Meavy Lane is the winding path to the Royal Oak Inn which - up until the day I left England seven months ago - I walked the length of each day. It is a calming place, the patchwork of green fields which line its sides dotted with littlewhitesheep. As you make your way down into the valley, you pass beneath a canopy of branches through which dappled light spills onto the tarmac. The spots of brightness play across your skin as the sounds of the rustling leaves and the birds nestled amongst the branches float down between the hedges. The canopy continues as you cross over a small stream, the soothing sound of running water beneath your feet as you start up a steep incline. You burst into sunlight as you reach the crest and in the distance the spires of Meavy’s church reach into the heavens. Horses trot past you, their riders waving their thanks as they go on their way. Cyclists greet you with a sharp smile and a wave as they pass you by. Cars…

Well.

Cars either slow down enough so that you might have time for a full-length discussion on the morals of human cloning or they speed toward you. At this point you jump. Into the hedge. The hedge is not quite as picturesque when one of the bramches is poking you in the eye. I have had a number of experiences with the hedge, the foremost of which involves a (rabid) dog.

It was a lovely morning and I was on my way to work. I had just popped round the pharmacy for some effervecest vitamin C flavoured beverage to fight the off the bout of flu which I could feel coming on. I was early. The bus must have been confused by my prescence, but it did not comment. I walked out of the pharmacy and onto Meavy Lane. I had passed the bowls club and started down past the last of the houses before I started to fish around in my pockets for my MP3 player. That was when I heard the barking.

This came as a surprise to me. I did not realise that dogs actually had this ability on mud island. I had simply assumed that generations of crime-free living had resulted in a genetic mutation which stopped them from doing it completely. I was wrong, apparently. At least they weren’e like those nutty ones back home, I thought. Much more personable animals. The barking grew louder as I halted. The MP3 player appeared to have chosen a hibernation spot in my jacket. I caught hold of it and jerked it out of its slumber. I placed the earphones in my ears and the sounds of the lane were dampened.

Except the barking.

It appeared to be getting louder. And angrier. I looked up, in the act of turning on some angry music and noticed the same hole in the hedge that I had noticed every other day. The bush had thinned over a large rock where the hedge met up with the wall bordering a lovely stone house. Today, a spindly looking creature was standing in that gap, glaring at me and attempting to bark, growl and be menacing at the same time. The effect was rather spoiled by the inconsistency of the sound, but i got the message. I crossed onto the opposite side of the road, hoping that Spindle Legs would take this as a sign that I had no intention of weeing on his lawn.

The gesture was lost on Spindle. It went completely off the handle when I started forward and jumped down the six foot hedge, blocking me from continuing. My heart started to hammer in my chest. Animals like me. They may growl at other people, but they wine and ask for cuddles when they see me. Spindle wasn’t a dog, I decided there and then. It was an alien apparition which had made a pact with the devil before swallowing him whole. I backed away slowly.

“That’s okay,” I cooed. “I’m just going to walk past. Not going anywhere near your house!”

It rushed forward, barking so hard that I had cause to hope it might choke and die on its own saliva. I backed into the hedge. Why, oh WHY, did I mention his HOUSE! Bark bark. Bark bark bark bark bark. It rushed even closer, shooting a stone up onto my jeans. It was going to eat me. People were going to find my tattered jacket ten years in the future and realise what had happened to the missing South African. I turned to the hedge and flattened myslef against it. I could hear Spindle behind me. He stopped barking. I assume the fact that I had become suddenly faceless upset him. I chanced a look over my shoulder. He had backed away and settled in the middle of the road. He was growling with marked suspicion.

Little fecker. I looked down at my watch. If ass face over there didn’t get out of my way pretty quickly, I was going to be late for work. I slid along the hedge, hoping that I could make it past Spindle and continue on my merry way. Spindle was not fooled. He barked at full volume, rushing forward. I cringed into the bushes. Someone had stuffed a Twix wrapper between the leaves, it was scratching my cheek. Spindle backed off again, panting. I slid the other way instead, putting as much distance between myself and Spindle as possible. The hedge rounded and Spindle was out of sight.

I was on a gravel driveway. There was a round, white marble fountain in its centre and perfectly manicured green lawns on either side. This looked like the house of someone so anal they would have a heart attack if they saw me on the driveway. I was desperate, though, and caught by the notion that Spindle was not going to move, even if I threw something heavy and sharp at him. So, feeling like a Jehova’s Witness worried about the dwindling space left in heaven, I approached the front door. It had several panes of stained glass arranged artfully around a knocker. I lifted my hand and the door opened. I was left looking rather foolish with my hand hovering between myself and a petite blonde woman wearing Armani sunglasses. I turned it into a wave, hoping I looked friendly.

“Can I help, you love?” the woman asked. I saw her eyes narrow with suspicion behind the tinted blue lenses. She too thought I was a desperate Jehova there to harvest her soul.

“Um, yes. I’m so sorry to bother but…”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” she said suddenly, looking at my hand as though I might try and present her with a pamphlet. She was still holding the door knob. I suspect she wished she had never opened the door.

“Um, no,” I reply carefully, thinking that my South African accent may just have worked in my favour. “Which is why I don’t know how to get past the dog in the street. Do you by chance know the owners? I need to get to work and it won’t let me by.”

She looked down the drive toward the Lane. Her face became a mask of fury. I probably dislodged one of her pebbles, I thought irrationally.

“If I catch you, you little fucker, I will tear you in half!”

Oh god. I picked a crazy person to ask for help. Just my luck. She lunged forward and I cringed. Nothing happened. I opened one eye. She had sprung directly past me and was stalking down the drive. Spindle had started to follow me. 

It might have been Spindle’s last mistake. Blue Lens Lady flapped her hands at him, breaking into a run. Spindle, seeing me behind her, must have been trying to save face - growled at her. In my opinion he needed to start worrying about saving his ass. I wasn’t sure if the dog was the dangerous one anymore. She was within metres of him. His tail dropped to between his legs and he bolted, whimpering.

“That’s right!” Blue Lens Lady yelled, kicking the air behind him with more fury than a flaming lion. ”Bugger off. Go crawl into a hole and die!”

Wow. 

“Don’t worry about that mean little rat. He’s all bark, no bite.”

I thank Blue Lens and hurry away before she can start the twenty questions about my accent. Its tiresome, and she terrifies me a little bit.

Back on Meavy Lane, things are just as they should be. The birds twitter and the sun is filtered through a canopy of leaves. Spindle is gone. I doubt he’s coming out of the hole any time soon. Mu ha ha ha ha ha.

Goodboy.

=) 

Save the earth! It’s the only planet with chocolate…

Anonymous

Birmingham. Place of multi-culture, a bronze (looking) bull, the Shakespeare Pub and last - but definitely not least - an institution that has been around for generations. I have experienced the euphoric smell of the glass-and-a-half classic in its molten form - a liquid pleasure that translates into a perfect moment on the lips. The shining brown swirl of edible happiness as it collapses into the trenches of a mixing machine, a cup of sweet-sensation…

Breathin.

Breathout.

Sigh…

Let me explain more fully, shall I?

The adventure started on my birthday. The weather, it must be said, was on form. It bucketed down, so much so that my birthday (BBQ/Braai/Food cooked with fire) was forced to move into the restaurant of the Royal Oak Inn, Meavy. I had with me a team of experts to help with my party preparations. They are as follows:

Tom: Tapdancer.

Madz (Madeleine) : Madz.

Becky: Can cook soup.

Jimmy: Asleep.

I had given an estimated T.O.S (Time Of Startage) at 5:30pm. At 3:30, end of lunch shift, Tom (17, has a land rover - his first car) drove Madz and I to Tesco’s. We raced in to buy the ingredients for a cake that I had designed which had the appearance of a chocolate. The shop was closing. Time was ticking. Tom had to shimmy past a Tesco worker in order to obtain some cream from the dairy aisle. I tried to buy myself some Pimms. I was I.D’d. I did not have I.D. I did not buy Pimms. Back in the car, on the road, arrive at Tom’s house. Sit and talk to his mother about Wimbledon. Match on. Federer vs Nadal. She asks if I have been following the tournament. I say I have. I tell her that I am supporting Federer. She says she is not. There is an uncomfortable moment in which I wonder why we had to take our shoes off upon entering the house. I offer her some of the *forthcoming attraction* cake. The awkward moment passes. I am allowed to put my shoes on as I leave.

On the road again. Get to Becky’s. Go inside quickly to have a look at the chicks which she is keeping alive by the warmth of the stove. Stroke her cat. Back in the Land Rover. Fetch a cheese cutter from Madz’s house. Go to the pub. Run upstairs. Start to prepare food. Want to ask Jimmy how to use the mixer. Asleep on the couch. Dammit dammit dammit. Jimmy wakes up - I get chased downstairs to Mingle, as everyone has arrived at 5.

It.

Finally.

Slows.

Down.

We gathered within the hallowed walls of the Oak and proceeded to ingest as much sugar as possible. The bowl of chewables (salad bowl size, mind) was consumed within minutes. The guests, hyped up on various forms of tartazine, wolfed down some burgers before heading onto the final course - CAKE! Jimmy baked a chocolate sponge filled with fresh strawberries and cream; iced with a mocha cream. Amazing… Yum yum yum. Lizzie, the lady with whom I am going to be staying at the end of July, brought 2 cream cakes. And Kim bought me a mini toffee cake. We had an excellent evening, sitting around a table laughing at Tom’s impression of Bill the Canadian’s snigger and the various other antics of the Royal Oak staff (to be detailed in a later entry). When the last people had gone, I tidied up the left overs and transported my gifts up to Jimmy’s room. I took a quick break to see him and Rebecca off for their three weeks in South Africa, before heading back to pack my bag and ready myself for my trip up to London.

As soon as I was ready, I went over to Rebecca’s house as Linda, Rebecca’s mother, was taking me to the bus stop for my departure at 3:30am. At this point I had not yet slept. I had a nap on the couch before setting off to catch the bus. The bus arrived around four (details regarding the bus system to follow in a later entry entitled ‘The Curious Incident of the Bus in the Night Time’). I was operating under the pretence that it would be possible for me to sleep on the coach - I didn’t factor in things such as the overhead lights flickering to life every time the bus stopped. This was somewhat distracting. I did not sleep.

This gave me time to ponder exactly how I was going to get from Heathrow to Picadilly by 10am, the time indicated by Pietie, who I would be meeting to catch the train to Birmingham. The rush continued… Arrive at Heathrow, run to catch the tube, stare at the map constantly so that I don’t miss my train. Change over at Leicester Square. Get off at Picadilly. Phone Pietie. No answer. Panic. 10am has gone. More panic. Pietie phones. The train is only at 10:40 - he just wanted to make sure that I was there in time. P.R.A.T. Buys me some breakfast. I like him again. We hop on to the train to Birmingham. But an hour later, we are there, taking pictures of the bull’s package and humorously shaped buildings. After many enquiries, we are directed to the bus which we need to catch in order to reach our final destination. Board the bus, don’t have to pay, and get off in the town of Bourneville.

At this point, you might have some idea as to where it is that we are going. If not, read on, dear warrior, and thou shalt receive the answer - a sign pointing to the left states that we have but to walk down the road to reach it. The one. The only (in the area).

The Chocolate Factory.

Welcome to Bourneville, home of the Cadbury’s Chocolate Factory in Birmingham.

I skip down the path and through the parking lot, my eyes peeled for a puppet show, WillyWonka, a giant walking Twix. Nothing. Not even a sweet wrapper (the cleaners must be commended). We continue through the plants - the gardeners are not quite as practised as the cleaning staff, obviously. Then spot it - a sign. Literally. We take a picture, and follow where it points. And suddenly it appears, like a glowing golden beacon of light : a Cream Egg Car. Yes. A car shaped like a massive Cream Egg. I’m so excited that I trip over the side walk. The doors slide apart to allow us into the entrance hall. Prancing about happily and completely oblivious to the fact that I can’t even smell chocolate, I rush up to the counter and purchase two tickets into the factory. They point us in the direction of the first tour. They hand me a bag. I want to cry with happiness. They put into this bag a Twirly-whirly and a small bag of chocolate buttons. They also put Pietie’s Twrily-whirly and chocolate buttons into this same bag. I think that they are overly optimistic if they think that the two of us are going to be unable to fill this bag with freebies. We enter the doors to the first tour.

It is… rather strange. More like a natural history museum featuring an exhibit of under-clothed Aztecs who have angry/constipated expressions. There is no one handing out chocolate. I assume that this is the introductory phase and that they wish for the visitors to remain as level-headed as possible for as long as possible. I dutifully read every plaque detailing the history of Chocolate - the drink flavoured with chilli - and how the Incas had developed a sophisticated counting system. Their numerals were based on the shape of a cocoa-bean and they were so advanced that they devised the number zero. This does not surprise me, as zero chocolates is what I’ve experienced since my arrival. Ever the optimist, I continue through the developmental stage and familiarise myself with characters such as Montezuma, the ruler who along with the Spanish destroyed their entire culture. They worshipped him as a god. They also sacrificed half their nation to make the gods happier. Personally, I thought they sounded like geniuses.

The museum goes on and on. I am yet to see/eat some chocolate. I feel cheated. We then reach a darkened room with four black boxes positioned in a line alongside one another. The show starts with the first box lighting up to show a set where there are awesome looking ruins and I think that possibly a war scene is going to break out at any moments. Hopefully there will be singing puppets. I must say that I was kind of set on the singing puppets. A hologram appears. It is dressed as a Spanish explorer. It speaks with an English accent, which leads me to believe that it is suffering from a serious identity crisis. It harps on about how the Spaniards nicked the recipe for chocolate before wiping out all civilisation in the area. Good lads. Behind Identity-Crisis, a mini war does in fact break out. Two little holograms swing swords at one another in a manner reminiscent of Troy - only the hologram isn’t as good-looking as Brad Pitt.

The light dims in the first box and then lights up the second. The British hologram, now dressed in a French outfit (he doesn’t seem to be making any friends in the audience), explains how the recipe for Chocolate. the drink, was exposed to the French when the Spanish married off their heir to the French crown. The third one obviously wasn’t very affecting, as I can’t remember it. The last one has the hologram dressed as one of the Tudors. He seems to have come into his own, and is not afraid to express his happiness as Chocolate being made available to the common Englishman. But not South Africans, obviously, as I have not been given ANY! I eat my twirly-whirly in retaliation. I wave it in front of the hologram teasingly. It is unable to express its agitation that it is a patch of projected colour and cannot eat Twirly-whirly. I triumph. Take that, you multi-cultured prat.

The next section has a talking, disembodied head that claims to be Mr. Cadbury himself. Yes. We’re all completely fooled… Even the display boxes in the ‘Mr. Cadbury’s pretend shop’ don’t contain chocolate. Is it me? Is it a dream? Have I overslept on Linda#s couch and missed my coach? WHERE IS THE CHOCOLATE? The bloody room has painted cobbles. Who paints bloody cobbles? I am staring to feel like I’ve lost my mind. Clutching onto the final bit of my sanity, I glance about for the exit point. There is a pair of doors which have a notice stating ‘Keep clear of the doors’. Every person in the room aside from Pietie and I seem to be attempting to squeeze themselves into the path of the opening doors. They all scuttle backwards as they swing inwards, looking scandalised. How DARE the doors do exactly what the notice warned against? The cheek! The absolute NERVE of it all! I rush into the next chamber, barely listening to a woman making an announcement about how people of a nervous disposition or those suffering from epilepsy should sit down in the last two rows of the benches. If she’d told me that the benches were, cocoa based, I might have listened. As it was standing, she didn’t look sugary or dark brown. I sat down in the centre of on the the middle rows.

Now, this is the really sad part of the story - the first chocolate that I saw at the Cadbury’s Factory was in a video. Things were looking bad. They were forcing upon us images of the production process. The disembodied head was explaining everything step for step. I’m sure it was sniggering at us. And then, quite suddenly - as the Ghost of Chocolate past talked about shelling some or other nut - the benches started to shake. At first, I thought that I was experiencing my first earthquake (and possibly my last. I wished that I had eaten a Twix on the way in.) But no, they were pretending we were the cocoa beans. Everytime the cocoa beans were shaken on the video, we were shaken on the benches. It ended. Violated, I tried to flee. The doors wouldn’t open. I panicked. The doors opened. We were released…

Freedom - its something you take for granted until you’re placed on a shaking chair in a room being brain-washed into thinking that you have already received copious amounts of chocolate when you have not, in fact, received anything but Twirly-whirly and chocolate buttons. A small packet of chocolate buttons. History lesson over with - we went into the building where what I believed to be the ‘rumoured’ Cadbury’s chocolate should be manufactured. The door opened.

Breathin

Breathout

Sigh…

And finally - after 2.5371 hours, I saw it - I do believe that this was where I started - the shining brown swirl of edible happiness as it collapses into the trenches of a mixing machine, a cup of sweet-sensation… I experienced the euphoric smell of the glass-and-a-half classic in its molten form - a liquid pleasure that translates into a perfect moment on the lips. What I’m trying to get at is that I’ve seen a massive vat of melted chocolate. Unfortunately for me, it was behind glass that appeared to be two inches thick. But it was a gorgeous sight, moist and thick and brown and sweet and yummy and cocoay and the SMELL! My knees were weak. I was in love. I walked out on a cloud.

Ok. So I only received a couple of chocolates. So I had to sit in a little car and go through a tunnel where there were singing cocoa beans and dancing flowers. So I was a little sketched out by the mouth which kept repeating the phrase “It’s chocolate” when, in fact, it wasn’t.

Sowhat…

It was an experience that I won’t forget, an amazing day with a hundred laughs and a thousand memories.

Call me crazy. Call me a fool for enjoying myself even though it was well below par from the related experieces of others who have been there.

Calll me whatever you want, in fact, as long as you call me Charlie.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

BlackSheep out.

To keep the heart unwrinkled, to be hopeful, cheerful, kindly, reverent - that is to triumph over old age

Amos Bronson Alcott

Moshing : activity in which audience members at live music performances aggressively push or slam into each other. Moshing is frequently accompanied by stage diving, crowd surfing, and headbanging. It is commonly associated with concerts by heavy metal, punk rock, and alternative rock artists, although it occurs at performances by musicians of all sorts of genres.

All sorts of genres… Whoever got excited and wrote this Wikipedia entry obviously didn’t realise just how stretched the word ‘genre’ would be. To this person (unnamed), I have three things to say:

1.Folk Rock

2. Mad-Dog Macrae

3. An eighty-year-old woman in a mosh pit.

(There was also a scotsman. But he deserves only a mention, if not a number.)

On a Thursday night, which is Quiz Night at the pub, Darren comes in with Kate & co. to compete in a men against women stand off of general knowledge. As most of the group appears to have absolutely no knowledge, this often turns out to be quite challenging. Though very entertaining - especially when the Australians are unable to name the Great Barrier Reef.

One Quiz Night, not so long ago, I caught a lift back into Plymouth with Darren after work - and we got to discussing music. This is, at best, a very precarious thing to do in a place such as Plymouth, where the people refer to one another as ‘Lovers’ and comment that you are ‘fit’ without having seen you run ten centimeters. As it turned out, Darren is quite clued up on the live music scene here and was happy to share titbits of wisdom. This conversation spanned the remainder of the journey. He dropped me off at my house and drove off, with me not knowing what was to be in store for me in the near future.

Less than a week later, I received a text message from Darren inviting me to join them at a Folk-Rock gig in Tavistock, a fifteen minute drive from where I work. Ever the cynic, I agreed, warning him that I did have to work that evening. Ever the gentleman, Darren dropped off my ticket at the pub on his way in and supplied Jimmy with directions to Tavistock Wharf. I was to arrive there at 9. At 9:30, I was to be found tearing from the pub with Jimmy in tow, my shoulder bag swinging wildly behind me as I dove into the car. Upon leaving the dead-zone (Meavy has no cell-phone signal) I received a number of texts confirming the location of the group I was meeting. We made our way into Tavistock without incident and Jimmy dropped me off outside the doors to the Tavistock Wharf.

At first, the woman at the ticket counter was most unhelpful. She seemed to want to sell me a ticket, but did not actually have any tickets to sell. This was upsetting her immensely and causing her accent to become incomprehensible. To ease her mind, I explained that I already had a ticket and did not, in fact, need to buy one. She was unable to understand, so I shoved my grammar aside and threw my t’s away and rephrased my situation so that she might understand. It ended up as.

“I go’ one, love.”

…which she understood, and quickly pointed me in the direction of the stage. The place was heaving. People EVERYWHERE. It was like walking into a sardine can. Laughter, people pushing and shoving one another to make their way forward. Shouting. Singing. Too close, unable to breath. Nudged with a walking stick (yes a walking stick). I was trapped. Reckless, I charged forward and I broke through the barrier of people into a suddenly much emptier space.

Surprised, I looked back. It took me only a moment to realise that I had passed through the queue for the bar. The stage was directly ahead of me, and the floor before it much less crowded (as the entire crowd was attending the mass exodus of Guinness from the bar - St. Patricks Day.) Finding Darren was simple enough. He had with him Karlee - Kate’s friend from home, Martin, the drinker of Guinness with longer hair than a samurai warrior, and the Scotsman - who was holding a drink in either hand. He quickly donated one to me and proceeded to glug the remainder of his own. Refreshed, he headed back to the bar for round (unnumbered).

I had arrived during the interval, and did not have long to wait for the band to once again take their positions. Here I must once again pause the narrative for a second definition.

Folk rock is a musical genre, combining elements of folk music and rock music.

Hardly descriptive, but there it is in a nutshell. It is the rest of the acorn tree, however, that must be discussed. The band we went to watch is a well known folk-rock group called Mad Dog Macrae. They have an Irish lead singer, two fiddles, a drummer and another instrument of unknown form and function. They also have on stage with them three bottles of whiskey (to keep their throats from getting too dry) and at least thirteen pints of mixed description between the five of them at any given time - this to keep them from getting too hot under the stage lights (there were only two lights, and they were not very bright).

The music was great, like up-tempo Braveheart after lots and lots of Guinness. The Scotsman started to jive after a while - spilling drink on everyone in the surrounding - and bumping into two old ladies making their way to the front of the crowd. I call them ladies at this point, because I was balefully unaware of the fact that they were proceeding in the direction of a teenage group head-banging and jumping soberly (ha ha - under-age) into one another. As they passed, the Scotsman collided with the more tipsy of the two. The woman shrugged off his apology, inviting him to join her and her companion in the mosh-pit. The Scot quickly advised against this, indicating that her life might be cut short by such a endeavour. The old nan said that it was her eightieth birthday and that if nothing else had managed to do her in by now, there was no harm in entering a mosh-pit. Intimidated (or possibly just very drunk), the Scotsman backed down. The old woman danced away, wiggling her hips like a fifteen-year-old until she reached the group.

Nan entered the mosh…

…and everyone stopped moving.

Which was pretty damnfunny.

Do not fear, dear friends! Do not hasten to assume that the mosh was thus prevented! The Nan managed to get them all moving again, and downed a good deal of whiskey from one of the bottles on the stage.  She did then, as the ever elusive ‘they’ say, get down and boogey. The rest of her adventures must go uncharted, because the band played their first encore (and were too drunk to play their last) and the crown dispersed, taking with them the nuttiest old person I have ever seen.

The rest of the evening was spent laughing at the Scotsman as he hiccuped repeatedly.

Folk-rock mosheep out

=)

He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and if they were enjoying it.

Douglas Adams

(The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy)

Revelation 1: Landlord is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Of this I am almost certain. I am not one prone to making unfounded accusations (cough cough), but I think my Landlord is on the verge of having a massive freak-out. This might explain the robe. And the fact that he was running around in his undies the other night. (Although the reason behind this could have been a missing replacement robe, which could lead to the paradox of the reason for being the cause of. Um. Right.)

The doorbell rung the other night and as I was waiting for Kate I went to answer. A person of intermediate gender was stationed in the frame, cell-phone in hand, with the most self-pitying expression that I have ever seen. It asked to see Paul (Landlord) - establishing through its voice that it was in fact female - and leading me to assume that she was a welcome guest. I allowed her into the house, whereupon she asked me to go and call him for her. Realising this was rather strange, I decided to let him deal with it. I knocked on his door. Again. Then again. He did not answer. Tony passed me on the way up to his room and asked me who this woman was. She was helping herself to coffee and had asked him to bring her a mug. I told Tony that she was looking for Paul. Tony knocked on Paul’s door. Paul answered (in his robe). I told him who was waiting for him downstairs. He shrank back into his room. He flinched. He paled. It was a soundtrack moment. I asked him if I should tell her to leave. He said he would take care of it. I retreated to my room.

A few minutes later there was a wail.

“Paaaawellll!”

It was the woman.

“This is my (only child) house!” the Landlord said sternly, his voice echoing through the short hallway and climbing the staircase to the ears of all who were listening to the exchange.He wasn’t thinking about them. He was thinking about how to remove the woman as quickly as possible. “Don’t cause a scene.”

“I’m not causing a scene,” the woman whined, sounding as though she was clutching for a lifeline that was being pulled away from her - inch by inch - out of reach.

“Leave.”

The Landlord was not interested in hearing what she had to say. He had heard the same story a thousand times. There was no entertainment left. Only a box of cigarettes waiting for him in his private lounge. How many were left? Would there be enough? He doubted it.

“But Paaaawllll!”

“Go,” he said, managing to maintain the same sombre tone. “Just leave.”

A couple of days later he told me that he’s not in the habit of cooking only for one. Yesterday morning I’m sure that I heard her saying goodbye as she left his room. Hhhmmm. Will try to get to the bottom of this mystery.

Revelation 2:Murphy is laughing at me. Constantly.

1. I threw gravy at the fridge. The fridge was undeserving (as was the gravy), but the lid slipped off as I was sliding the container onto its shelf and I literally shoved it into the inside of the fridge. There was brown goo everywhere. Everywhere. I had to wash out the whole fridge. And was allowed to do so again the next day for the Health Officer.

2. I threw carrots at the fridge. Dammit! The lid again. I was digging bits of cooked carrot out from under the shelves, as the Health Officer was to stop by in the morning. The carrots were giving me cheek. They deserved their fate, their peril, their untimely end. However you put it, the slippery little suckers got what they deserved.

3. My bus brokedown. Twice. In the same morning. The first I boarded cut out continually. The replacement died about halfway and we just missed the one which had gone on to Yelverton (my bus destination). Waited for a half-hour in the cold. Finally decided to sit in the broken down bus with the old people. My arse (ha ha ha he ha) had barely touched the seat before the driver told us that our transport had finally arrived. I couldn’t get hold of Jimmy. In surprisingly high spirits, I walked to Meavy. When I arrived, I was scolded for being late. When I looked at the roster - and this is the real corker folks - I saw that I wasn’t working that day. At all. Beyond words.

The V.I is getting on. He told Tracy, the woman who does the cleaning, that he can vacuum better than she can. She told him to fuck off. He ate some cheesy chips, and felt better about life as he made his way along the winding road (singular) of Meavy.

BlackSheep out.

=)

Someday I want to be rich. Some people get so rich that they loose all respect for humanity. That’s how rich I want to be.

Rita Rudner

The Landlord wears a robe. All the time. Every time I’ve seen him - on one of his ’shuffles down to the kitchen from his private lounge - he’s wearing the same worn, blue robe. It’s like deja-vu, except that he occasionally creeps past my room wearing mildly appropriate clothing. He asks if you’re ‘allrigh’ ?’ before slipping out of the door to god-knows-where. It’s quite entertaining actually. I’m starting to get the impression that he does not leave the house unless by some sort of prior appointment. He does not work. He has a massive flat screen T.V in his private lounge. He does not share.

I suspect that the Landlord was an only child.

The second character of note is Eyes. It calls itself Colin, but we do not believe a word of its falsities. It is Eyes. It wears awesome glasses. I’m not sure what Eyes does with its time, but Eyes makes ‘chilli con carne’ and other such oddities for its dinner, leaving the house filled with a mouth-watering inducing smell (to lure innocent sailors/walkers to their death).

I suspect that Eyes is a closet axe-murderer.

Tony lives on the top floor. He is from ‘UpNorth’. He doesn’t sound Scottish, so I ask why not? He says that where he is from is not that far UpNorth. His admission of the fact that he is not from ‘that far UpNorth’ indicates that he is in fact from InTheMiddle and is therefore also a liar. Tony works at the Zoo. He is an animal keeper.

I suspect that Tony has strange fetishes involving killer whales.

Will lives on the top floor. He is very quiet, but does not - like Eyes -give the impression of an axe murderer. As this could all be a very great deception, I have watched his actions carefully. Will washes his hands before greeting people and doesn’t make a sound on the creaking staircase. The staircase always creaks. Will always says ‘allrigh’ ?’ first. Will is moving out in three weeks time.

I suspect that Will has an appointment to become Death’s apprentice.

Nadine lives on the top floor. She has the smallest room in the house. She is kind and helpful. She likes tea and microwave meals. She talks at about one hundred words a minute and sometimes gets stuck on repeat. She is blonde.

I suspect that Nadine forgets to take her medication.

There is a spiral staircase. It runs from the kitchen up though the gap left by the construction of the actual staircase. It has a black bannister. It is the strangest thing in the house, including Eyes.

I suspect that the person who engineered it was on crack.

I also suspect that I am being facetious.

Facetious means ‘cleverly amusing in tone’.

Amusing? Eyes is very amusing.

They are all rather nice. They are all down to earth and lovely. Possibly my suspicions are false.

Except about Eyes.

=)

The imagination is a preview of life’s coming attractions

Albert Einstein