a young woman really down here.  In her day they had a constant flow of visitors, usually just for a bit of a gossip, but here the only visitor they got was old Len from college security who would come around once a day for a cup of tea and, according to Betty, steal the chocolate chip biscuits -which I suspect she bought just for him anyway.  It was a comfortable cosy place to work, a bit like a library but without the public.  If only they didn’t have this problem and the risk of flooding then all would be well.

She took a sip of tea and looked at the new Macbook that had been delivered the day before by courier.  She had not asked for one but apparently every head of department in the university had been given one so in addition to the PC in her office she now had a laptop that she was told would keep her connected wherever she happened to be.  Connected to what?  She turned it on and found that it connected to the university wireless network without any fuss and that she was able to surf the net.  She wondered if it would work at home too, no doubt her daughter would figure it out.  After this she turned it off and left it on the desk charging and decided to have a wander around the archives.

Once outside her office she was immediately aware of the buzz of activity going on.  Trolleys were being wheeled around and she could see Anne furiously typing away on her PC.  Somewhere behind some shelves she could hear Betty explaining to Sandra the finer points of the filing system for files over thirty years old.  They usually played the radio in the background that was permanently tuned to Radio 4 since the knob had been severed by a passing trolley but noone seemed to mind.  The smell of paper and the gentle movements of air reassured her that all was well.  It was not a damp musty smell, the dehumidifiers and the air conditioning down here did a good job, but just the right smell of paper being preserved and looked after properly.  This was her world and she knew instinctively that all systems were purring along as they should be.  However, she also knew what a fragile world this was and how vulnerable this papers existence really was.  Every file was so valuable as every sheet they contained was crammed with information that was only recorded here.  Who knew when the archives would be called upon and had to be ready to pull the most obscure file, if it existed, at a moments notice or provide a good explanation why it wasn’t there.  Fire, water, light, insects, rodents, mould, they were the obvious enemies and constant vigilance was required to keep them at bay and in the basement of an old building that was not always easy.  There were other foes too such as misfiling, poor organisation and even theft that had been faced over the years.

She had ten more years before retirement and she was determined to keep things ticking along until then and that really meant running a tight ship and keeping a low profile.  She made her way back to her office pleased that all seemed to be in order this morning at least.  As she passed Anne she looked up and smiled warmly at her.  Everyone here trusted her and relied upon her like one happy family.  She knew each of them well except Sandra who she was sure would be a good archivist one day once she was trained up.

As she returned to her office she noticed she had e-mail.  The teacup on her desk had been replaced with a fresh cup and also a small vase of freesias, filling her office with their beautiful scent.  She felt appreciated and hoped that when it was eventually her time to leave this office all that would be left behind would be the intoxicating smell of freesias; so much better than the smell of Mr Brownings pipe in that other office; and perhaps the scuba gear too.  She smiled at the tongue in cheek request in her inbox and started typing her reply explaining why transcripts were not available in this instance due to records either being lost or destroyed by flooding.

Chapter One

One postcard then another

I first encountered the Cinema Sartre about two weeks after my partner disappeared.  When I say disappeared I mean that we had breakfast together as usual before I left for work and that was the last time I ever saw her, but I know that I had killed her.  I did not bludgeon her to death and leave her naked body in the bath until every drop of her blood had drained away then dismember her and dispose of her body parts by incineration or dissolving them in strong chemicals.  No, it was a much slower meaner death but I was just as guilty as any murderer could be.  We had very much become what I thought was a comfortable working couple who would eventually get married, buy a house, and probably have a couple of kids.  We seemed to be getting on fine but each day was remarkably like the next and we seemed to have a little less time and a little less patience with each other.  For some reason she thought I wanted her to have kids very soon and this soon became a taboo subject.  When I arrived home the apartment was in darkness and unusually quiet rather than the usual blaze of lights and noise.   I thought she had fallen asleep so I went straight to the kitchen to see if I could make something for us to eat.  I found a postcard attached to the fridge, with my favourite Yoda fridge magnet, that simply said ‘Sorry, it’s less painful this way’.   It took a few moments for the information to sink in.

We had lived a minimalist lifestyle and the postcard seemed to be an entirely appropriate means of conveying everything that she wanted to say.   For some reason I said ‘wish you were here too’ out loud but I really didn’t wish I was with her at this moment as I was certain that she was holed up somewhere with her friend the electrician possibly enjoying the thrill and excitement that only run away lovers who give in to the impulse and head for the open road can feel.  I didn’t really want to be here either now in what was our home.  It was now just a collection of memories that jarred and cut at every turn.  I visualised with some satisfaction smashing up the entire apartment with an ice axe.  I have no idea why that thought came to me in that moment of what should have been some kind of appropriate emotional response such as crying or banging my head against the wall and shouting ‘no, no, no’ before sinking to my knees sobbing with jilted misery.  However, ultimately I think it was her message that triggered this somewhat unusual response, not that she meant that had she stayed I would have caused her physical pain as it had been a relatively pain free relationship.  She said sorry.  I didn’t want to avoid the pain of splitting up but rather I wanted to face it directly and ask questions about where I’d gone wrong.    But I knew at heart where I had gone wrong.  But in any case how could she deny me this time of painful self-reflection?  Was there no justice in the world?  It is perhaps worth noting at this point that I did not in fact possess an ice axe or indeed one in what was my home, though I must admit I do know some people who have more than one stashed in their wardrobe for mountaineering purposes -or so they tell me.  That was it though I decided that she had not really wanted the hassle of splitting up and in the process and the price of that was to give me no outlet for the emotions I now felt.  Great what now?

I knew as soon as I read the postcard that it was over and to my surprise I felt no compulsion to attempt persuade her otherwise. It was over and I knew I could accept that.  I knew she was not the kind of person who rings up a couple of weeks later in tears telling me that her new lover didn’t measure up.  She would make him measure up.  That was the problem really.  I was no longer a challenge.  She needed someone to rail against and bend into shape and I had been too easy.  Needless to say all her things were gone, apart from a few things that might have reminded her of our shared existence.  I could have been angry at her leaving these things, as it was me that was reminded, but I guess I now had the option to either keep them or dispose of them in whatever manner I saw fit.  Why was I being so calm and reasonable?  She was right though it was definitely less painful this way. Rather than enduring months of emotional angst arguing or, possibly worst of all, self indulging in those annoying and usually humiliating attempts at reconciliation and all the irksome malarkey that entails she simply opted out and went straight for the goal she had set herself.  I found that instead of feeling upset I felt realtively calm and a bit detached and even a little relieved but also beginning to feel a bit cheated.  I always find walking is a good way of dealing with feelings, not least because it gives you time to think about what you need to do.  In this instance I just had questions that I knew would never now be answered.

My life with her had been very normal with very few surprises but that in itself had made smaller things more surprising.  We had once been described by her sister as the Marks and Spencer couple which I found amusing and she had definitely not.  ‘I hardly ever shop at M&S,’ she told me somewhat indignantly in the car on the way home whilst I tried hard to suppress a smile remembering how not so long ago she had commented that she needed to get some more undies and only M&S had the ones she liked.  She had gone on to tell me that buying cheap underwear cost you more in the long run even though the cheap stuff might look good for a while and the only justification for buying it was as a short term disposable item.  I had nodded in agreement.  I wonder if that was the moment that she had decided that this was not the life for her.  I also wonder whether she regarded me as cheap don’t care if it rips underwear or more durable duller but a longer term investment pair of panties.  

Life with her had probably been a tad too uneventful and conventional, her underwear being the exception,  but now after months of being bored something had happened that was like one extreme to the other.   I would have settled for some more interesting underwear rather than being disposed of so abruptly.  But that’s the point really she had decided not to settle for me for anything and go foer Mr Raw.  So, now logic dictated that I needed to try to work out where I had gone wrong and to learn from my mistakes so as to avoid them in future.  Sod logic.

There has always been a little part of me that craves change and new experiences and rebels against the mundane routines of every day living - thank goodness.  A little spark of resistance.  I realised that my attempts to provide stability and routine had backfired because what she had probably liked about me most was the chaotic excitement and energy I used to generate.  She was happy to take a ride on this rollercoaster.  Suddenly though I had stopped generating excitement and settled down mainly because I thought that was what she wanted me to do and what I probably ought to be doing after all the unpredictable madness of previous years. 

So here I was ironically dumped because I had finally become, like most people my age, less chaotic, boring, predictable and somewhat more sensible - though I was always, and probably always will be, reckless with money.  However, I can confirm that it is in fact extremely easy to reverse a stable sensible lifestyle purely by acting on some of the impulses I had mostly managed to suppress and to abuse credit to fund them.  I could feel a little tingle as if the old electricity had started to flow again and I found the thought of single life was not such an unpalatable prospect as it had been only a few months previously.  The world would open up again and I would be Mr Stable no more.

However, first things first. Food.  I decided to go out for a walk and get a bite to eat.  The cupboards in the house had become far too depressing to contemplate and in any case it’s amazing what a stomach full of real food will do to lift your mood and get the creative possibilities flowing.   I made my way to an old style café that I had eaten in a few times during the day but had never visited in the evening.  I loved this café because every table looked as if it had been someone’s kitchen table and many wore scars that, if the tables could speak, would certainly tell a story or two.  The tables and chairs were all unpainted, wooden and light to mid brown in colour and that was the only unifying characteristic; there wasn’t a bit of plastic or chrome in sight.  I imagined the owner ‘John’ scouring the local second hand shops or country auctions looking for just the right old pine table to put in the corner.  ‘What about this one John?’ his wife might have said, ‘No I told you is got to be brown like the floor and able to take my weight’, ‘Oh OK love brown it is and built like a brick wotsit’.  I felt instantly at home and seemed to draw strength from my surroundings only to be jolted back by the earth trembling  looming throat clearing presence of John waiting to take my order in his usual busily cheerful way.  He always held his pencil daintily between his huge fingers as if it was a delicate thing that needed a lot of care lest it be snapped or driven right through the notepad.  It always seemed to me that he would be far happier taking a large cleaver and hacking manfully at large frozen carcases with mighty flexes of his huge corded muscles, in the absence of a battle where axes are the weapon of choice for combatants, than scribbling customer orders down on a little pad with a pencil stub.  I was surprised to find that in the evening the cafe was very popular and I was soon settled at a small table in the corner with a huge home cooked cottage pie and a large mug of hot tea. Bliss.

The portions here were never small but no less skilfully prepared and tasty for it.  This food was the result of generations of cooks improving and honing recipes.  I could taste a hint of bacon in the cabbage and that the carrots had been prepared then simmered in salted butter with a hint of white pepper whilst retaining just the right resistance to bite.

If you are ever lucky enough to eat real ‘honest to goodness’ English food, and believe you me the genuine article is fast becoming a rare treat, then it is an experience you will never forget for all the right reasons.  Unfortunately most of what passes, or rather is passed to you, purporting to be the genuine article is probably cooked by those who haven’t actually tasted the real thing and wouldn’t know what the real thing is or can’t cook anything without opening a tin or reaching for some ready mixed ingredients of the shelf.  Fortunately, the cooks in this café were vastly experienced old style cooks and there wasn’t ever an over boiled or salted vegetable or a pie without the perfect balance of ingredients on the menu and everything was cooked freshly.  I often watched them preparing food without any wasted energy.  Everything was to hand and they had been cooking together so long they appeared to operate as one body.  Vegetable water was always recycled as a base for gravy or stock and not one oz. of fat was thrown away.  They never got an order wrong and they took obvious pride in each meal served personally checking that everything was to your satisfaction by calling to you through the serving hatch.   The only condiments on the table were salt and pepper and the food was so full of flavour you rarely thought to add them.  If they served lamb there was some freshly made mint sauce, pork with apple sauce, and if they served beef there was some horseradish sauce, the latter should have come with a warning as it would blow your head off.  The people who came to this café weren’t fussy as a rule but appreciated good plain tasty food cooked well.  The cafe was packed.

After eating and drinking a fine meal I felt a lot better both physically and mentally.  Too many meals like this though and I knew I’d be piling on the pounds and would soon be Mr Lardy.  However, I had a deep sense that I was in the right place here amongst my folk and it increased my confidence no end.  I drew strength from the sounds of cooking and the practiced professionalism of the cooks in the kitchen with their down to earth good natured banter that had a kind of nostalgic timeless quality to it.

I was just going out the door when I saw a postcard on the notice board that simply said ‘Bedsit for rent enquire at the Cinema Sartre’.  I had nothing else to do so I thought I would check it out.  The Cinema Sartre was a small independent cinema that put on an interesting selection of films from around the world and also had a very reasonable café that served a small number of set meals at OK prices.  I was on their mailing list and had been pleasantly surprised to see how thoughtfully they put their programmes together.  The first film I saw there was Red Sorghum (1987) a Chinese film directed by Zhang Yimou and was the acting debut of Gong Li.  There was quite a long write up about the director and the film in the news letter and most of the films I had seen had been recommended by the newsletter as particularly worth seeing.  The reviews had always been spot on in my opinion and I had often thought the reviewer could read my mind as they seemed to observe everything that I thought was important to mention.

It didn’t take me 5 minutes to walk to the Cinema Sartre.  They were not what you might call overstaffed and I recognised one of the women in the little café, as the same one who often sold the tickets from a tiny ticket counter by the door.  She had appeared in a couple of films.  She was small but perfectly proportioned and had a pleasant bubbly personality.  I last saw her in the local supermarket and had rushed to help her reach a jar of pickled gherkins.  She found the whole thing hilariously funny and nearly wet herself when I asked her if she wanted a big or a small one.  The whole thing was lost on me until I was on the way home and realised the joke was on me - slow or what?  She was wearing a miniskirt and a figure hugging top and for the first time I noticed she had a very shapely figure. She looked up and when she saw it was me smiled. 

‘Did you want a big one or will a small one do you?’

‘Is that what I said?’

‘That’s what you said’

 ‘In that case I think I’ll settle for whatever you’re offering as long as you can help me.’

‘What can I do you for then?’

 ‘Is the bedsit still available?’

‘Oh and there I was thinking you were following me around b