What we do for Love

He was tense, a nervous bead of sweat ran down his brow. What he was doing was wrong. Well wrong by the letter of the law but what could he do, he was trapped. She was his bird and he had to look after her.

He knew she should never have been with him. She was protected but he had found her when she was young and could hardly move. He had helped her grow up, cared for her, loved her.

But now she was ill and he could go to no one for help because no one could know that she lived with him. He had to do the surgery himself, he could not put it off.

He leant forward and took a deep breath. His hands trembed with nerves and guilt because, he knew, he was performing an ill eagle operation.

Ba Boom

Giants with Muddy Feet

We stand on the shoulders of giants. We see more, and things that are more distant, than they did, not because our sight is superior or because we are taller than they, but because they raise us up, and by their great stature add to ours.

Once again in these last few weeks I am reminded of this saying. It makes me think how fortunate we are to be able to build upon foundations laid by great people with great minds, great energy and importantly great ‘souls’. If there is a moment to be humble it is when we realise how little we could do if it were not for their efforts.

I have the pleasure to be working on a project that places me next to some of my heroes – modern giants – people I have admired for their enormous contribution to life. They are humble, unassuming, and with no apparent ‘self’. In talking with one of them in rather gushing terms she said, “It’s nice that you say such things but remember we have feet of clay.”

Of course you do, no person is perfect, but if the weight of good so outweighs the amount of bad and when you have contributed so much then I am happy to applaud giants with muddy feet.

Let us hope when we look back over our shoulders on our life we are fortunate enough to see some giant muddy footprint on our path. If not, then what was the point.

Turning

Turning the corner and whistling cheerfully Mark strolled towards his gate. “This is a fine day,” he thought, “A mighty fine day.”

Turning the key in the lock he gently opened the door so as not disturb his wife in case she was resting. “I’m in the front room,” she called as Mark hung his coat over the bannister and walked in to see his wife staring at a sheet of paper on the table.

Turning the letter over Mark's heart fell as he began to read. It was from the Hospital and it was the results of her tests.

Turning it over in his mind later he wondered how such a fine day could shatter instantly with just three words.

Turning from the grave some three months later Mark wondered if he would ever want to whistle cheerfully again. His friends and family were some comfort but nothing could fill the aching void in his heart and soul.

Turning to the bottle on the tray he poured the last remains into the glass and sank back into his chair. The empty bottle of pills fell from the arm.

Turning off the TV he felt the lids of his eyes slide down until all that remained was darkness.

Turning towards Katie he felt an enormous rush of love fill his body. What were the chances that the woman who found and saved him would become his wife? He didn’t even want to think about it

Turning his eyes upwards he smiled as he found he had been whistling.

He had turned his corner.

Day 174 to 180 - and why not (Well obvious reasons really)

Day 174. There is something nagging in the back of my head about Soho in 1854 but I cannot bring it forward. For the last couple of days Charlie and I have watched in wonder as Victorian life unfolded itself in front of us. Today we walked through some of the streets many of whose names I think still exist. Along Brewer Street, down Little Windmill Street and then as we were approaching Broad Street a cry went up, “The Kings is back!” Charlie and I rushed forward to see which pretender could be challenging for Victoria’s throne as other ran away.

Day 175. Aaaaagh

Day 176. The King is Cholera and over 120 people have died in the first three days. Those that can have escaped but the authorities now force people to stay to contain the outbreak. People walk in fear, their faces covered with rags or kerchiefs to avoid breathing the rancid air. All but one man. He is clearly a nutter.

Day 177. The man who stands alone in the face of this disease is a Doctor. He is desperately trying to convince the powers that be that Cholera is spread through dirty water and not the air. I feel his frustration. I know this to be true but how can you explain something to frightened people merely by the application of a logic and not by a proven fact. His frustration with the so called experts in authority is so painful to see. I must try to help

Day 178. I have managed to speak with Dr Snow. He is convinced that the cholera is spreading from a contaminated water pump but how can he prove it. I have some ideas based on vague memories so I have suggested he draws a map of the area and marks the house where deaths have occurred showing their proximity to the aforementioned well. I said, “like a Ghost Map,” but he hated the name. He’s rather straight laced but his heart seems in the right place.

Day 179. There have now been over 400 deaths and Dr Snow knows that it is coming from the water in the Broad Street pump yet he cannot convince people. Knowledge without belief is a terrible thing. A local curate who started by denouncing Snow’s belief has not turned full circle and is impressing upon people not to drink the water. It is amazing how the fact that it is a Reverend saying it carries more weight. I am useless in this exchange and Charlie just keeps barking. I have painted a white line around the pump as a warning and it is having some affect.

Day 180. The handle has been taken off the Pump and there is hope. Dr. Snow keeps going on about needing “better proof for the fools” and talks or his admiration for a James Simpson and his work at Seething Wells. God know what he is going on about because this a man possessed. I still find it odd that I should have turned up at this point in history. I look at Charlie in a questioning way as he sniffs the white line. I must remain stoic which I realize is an anagram of coits but with a c instead of a q. I shall teach the Doctor to play to take his mind off the deaths, the rejection of his ideas by authority and his obsession with this Simpson chap

Any Drink Will Do

Following an aside from Roger these lyrics were composed for the Joseph song

I close my eyes
Reach for my tankard
Already wankered
Any drink will do
Far far away
Someone is crying
I think I'm dying
Any drink will do

I fill my glass
With golden lining
For now I'm wineing
Any drink will do
It's all a blur
A foggy thickness
And now there's sickness
Any drink will do

A crash of doors, a desperate rush
Niagara Falls in vomit rush
The colour faded from my palor
Dried out like a bone

So I return
To the beginning
My bar tab filling
Any drink will do
My friends and I
We are still drinking
No one is thinking
Any drink will do

A Lemon for Orange

Slowly, like a cat approaching a mouse, she moves towards the radio. Turning it on she pauses until the sound begins. This is it. This is what she has been waiting for.

She stands, fidgeting, as the music comes to an end. “And this text just in from a listener,” the familiar voice says, “It’s an odd one but hey, here we go. It’s from Dark Matters and he or she asks ‘Can we play It’s the Final Countdown for the final time’. Well, not sure what that last bit means but here, for Dark Matters, is Europe.

Slowly she lowers herself into her seat. She doubts whether anyone else can detect the start, slow rumblings that would rapidly develop as the shifting tectonic plates wreak havoc across the Globe. Destruction on a scale that made all that had come before merely the cuts and bruises of a growing planet.

Armageddon, it was such a lovely word, ‘armageddingoutofhere’, and she was. Well not just her, everyone. This was it and it would end with both bang and whimper.

She has created the perfect storm, her final revenge for their ignoring her and the whole world would pay. A crooked smile formed across her lips as the noise of the earth buckling and folding became louder than the song and the screams outside. “Ha,” she thought, “this will teach Orange to keep me waiting so long before I can speak to one of their useless customer service team.”