Chetan and Chirag

“The next stop will be Leytonstone. At this stop the last set of doors will not open and you must choose – your children or your dog?”

Hotcake stepped off the train amidst a flurry of no-one who wanted to go to Leytonstone. He strode through the empty station – why did contacts have to choose exclusively shit-holes for meeting places. He passed the ticket barrier and found himself in a corridor taking him to street level, the walls of the corridor tastefully decorated with mosaics recreating famous film scenes. He screwed up his face into various contortions of disbelief as he was confronted with bizarre tile reconstructions of the bomb-riding scene from 'Dr. Strangelove' and an oddly poignant rendering of the anal rape scene from 'Pulp Fiction'.

In a state of mental disarray, Hotcake arrived at street-level and on Leytonstone high road. After a forlorn look at his watch he discovered he was half an hour early. He strode powerfully, he was powerful in his long coat, up the street passing a disreputable Bureau de Change, a surly butcher and, looking small and afraid next to Gregg's the bakers, the most dilapidated shop he had ever seen. 'Chetan and Chirag useful empoureum' read the sign held above the door by some sort of gravity never previously encountered.

Compelled by confusion and – chiefly – boredom, Hotcake carefully grasped the decaying door and went inside. He had braced himself for bafflement but had not expected to be bombarded with it on such a scale. Once inside he was immediately confronted by a moudly, black, wooden counter and standing behind it two men, both staring at him with a mixture of delight and fear. Both were very thin with wild eyes and large beards. One stood around seven feet tall with gaunt cheeks and long hair falling limply and framing his long face. The other was still more puzzling – fully stretched out he would have been as tall, if not, taller than the other but he was bent almost into a U shape – upon seeing him, Hotcake immediately saw life from the perspective of this man's spine and felt sad and broken. The next most striking thing about the second man was his face – he had bought it from Albert Einstein and bought his eyes from party-Rasputin.

The straight man spoke first:

“He is Chirag.” He announced excitedly.

“He is Chetan.” Grinned Chirag.

“This is our shop.” Cried Chetan and Chirag in unison, throwing their arms in the air.

“We sell anything.” Said Chetan.

“BUT – most certainly NOT everything.” Warned Chirag, waving a stern finger.

The degree to which Chetan and Chirag prided themselves on the obscurity of their products would soon become delightfully obvious.

“Browse!” They barked together.

Hotcake walked, absorbed by wonder, to a shelf packed with boxes of varying shapes, sizes and states of decay. One small box that immediately caught Hotcake's eye proclaimed itself to contain 'Beaver Wax'.

“What's 'Beaver Wax'?” Enquired Hotcake.

“Have you a beaver which will not fit through the hole for which is was intended?” Asked Chirag in return.

“Then you need Chetan and Chirag 'Beaver Wax' for the least co-operative beavers, of all shapes and sizes!”

“I see. And what is this?” Asked Hotcake indicating a small spherical object with a point on the bottom.

“It is a pencil...” Said Chetan

“Shaped like a satsuma to remind you of satsumas for when you have none.” Smiled Chetan.

“And these, what are these?”

“They are glasses...” Grinned Chetan, waiting for Chirag to reveal their delightful hidden function.

“Glasses with pictures of sumo wrestlers on the inside lest you forget.”

“Lest I forget what?” Asked Hotcake, this latest proclamation raising his most fashionable eyebrow.

“Sumo wrestling.”

Further enquiries revealed, among other things, 'Weasel beards', a model of the Taj Mahal imprisoned within an almost unbreakable, opaque black box and posters for spiders to look at whilst they were waiting in their webs – "we think they are so lonely" sighed Chirag.

Hotcake found himself totally unable to leave the shop without purchasing myriad of products from his host, mostly because they were so charmingly oblivious or unconcerned with the incredible uselessness of their wares. He left clutching a tub of beaver wax, 'Peanut Ears' ('for the amusement of rodents') and 'Octosocks' – or socks for a stylish Octopus.

Upon exiting the shop he found he had missed his meeting by a whole hour and so promptly hurried back to the tube station and soon found himself back on the platform. A train arrived (as they did and do).

“This is Leytonstone where you will marvel at priests.”

The train left with a growl which surprised even itself.

An Exercise in Bathos

'This could change our fortunes, you know. In the great conflict. He will be pleased.'

'Yes, sir, the Straight Line Machine is indeed a feat of engineering. A monument to our culture.'

'Of course I will have to see a demonstration before I report it to Him.'

'Yes, naturally sir. It will be my pleasure.'

We are to be prepared for a display of sublime elegance, unparalleled eloquence of movement, the captivating fusion of delicate human intellect and calculated, mechanical, brute force.

The machine was switched on

A deep rumble filled the hall in which it was housed. It growled, reverberated and finally roared into life. From the side one could see cogs and gears turning, seemingly melting into one another and then reforming with all the arrogance of purpose. Full of Trojans, it creaked and groaned under the weight of its own importance. The gears stepped up their turning, faster until they were a mist of technical brilliance. Great lights flashed from within, visible through glass panels seemingly put in place simply to boast – look what we have to show you. Backed by its earnest belief that it was all there ever need be the machine ground to a halt. Complete.

After it had finished they rushed to the back and to a hatch which lived there. With a hint of smugness, a smaller noise began – a lazy hum of half-work.

The hatch which lived there gurgled open for deliverance. What would come – commandments, wheels, that Greek fire, guilt, sin, judgement?

Paper. Adorned with a single straight line. Thick, black, purposeful. Knowing.

'This, sir, is what we are. For all our bluster, for all our shouting, laughing, our wars, our peaces, our self-satisfaction, grooming, cosmetics, cars, toasters, coffee machines, laws, principles, enforcement – after all He or anyone has ever done we are still this -' he paused for breath.

As he did, more copies of the line flooded from the hatch, littering the floor, staring upwards, impassive.

'Yes – this.' He continued. ' The same thing, on different pages – and all those pages of no value.'

'You will be shot for this, you know.'

'I know.'



Lovingly constructed in the Tate Modern with the aid of a box of darkness

Untitled (Elgar)

My name is Oliver Elting and I am in trouble. You can’t help me, I don’t think anyone can. This is between God and I now, I am making this record merely for the sake of posterity. Oddly enough, the only pen available is that of my uncle – the importance of this detail will become clear soon.

As in most stories, it seems best to start at the beginning, so, bowing to centuries of narrative tradition, then is when I shall begin. The beginning of this particular story was two months ago. I was at my family home in Little Wellbank, with my sister, Clarissa, her son, Dougal, and my mother, Mildred. I was in the garden with Dougal, who was and, thanks to my speedy intervention in matters, still is six-years-old. Being six, Dougal is and was still capable of being entertained by the kind of diversions I am wont to provide. I like people who don’t tire of me and his unassuming company was a great comfort. Since the loss of Father some seven months earlier I fraternised with few over the age of ten. Dougal was busy giggling at something particularly clever I was doing with a large glove and a set of juggling balls.

Whilst this harmless fun was going on in the garden, Clarissa and mother were in the drawing room knitting scarves or cardigans – the garment is unimportant. I assume they were discussing cake-making or perhaps some little escapade of Clarissa’s husband, Ernest, or some other little slice of banality - I had stopped listening to them years ago. However, soon, a sound came to rouse my attention. A scream rose up – shrill and blood curdling - from the house and I dropped the juggling balls, much to Dougal’s displeasure.

As I ran into the house all sorts of ghastly visions of gore were flooding to my, what I am forced to acknowledge as somewhat diseased, mind – yet these visions were nothing to prepare me for the utterly bizarre reality which I was presented with. I stormed into the drawing room and found Clarissa slumped back in the arm-chair with her knitting needles plunged deep into her neck and a mess of wool draped all over her. Upon closer inspection it became clear she had managed to knit wool into her neck and wind-pipe – it was also obvious that she was very much dead. Mother was soon on the scene as well and sent me to run for the police in the village.

A few shell-shocked days later we were informed that the case had been dismissed as an unfortunate accident – a verdict I was happy to support as I saw no other explanation. Mother had talked me through the event leading up to one of the world’s first, and most likely last, fatal knitting accidents. In her high, thin and very shaken voice she told me she had popped out of the drawing room to fetch some more tea, leaving Clarissa, a capable woman of 30, working on the arm of a jumper for Ernest, seconds later the scream had echoed from the room and we had both come running. We found no evidence of an intruder and it seemed very likely that Clarissa had simply managed to knit a jumper into her own neck without noticing.

Two weeks passed as normal.

Then, Mother asked me to take a bottle of brandy to my Uncle. The Uncle to whom I refer was my Mother’s elder brother. He had always looked like an emaciated man of around 50, dressed elegantly but with a worn and cold face and a mess of greying brown hair. Yet the feature which stood out most were his eyes, they were set deep into his face giving them the appearance of unspeakable beasts peering out from some unholy grotto. These eyes also had a peculiar way of looking at you as if he were reading you more like a book than a person, you were a collection of descriptions to him as opposed to a human being. My Uncle was a killer. My Uncle was called Elgar Wintershaw. At this time I only knew the latter of these important details.

You may think it curious that Elgar requested a bottle of brandy as opposed to collecting his own, but I did not enquire as to why this was, as I knew that he had not left his house for the past 20 years on account of his hobby. It was this hobby which Mother bade me ask him about upon my arrival at the house. He is a lonely man, she said, do engage him in conversation about something – the history perhaps? I indicated that I would.

Let me explain. Elgar’s hobby was writing in superb detail the entire history of his family. I mean the entirety of it. It has only now become clear to me how thorough the man has been – but I’ll save that detail for later – I appreciate the value of with-holding information from the reader until the appropriate juncture. Mother was to be in there, Clarissa, Father, myself, Dougal and hundreds and thousands of others – the pages were saturated with intimate information.

As I was preparing to leave for Elgar’s grand house on the hill, Mother told me to take Dougal with me for some exercise. Since his mother’s death the lad had done little, his father was once again out of the country and whilst Dougal had seemed oddly unaffected by his mother’s death, he had become staggeringly bored. So, I left the house with my young friend Dougal in tow and told him stories of what a loathsome creep dear Elgar was. He lapped it up and was delightfully terrified by the time we reached the door of Elgar’s house.

I pushed the door open. It was Elgar’s custom to leave his door unlocked and ajar when he knew he had visitors coming – it unnerved them and helped him to create the atmosphere of foreboding that he fed off, like a cactus in a rainforest, swollen with water. I led a shivering Dougal to the room where I knew Elgar would be sat recording hundreds of years in immaculate script.

“Oliver, dear boy. I see you have my fuel! Couldn’t have come at a better time! I’ve been sober for weeks!” Elgar was always disarmingly pleasant upon first sight, but there was always the edge of a contemptuous sneer creeping into his mouth.

“Uncle Elgar, you remember Dougal…Clarissa’s boy.”

“Ah yes! Terrible tragedy…just knitted herself to death did she?” A ghost of a wry smile flitted across Elgar’s face

“Yes, I’m afraid so. But still, probably best not to talk about it in front of the boy.” I said, glancing Dougal-wards. For his part, the boy looked fairly non-plussed by the whole affair. Elgar’s initial friendly demeanour having entirely placated him. However, I knew to be on my guard as the man standing gaunt and malnourished in front of us was a highly intelligent, shrewd, borderline evil genius. Father had always been suspicious of him, a trait which I had inherited.

“Tell me of the history, Uncle, I’m keen to hear of your progress.” I simpered.
“Ah!” He jerked a little, both with surprise and delight. Perhaps he was not expecting my interest, but God did he revel in it. “Yes, the history! Oh it’s going delightfully, you know your great, great Uncle Terrence?”

“No. Never heard of him.” I said, possibly sounding a touch too bored.

“No neither had I until your mother passed onto me some delightfully decrepit old documents from the basement of Hembourne Manor. He was quite a character…” For the next hour or so – I lost track – Elgar regaled us with tales of the exploits of great, great Uncle Terrence. Every so often I would glance to Dougal, whose eyes grew deader every second as boredom permeated every atom of his being. For such a sinister man, Elgar’s conversation was wholly mundane.

“Well, gosh! Look at the time, such a fascinating character our Terrence was that the time has flown away from me. I must get back to work and I’m sure you boys best be getting back to your own abode. You can see yourselves out I’m sure!” Said Elgar.

Gladly Dougal and I made our way to the door of Elgar’s study, hope was flooding back to Dougal’s face.

“Oh, Oliver…” Called Elgar as I began to open the door of the study.

I turned to see him sitting behind his desk, pen in hand. A peculiar and wholly unnerving sneer had taken over his face, but after a second it disappeared and was replaced with a kindly smile.

“Could you tell me how to spell ‘weathervane’?” His eyes continued to hide deep in his face, looking me up and down like hungry wolves.

“Why certainly, Uncle – w e a t h e r v a n e.”

“I know.” He replied sweetly, with a sickening wink.

Dougal and I hastened out of the room very much unsettled.

The walk back to the house was mostly silent. Dougal dragged his feet in an endearingly petulant way. I admire such qualities in a boy. He demonstrates many of the attributes I had at his age. A certain arrogance and callous disregard for others. I’d like to think I’m the only one who can tame him – he certainly shares my distaste for the family’s one remaining woman; dear mother.

Suddenly he ran forward to chase a wood pigeon that had been foolish enough to get into his line of sight. My thoughts of Dougal began to sour – contempt for animals had never been a quality I’d valued, I certainly identified with them more than I did with his mother or his father. I watched as the pigeon took flight with a few soft coos of distress. It had wonderful plumage, far nicer than those of the London pigeons with their mangy feathers and malformed feet – this was a fine beast. Yet Dougal had seen fit to attack it? There must be some hateful edge to him that I had hitherto not seen. I contemplated this for the rest of the walk home.

Upon arriving at the house my attention was drawn to a fearful crowd gathered around the house. High pitched voices and shouting greeted my ears. Gripped by a sudden dread, I rushed to the centre of this crowd, leaving Dougal to linger silently on the edge.

What greeted me left me feeling astounded, furious and curiously weeping.

There, at the centre of the crowd, was my mother, lying face down in a growing pool of blood with the large cast-iron weathervane, which father and I had fixed to the top of the house, plunged deep into her back. I stood, stunned, for several minutes before turning to Father Gregory who was amongst the crowd.

“What on Earth has happened?” I breathed, surprised by my own calm.

“Well…oh Oliver…oh you poor boy.” He simpered like this for a few moments and I was unable to get any information from him.

“Pull yourself together man!” I roared. I was as taken aback by this outburst as he was. “Sorry Father, I’m just a little shocked, I’m sure you’ll understand.” I mumbled in apology.

“Yes…yes, Oliver, I wholly understand. Marjorie who was walking past the house when it happened, said the weathervane simply fell on your mother. Got her right through the back and that was it.” I listened and thought I detected a curious sadism in the priest’s last comment, but what did it matter? Mother was dead and that was the end of it.

Except, obviously as you dear reader have surely realised, it wasn’t. I had fixed that weathervane with father and it was thoroughly secured to the roof of the house, there had been no high winds recently and there was no possibility it could’ve fallen down by chance. But there it was – it must’ve fallen by chance. The house was still locked from when mother left it, no suspicious activity had been seen on the roof. And what sort of method of murder was it? Stabbing someone in the back from a great height with a weathervane.

Then I thought and I thought some more. Weathervane. Weathervane. Not the most common subject of conversation. Not a common object at all. Weathervane. By this time Uncle Elgar had been forced from my mind but the word brought my thoughts back to him – just as he had intended.

Days later I was still thinking about it – weathervane, Elgar. How? This was my prime concern – how? Then, gradually, a theory began to form in my mind. It was so outlandish, so preposterous, but still I had to check. I had to go and find out and that I did. If only for little Dougal’s sake.

And so, having locked Dougal in the dining room, somewhere that surely nothing could hurt him, I took father’s revolver and headed once more for Elgar’s house.

Upon arriving the door was ajar. I strode confidently inside, feeling it necessary to conceal the writhing fear within me – there was a pit of snakes in my stomach. I approached his study and prepared to burst in taking him unawares, but as I readied myself to kick the oak door down I heard a voice from within.

“Come in, Oliver.”

My dramatic entrance ruined, I feebly opened the door and stood before him. He was still at his desk, pen in hand, scrawling lazily.

“Ah, just in time. I’ve just finished the word ‘gun’ would you believe! Yet I do believe we’ve a few seconds to spare. Anything you’d like to know dear boy?” He leered ghoulishly from behind his desk.

“Weathervane…how?” I stuttered. Unable to come up with anything more fearsome.

“Well, oh I’ll delight in this part! I’ve been waiting for this for what must’ve been around 40 years.” Elgar was beaming maniacally, he took a few moments to light his pipe and swig some brandy before speaking once more. “As you well know, I’ve been writing this little history of mine for the best part of my life. It was a wonderful hobby – informative and time consuming, taking up the time that I never learnt to fill with the gallivanting of youth or women.

“Yet there was a problem – I was too hasty, too diligent. Before I knew it I had caught up with history itself. I was writing everything as it happened. So what was I to do? Rest my hobby? Find something else to do? Abandon my life’s work in favour of golf or some other filthy and trivial pastime? No! Of course not. Why, I just kept on going! And soon enough I wasn’t just writing up the family history, I was determining it. I gave my flesh and blood such great fortune – you remember your father’s promotion and all of those caches of money he seemed to find around the place? That was I, that was me. God. But soon benevolence grew boring, I wanted action – spice!

“So I killed your father. And I wrote the shockwaves it caused through the family, your disconnection and your gradual transformation into the introverted, conceited little heap that stands quivering before me. Oh you were marvellous fun. I wrote all of those sleepless nights you had and I wrote your little nihilistic rants to Dougal.

“Then your sister, of course I did her in. Even the woolly headed Clarissa wasn’t stupid enough to knit herself to death – she needed a little help with that. I just wrote it and it happened. A few quiet weeks of elation followed, but this had been 40 years in the making and I must confess I have grown tired. It weighs heavily on me now.

“So, what to do? I brought you to me, of course my little creation. I brought you with gifts of brandy. Oh, and how patronising you were trying to placate me with polite, empty enquiries about my work. So I bored you. I bored you well and then sent you on your way. Of course, I prepared a little surprise for you giving you the one hint I knew would bring you back here…

“Now, would you like me to do for young Dougal? Your hateful little protégé?”

I fumbled taking the revolver from my pocket. Elgar made no attempt to duck and I took several steps forward and shot him in the head. The bullet landed right between his deep-set, beady little eyes and he and his chair fell backwards.

Shaking, I walked over to the desk and began reading the parchment sitting on it. The descriptions were intimate – it read more like a novel than a distant account of the family’s fortune.

“Oliver rushed to his Uncle’s house. Fury coursing through veins corrupted by hate. Surging into his Uncle’s study he lifted his revolver, ready to fire. His Uncle gazed at him, resigned to his fate. Oliver let a shot fly and his Uncle slumped backwards.”

I was surprised by how the manuscript differed slightly from what transpired, but concluded that ultimately we were destined to follow what Elgar had laid out for us. On a spare bit of parchment I began to scrawl my own record of events, lest the police label me a murderer. I made sure all the details of Elgar’s own fearsomely disgusting character were recorded.

Then, feeling a sinking in my written-bitter heart, I read the last paragraph.

“Distraught at what he had become, Oliver spent several moments in silent grief. He strode shakily to his Uncle’s desk and looked upon his life’s work which laid before him. Then, as he calmly resigned himself to his fate, he lifted the revolver and fired. His now lifeless hand dropped the gun.”

“That last sentence really doesn’t work.” I thought as the bullet left the chamber.

A Cautionary Tale

“Any fool with a decent internet connection can bring society to it’s knees”
- Oscar Wilde

In a basement somewhere in London a flurry of typing came to an end. Sat in the dark room, with only the light of the monitor a strange looking, green tinged man lit a cigarette, then got up and left – never to be seen again.

Weeks later.
Around Britain many families were sitting down to dinner. In other parts of the world they were doing whatever they did at dinnertime in Britain. Some of these families had turned on the television and some who did that had also tuned in to a news programme.

This is what one news programme said:
“Historians have uncovered evidence that the man heralded as the father of modern physics, Sir Isaac Newton, may in fact have been a wizard. Furthermore, it has been speculated that gravity may not be real and that which we take for gravity may simply be an echo of a vast spell conjured by Sir Isaac hundred of years ago. Historians have expressed concern about the coming of a time when Sir Isaac’s spell wears off and physics disintegrates into what they are calling ‘fib-matter’…”

At this point all televisions stopped working and the world went very silent. This, to many, was excessively eerie, but when this absence of noise was replaced by a growing rumbling all around the world, people began wishing that the silence would come back. Observant onlookers noticed black shapes in the sky.

---------------

Here’s how it happened.

Weeks earlier a boy, a gullible fool named Francis Sandwich, had been researching a science assignment. Now (this is something I say when I am going to instruct you on things you already know). In Francis’ day, in this day – in our day, the internet was a prime source of flawed yet easy to retrieve information. Whilst most researchers worth their salt would opt for more reliable sources, Francis was neither a researcher nor worth his salt. Whilst researching famous physicists Francis uncovered a detail about our dear Sir Isaac that he was previously unaware of. It was such a thrilling detail – or fact as he erroneously renamed it – that it immediately went into his presentation and he wasted no time informing his friends. Anyone who disputed him – and many did – he referred to the internet, because the internet didn’t lie.

By the end of the day this information had reached The London Gale newspaper. Now The London Gale was no penny-dreadful, it was a respected publication, and so, for once, it decided to corroborate its exciting story – and it called a historian.

Professor Wilbur Snelton answered the phone. Now. People are greedy. Professor Snelton was a person and he was greedy, and when he heard of this new groundbreaking discovery he was very eager to claim prior knowledge of it.

“Isaac Newton? A wizard? Yes, I had heard of this. Believe it or not it was me and my people who made this discovery. And, I can give you something which’ll give you an edge over the rags as well!” Snivelled Snelton, thinking on his feet, “What the other papers won’t know is that Sir Isaac liked his closer, wizarding friends to call him Necromancer ‘Doom’ Newton.”

“Get this into the morning edition!” Cried the editor.

Quarter of an hour later an assistant of Professor Snelton, Phillip Catchworth was running along Pleat Street in the winter evening darkness to the offices of The Anchor, a terrible paper with a curiously large readership that would pay for any old rubbish. Now.

The next morning the shelves of England’s newsagents were awash with papers proclaiming that gravity was to fail in ten years once Necromancer ‘Doom’ Newton’s (and in the case of The Daily Vanguard – ‘Newcram Answer Newstock’) magic had run out. The London Gale itself had wasted no time embellishing the story with details (or facts) about Newton’s middle eastern heritage and perverse sexual preference.

---------------

The rumbling continued. It was then replaced by a roaring, then a groaning, then a grumbling and then finally silence. As all these curious noises had been happening, a fleet of great grey spaceships had been landing around the world. Soon humanoid but distinctly alien aliens had begun marching in tens of thousands out of the ships. Expertly and peacefully they made their way through the towns and cities to the centres of government and began the well-planned takeover. They met little resistance, just astonishment – which, in times of great and absolutely astounding crisis was mankind’s default setting.

In the House of Commons a parliamentary aide approached one of the newly installed alien guards.

“Excuse me.”

“Yes?”

“Oh, are you using a translation device?”

“No, I have learnt English. We’ve had enough time.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Yes, you most likely do. I did explain.”

“It’s a human phrase expressing comprehension.”

“I know, but I’m a pedant.” Laughed the alien.

There were a number of exchanges like this going on around the world. In all of them the new rulers of Earth were displaying the same carefree sarcasm and unflappable nature. In the face of such calm and collected beings, frightened and irrational mankind stood no chance.

“So how did you get us?” Asked the plucky aide.

“We were always going to get you. We’ve been loitering for some time – watching, waiting.”

“Where?”

“Mostly around the hubble telescope. We liked flying in front of it and avoiding getting snapped. But you asked how did we get you? Well, as I said, we were always going to, we were just waiting until the time was ripe.

“And how did you know when it was.”

“When you were so cocky and stupid you’d believe anything you were told. In every one of your past generations there has been someone to challenge supposed ‘knowledge’, someone to question. These days, you’ve become too confident – too obsessed with congratulating yourselves. We’ve been setting you little tests and you finally failed.”

Somewhere in a semi-detached suburban home someone said:

“If only Newton were around now.”

Now…

INPUT

The below two stories are the beginnings of two short stories I've had in the making for some time. As I'm a democracy, I'd quite like some feedback on these - whether they're worth continuing, what in them doesn't work and so on and so forth.

The first one posted is an idea I had sometime in November that was initially too similar to both 'Being John Malkovich' and 'Fight Club' as well as Jasper Fforde's 'Thursday Next' novels. So I did some tweaking, I have a vague idea of where it's going but no idea how to get it there, so any input on that one would be welcome.

The second one posted is an idea I've been toying with on and off for years exploring purposelessness, bureaucracy in a comic manner and making a lot of offhand jokes about imperialism. I feel it's now more promising than in its first skeletal incarnations which I wrote in about 2005, but once again I'd like anyone who is actually, by some fluke, reading this to tell me what they think is working and what isn't.

Thank you very much for anything you may or may not do or consider doing!

The Ministry of Facts

Some hours after dawn on a winter morning a large, grand looking building in central London was awaiting it’s occupants. It sat patiently as buildings tend to do, and gradually workers started arriving. These workers were smart and purposeful, striding through the majestic lobby in their suits, some with briefcases. Soon the building was a hub of activity with suited men and women bustling all over the place, like administrative bees.

After a time a large executive looking, black car pulled up outside the building, out stepped another man in a suit. This one was tall and thin and looked perplexed. He had a kindly, permanently befuddled face and was accompanied by some other men, who looked altogether more together. Like the others, these men strode in through the open oak doors and through the lobby, which had lost none of its majesty.

These were the offices of a government ministry – the Ministry of Facts. This office was in charge of collecting and collating facts. Facts were and are a valuable commodity – a commodity which needed to be collected and collated and put into warehouses – or something. This was what the staff of the building understood of their task anyway.

The man from the car was Minister of Facts Howard Catswell. He understood his job just as well as his other staff – not very well. Nevertheless as a dedicated servant of the empire, he dutifully carried on doing his job, whatever it was. Yet he could never shake the feeling that what they were doing was either entirely the wrong thing or totally inconsequential – this is why he looked constantly pained.

“Any messages, Felicity?” He asked his secretary, upon reaching his office. Felicity Surbiton was the most diligent and informed worker in the entire office and thus had the position of least power, but her other attribute which rendered her unsuitable for a managerial position – niceness – meant she was pleasant and helpful to anyone who needed pleasantry or help.

“Just the one, Minister, Bernard wants to see you, shall I send him up?”

“Yes…yes, go on then.” Replied Howard absentmindedly.

Five minutes later Bernard Brufford, a man who, it was often joked, had beaten a walrus in a walrus lookalike contest, was harrumphing (a type of movement only used by walruses) his way into Howard’s office.

“Minister! Good morning!” Bernard roared jovially, his great, red cheeks firing out words like fleshy bellows.

“Good morning, Bernard. What did you want to see me about?”

“I’ve been given the job of introducing the new chap to our line of work, and I was wondering what you wanted me to tell him.”

“Just tell him what his job is and what we do, you know – the history of the Ministry.”

“Ah very good, yes, very good but…” He was about to ask ‘what do we do?’ but checked himself in time.

“Yes?”

“Nothing. I’ll introduce him to you later. Once I’ve shown him the ropes and all that, eh? Yes. Goodbye Minister!”

“Goodbye, Bernard.” Once the door was shut, Howard sighed heavily. Bernard was a lovely man, but pompous and blundering. Behind his back people called him Polonius after the rather bumbling character in Hamlet. The sort of criticism which would only be levelled at someone in an establishment primarily staffed by Oxbridge rejects.

Meanwhile, Bernard harrumphed down to the reception area and met the new chap. The new chap had recently been taken on to fill a place which someone had vacated. They didn’t know who had vacated it or what it was but it, apparently, needed to be filled. The new chap was called Redding Bardwick and was every bit as pompous as Bernard – they got on well.

“My name is Bernard Brufford, and you must be the new chap, eh?” Bernard guffawed needlessly.

“Yes, I am indeed – Redding Bardwick – pleased to make your acquaintance, Bernie. Can I call you Bernie?” Smarmed Redding

“No one else does, but why the hell not! Bernie it is!” Bellowed Bernard happily.

Following this exchange, Bernard and Redding spent around two hours bellowing, guffawing and sharing anecdotes about public school and polo. Once this happy time was up, Bernard ushered Redding to Howard’s office.

Someone Else

I was groggy. Groggier than a depressed pirate. That’s a lot of grog. Yet I was comfortable. I started to look around and none of the objects around me seemed compelled to make themselves distinct, so my eyes left them to it. It was a very white and blurry place – and the sort of place where you get the impression you’re going to be there for a long time. Like a waiting room, or a queue in the bank. The sort of place that makes eternity shudder. Still, moving wasn’t exactly a pressing thing at that moment, so I allowed myself to drift back to sleep.

I permitted myself to have a dream. I was on a pavement. It was a pavement next to an exceedingly wide road, with more lanes than the mind can comfortably conceive. Across the other side of this obscenely wide road was a shop. The stop was glittering pleasingly, with a neon sign mounted above it. The sign wasn’t tacky, it was tastefully garish and almost frighteningly alluring. I felt drawn to it and all the wonderful sparkling shapes in the window, I didn’t know what these objects were but I was damn sure I wanted to own them. The road looked clear for miles around and I started to cross. I had to get to the shop. Suddenly, a rumbling! I looked down the road to see car after car after car all streaming towards me. I know how rabbits feel. One car knocked me into another and that one knocked me to another. And so on and so forth, were it not for the genuine terror, this sort of thing would’ve become somewhat tiring after a while. All the time the cars were bumping me further across the road, but the shop looked no closer. Another glimpse of headlight…

And I woke up. Hours had presumably passed. The place was blurry but a dimmer shade of white, like it was winding down to sleep. I felt momentarily smug, I had slept before the room. Then I reminded myself that this wasn’t really anything of a victory.

I noticed that next to me there was a brown shape. I looked at it intently to see if it would acknowledge me. It did.

“You’re awake.” It said
“I’d noticed.” I responded attempting to remember what terseness sounded like.
“No need for that.” It murmured. “Go back to sleep.” It commanded after a moments thought.

I was in no mood to argue and duly did so. I was again plagued by a dream, it was strikingly similar, only I was closer to the shop, and it did its best to glimmer and glitter and dazzle. I felt myself yearning to be there even more so. The road was a chilled turkey and the shop a grubby needle – to offer up a grim and tortured metaphor.

When I awoke again later, things had seen fit to further order themselves. Objects had discernable edges – I was in a hospital bed and the brown thing to my side was a man in a well tailored suit. This man was occupied with eyeing my weary face with a lazy and contemptuous gaze. I was oddly hurt, I had only just awoken and yet I was already a reasonable direction in which to send contempt.

“I take it you’ve some sort of problem?” I ventured to sigh.
“No. You have, however. I just thought I’d inform you.’ The man drawled with the uncomfortable stench of confidence around him.
“What?” I said, remembering incredulity.
“You’ve got a problem.” Said the man, getting up
“Do you usually behave like this?” I enquired
“No. Consider yourself a special case.” Spat the man as he strode from the room.

****

A few days later my body had sufficiently resolved whatever ailment had landed me in hospital and I was discharged. No one seemed eager to explain my particular condition and I had no real desire to find out. What did concern me, however, was my lack of any memories of my life whatsoever. Most other people appeared to have lives so I, not unreasonably I thought, had assumed that I too had one. Still, finding out what I could do again would be an experience.

New

Happy new year one and all! This is a joint celebration as this is both my thirtieth post and the beginning of a brand spanking new year. Of course, we all know which of those is of more importance - soon a series of Booker prize wins will testify to that.

As with many years, I began this one quite drunk and in the company of giggling people, which was pleasant. There wasn't quite as much yelling insults and greetings down a phone as I would've liked but that's no big deal. I shall congratulate all of my good friends on reaching this fine year when I next see them.

Of course I am being somewhat presumptuous in assuming this year will be 'fine', but I'm feeling good and in the mood for rash statements proclaiming things I've no evidence for. For all I know this could be a lousy year full of bombs and pounds dying and fuel running out and so on - but right now who cares. Let's at least start on a high even if we may not end on one

GOOD WILL TO ALL MEN, WOMEN, ANIMALS, PLANTS, GEOLOGICAL FORMATIONS, METEOROLOGICAL PHENOMENA AND ANYTHING ELSE I MAY HAVE MISSED OUT!