'Only Connect'

'Only Connect' 'Only Connect'

A collection of writing from the 2014 WEA London A collection of writing from the 2014 WEA London Creative Writing group in Petts Wood. Creative Writing group in Petts Wood.

The Workers’ Educational Association is a charity registered in England and Wales, number 1112775, and in Scotland, number SC039239, and a company limited by guarantee registered in England and Wales, number 2806910 © WEA London 2014.

'Only Connect' A collection of writing from the 2014 WEA London Creative Writing group in

Petts Wood.

Introduction

'The Petts Wood Creative Writing Group has explored work which reflects the

small, fleeting ‘connections’ we make or break with others – and how they can

create a great difference to our perceptions of the world.'

Christine Banks - WEA Tutor

About the WEA

Founded in 1903, the Workers' Educational Association (WEA) is a charity and the

UK’s largest voluntary sector provider of adult education. In 2013/14 we delivered

9,700 part-time courses for over 70,000 students in England and Scotland with

classes in almost every local authority area and our work in England. To find out

more about the WEA, go to our website http://www.wea.org.uk

The Workers’ Educational Association is a charity registered in England and Wales, number 1112775, and in Scotland, number SC039239, and a company limited by guarantee registered in England and Wales, number 2806910 © WEA London 2014.

To find a WEA course near you go to www.wea.org.uk/courses 2

http://www.wea.org.uk/

'Only Connect' Contents Introduction ............................................................................................................... 2

Second Exit - Diane Fielder ....................................................................................... 4

Not Long Now - Mel Wright ....................................................................................... 5

Woodlouse - Diane Fielder ........................................................................................ 6

Stolen Afternoon - Lorraine Jones ............................................................................ 7

Surprise - Diane Fielder ............................................................................................. 8

On Waterloo Station - Peter Martin......................................................................... 10

Alison - Lesley Nicholls ............................................................................................ 11

Where is he Now? - Peter Martin ............................................................................ 14

London is Not a Place - Michael Drew.................................................................... 16

The Dewdropp Inn - Diane Fielder .......................................................................... 18

London’s Soul Line - Michael Drew........................................................................ 20

Barry - Lesley Nicholls.............................................................................................. 21

Leaving the Band - Peter Martin ............................................................................. 22

A Sour Taste - Mel Wright....................................................................................... 24

Rose - Lesley Nicholls .............................................................................................. 26

One Warm Mid-summer Afternoon - Glynis Watkins............................................. 27

Doreen - Lesley Nicholls........................................................................................... 29

Rosemary - Lesley Nicholls...................................................................................... 30

Bye - Glynis Watkins................................................................................................. 32


Second Exit

Diane Fielder

I took the wrong turning off the Interstate on to a new road recently cut out and

blacktopped. A heat haze hung over the grey-green trees of the Appalachians and

after a few miles I realised I was heading towards McDowell County but by then the

blacktop was too narrow to turn round. Reluctantly I kept driving until I reached the

main street of Twin Branch – a few storefronts, but mostly unkempt shanties in one of

which I was born.

The afternoon was still and oppressive like I remembered. On an afternoon like this I

had bagged a ride into Welch on Pete Humbert’s pick-up. Pete was collecting some

tools being delivered off the bus and while he was busy with that I jumped on and

bought a ticket for Atlanta. I saw Pete’s jaw drop. “What am I gonna tell your folks?”

The bus pulled away leaving Pete, his pick-up and McDowell County in a cloud of

dust.

I made my way in the city and then a few more cities. I found a husband, had two

kids, shed the husband, brought up the kids. Now I was driving across the states to

the west coast in the hope of finding a Californian beach-bum half my age to spend

the rest of my life with.

At the end of Main Street I turned the car round. The place still had that buried-alive

feeling. I sat for a moment scanning a few more memories and then I put the car into

gear, stamped on the gas and didn’t slow down until I reached the black-top.

Then I opened all the windows and let in the

fresh air.


Not Long Now

Mel Wright

Just as well I got here early; there were about ten in front already by the time I’d

arrived. There was four hours to go but it was still dark. When I got up the alarm

hadn’t gone off yet. It must have been all the excitement, keeping me awake half the

night. I’m not used to these early mornings anymore. I like to ease myself up when

I’m ready. I couldn’t take breakfast at that time of the morning, just a coffee. I’d made

myself a sandwich the night before. Fumbling around, getting dressed I put the telly

on for the weather. ‘Cloudy and damp,’ they reckoned. At least it’s not icy. That would

have slowed me up getting to the station. When I arrived the ticket office wasn’t

open. ‘Ten minutes,’ this bloke in front of me said, ‘unless it’s that skinny one on duty,

then it might be fifteen.’

I checked my phone; I’d just get on the train if he didn’t turn up. Pay at the other end.

I can’t afford to wait for the next one. Suddenly the office light was turned on and we

get our tickets.

By the time I’d got here, my stomach was turning. Maybe not having any breakfast

and just a coffee. It can’t do you much good. The black woman in front was the chatty

sort. “Where you come from, dear?” she asked. I think she was veteran because of

the heavy layers of clothes she had on and a long scarf bound twice round her head.

“Penge,” I said. She thought for a moment. “South London?” she didn’t look sure. I

nodded, “You?” I asked more out of politeness.

“Harlesden,”

“Oh yeah,” I said but I didn’t really know it.

“Dis, shop got the good stuff, in it?” her voice was a bit muffled under her scarf and

with her strong West Indian accent, I had to cock my ear to hear her.

“Yeah, some good stuff,” I agreed. “What you after?”

“A new coat, das what I’m need of.”

“Is that all?”

“Maybe,” she glanced up at the front of the queue. “Some socks for de winter, cos

I’m feeling de cold right now, you know. What you want?” “Digital radio,” I said,

“they’ve got them marked up at fifty percent off.” It seemed to be getting colder or

the damp was seeping up my legs. I looked at my phone – still another three hours to

go and I needed to use the loo. The woman in front seemed to have fallen asleep

standing up. The queue behind us was stretched along Oxford Street and round the


back of the store. Passengers on buses going past were rubbing the condensation

off the windows and staring down at us. Then the Christmas lights came on in the

shop window and a woman behind with her mate cheered. It was nearly time! Then I

could see movement up ahead. The woman in front was awake and shuffled up. I

followed close behind but I could feel my legs were as stiff as a board.

Then suddenly we were off.

Woodlouse

Diane Fielder

This is a good place. We’ll be happy here. Excuse me speaking with my mouth full

but after all the rain, the wood’s just the right consistency, so can’t waste a minute.

It’s taken us a long time to get here and it’s a bit remote but you can tell it’s a classy

place because of all the fungus. It’s closer to the ant colony than I would have liked,

but live and let live, I say. They don’t interfere with me, I don’t interfere with them.

They just scurry backwards and forwards with their bits of leaf, they don’t give any

trouble. I can’t be doing with leaves myself, nasty, sappy things, no flavour at all, to

speak of. Only trouble is, our youngest, our Tracey is stepping out with one of them.

I’m not keen on mixed race relationships, mind you, he’s a nice enough fella, but

blowed if I get what she sees in a bloke that’s only got six legs. I said to my Edna,

“It’s a different world, now, gel,” and she just nodded, which is not easy to do when

you’ve got an external skeleton. To be fair, our Tracey’s always been a good girl, not

like those that go out, knocking back the fermented vegetation and coming home at

four in the morning, the worse for wear, if you catch my drift, and barely able to

remember where they left their shells.

Never thought I’d end up out in the sticks like this, though. I’m a city boy, really, born

and raised. Lived for years beside the railway tracks but the problem with articulated

shells is that you’re very vulnerable to vibration. Every time a train roared past,

everybody began to rattle like castanets and it took a good ten minutes to settle them

all down again afterwards. Also, we got picked on a lot for being the only land-based

crustaceans. There’s a lot of jealousy. The abuse from earwigs has to be heard to

be believed, it’s not fit for mixed company. And our Kevin’s reached an age where

there’s nothing for him to do but hang around in gangs so I said to my Edna, “We’re

out of here, gel,” and she just nodded, as best she could.


Yes, out here rarity seems to be appreciated more. There’s a certain deference, you

can feel it, coming across in waves. We’re going to fit in here very nicely. I said as

much to my Edna but by then she’d rolled up into a ball and there’s no talking to her

when that happens. They get like that at a certain age, women.

Stolen Afternoon

Lorraine Jones

Nobody else is in the house when he arrives back. He lowers himself onto the sofa

in the room that is, by general consensus, his. His study, shrinking in the subdued

light of a wet November afternoon to a glorified boxroom, the bedroom of the second

child who never was. But still room for the sofa, relegated up here from downstairs.

In modern parlance he supposes it would be described as retro, or vintage Habitat.

He remembers the satisfaction twenty five years ago of purchasing those clean,

minimalist lines, the impractical white and dove grey upholstery. His mother had

hated it, said the back was too low. Nightmare memories of overstuffed three pieces

in suburban front rooms...

But there is unease. A sense of guilt, truancy. Why? Rain stops play, can’t work

outside in weather like this and it’s not worth going back to the office. The laptop sits,

sleekly inert, on his desk. But - no laptops, no phones, he will just be, until one of the

women arrive home and he is not allowed to. Try to subdue his Protestant ethic, an

ironic trait for an atheist.

The house is not properly silent. So many noises, if you listen; electronic,

mechanical, structural. The sound of silence. Wasn’t that Simon and Garfunkel? He

could check it, which album it was on, date of release and etc. Ah, how satisfying!

The CDs on the shelf opposite arranged in alphabetical order by name of artist. Not

for him a digital cloud, where orphaned songs drift disconnected from their albums, to

be snatched at random for inane playlists.

No, no - he will resist the urge to classify, to collate knowledge. Just stay put. Women

in nineteenth century novels made careers of sitting around on sofas all day,

manipulating their families. Nothing changes.


With little concern he notes that his muddy trousers have made unfortunate brown

scuffs on the upholstery. A new marker on the map of the sofa’s history, near the

edge of the pale brown halo where the cat was sick and the indelible k where his

daughter had started writing her name. Retro with character. Idly he wonders, should

he have a shower, or at least change his trousers? Is dirt so bad? The mud of five

thousand years ago, a direct, tangible link with that world, why clean it away?

Washed down the plughole, the mud becomes again a part of the endless cycle of

erosion and deposition. God, it wears you down. He realises now how much his legs

ache, and imagines lying back on the cushions and relaxing into the glorious luxury

of tiredness.

Surprise

Diane Fielder

I hate surprises. I live in morbid fear that someone will organise a birthday cake for

me from which a scantily clad woman will leap and I will be covered in confusion.

Confusion is the enemy. I like to know where I am, better still I like to choose where I

am.

If I have to think about my birthday, I tend to think about Stella. She didn’t jump out

of a cake but she may as well have done. I was in a bar, not one I go to frequently,

but I noticed that the stool I prefer was vacant so I went in. The bar-man put too

much ice in my scotch and I was trying lever some out when I noticed an amused

expression on the face of a woman watching me from across the bar. Too late I

realised I had made eye contact. Classic mistake. The jettisoned ice was skidding

about on the bar and by the time I had slid it into the ash-tray she was settling herself

on the stool next to me. I had, as usual, moved my stool a foot or so away from the

next one but she must have moved it back while I was busy because her knees were

touching my thigh. As my other thigh was jammed against the wall, the only option

was to talk my way out.

I’m not good at talking. I’m even worse at listening. Still, I thought, it wouldn’t hurt to

look. She was worth looking at. Her hair was dark and curly and bounced nicely

round her face, which was small, with curvy lips. The rest of her was small and curvy,

too. I can’t remember the colour of her eyes but like I said I don’t look at eyes if I can


help it. She told me her name and then she wanted to know mine. I used my real

one this time as I’d already made up my mind not to use that bar again. She ordered

another round of drinks and then asked me my star-sign.

“I don’t know,“ I said, gesturing at the bar-man to stop him loading my drink with ice.

“When’s your birthday?”

“Twenty-seventh of July.”

“You’re joking – that’s today.”

“Is it?”

“Look.” She showed me the date on her mobile phone. I don’t have a mobile phone.

“That’s amazing. You’re a Leo. I’m Sagittarius. That’s a really good match. We

have to celebrate.”

I probably would have been alright if I had stuck to scotch but after several different-

coloured cocktails she insisted we have champagne. The next thing I remember is

waking up in my apartment with the phone ringing, the smell of perfume on my pillow

and a tissue in the bathroom with a lipstick imprint on it. Sometime that night I must

have given her the number because it rang at fifteen-minute intervals all day. The

next day it rang at thirty-minute intervals. After five days it finally stopped ringing. I

wasn’t surprised.


On Waterloo Station

Peter Martin

Looking up he saw that his train was delayed. He looked around at the crowds on

the concourse and recalled a few days ago moving a rock in his garden and watching

the wood lice scurrying for cover. All these blank anonymous faces with stories

untold. Running, striding, or just wandering this way and that. Many standing staring

up at departures as though paying homage, others with heads bowed towards their

phones.

To his left, among those standing was a couple; he with his arm held loosely around

her shoulder, she with arms tightly folded as though against the cold. Turning his

head the man spoke softly, tenderly perhaps, to her ear. She stayed resolute and

remained looking up to the train times. Was that a tiny shrug of her shoulders that

prompted the man to remove his arm?

To his right, a younger man hunched in a grey hoodie, not standing but pacing

around, back and forth, wires dangling from hidden ear phones, giving out an aura of

fear in those around him. But, suddenly stopping and lifting his head from the hunch,

the young man seemed to be seeing, not the departures board but his music, filling

that vast space to the pigeon flapping girders high above - a smile of wonderment on

his face.

In front slightly right, a man in a dark crumpled suit, unbuttoned white shirt and

loosened tie – thrusting executive, sternly setting goals, delivering outcomes, eyes

flicking between ‘phone and train times. Shortly, lifting his ‘phone to his ear and

speaking urgently, the man turned away from the departures board. There was

urgency but there was also anguish on his face, almost pleading. Then still, listening

for a while before turning off the ‘phone and putting it in his pocket. Turning back

towards departures, was that a tear on his cheek?

Then, as if an unseen high priestess had raised a hand, selected members of the

waiting crowd moved forward as one and converged on the end of platform 9. They

jostled gently as they approached the ticket barriers, ‘sorry’… ‘sorry’ and with little

smiles got themselves into single file. And so it was that our voyeur took up the rear

of this one particular file – of the detached couple, woman first, man second, then


hunched hoodie, then crumpled suit. Now slightly less anonymous, their stories

mysteriously linked, perhaps to become further entwined as they got into the same

carriage and sat facing each other on the crowded train.

Alison

Lesley Nicholls

I kind of think this will be the last straw. Mum’s been going on at me for ages about

giving up teaching. She thinks I could do a lot better – which may or may not be true.

I do love the job, and – mostly – I like the kids. But I never expected to be sitting in

the security room at the National Gallery because of one of them. Is this an

occasional down-side of the job, or is this actually what it’s all about – helping them

when they’re really in trouble? Am I a fair-weather teacher, loving it when they do

good work, and running away when it gets difficult? When I was at college one of the

lecturers said ‘anyone can teach bright, attentive children, the ones from good

supportive homes, but the real work starts when you help the undeserving, when

they throw all your hard work back at you day after day. Then one day, but only if

you’re lucky, one of them will succeed’. That’s where I am now, helping the

undeserving. My Mum would think I should just leave Rose here to get whatever is

coming to her. But I can’t do that. Perhaps that means I am really a teacher . I’m

angry with Rose, of course I am. Why didn’t she talk to me? Or the school

counsellor? Why has she done this? I wish I knew. I do wish they’d make up their

minds what they’re going to do with her.

And then I feel sorry for her. I know she’s had a bit of a rough life. She’s very

troubled. I think she’s got some talent, but she wastes her time chatting, arrives late

to class – little niggly things, very annoying but too little to get her suspended, which

she knows, of course. Her father came raging up to the school last week, shouting

about ‘waste of public money’ teaching kids art, giving them false expectations, posh

ideas about life. That’s how my parents felt really, although they weren’t quite so

loud about it. Mum still thinks that, deep inside – that I’m wasting my life on it – art –

and the kids. I told her once she had no aesthetic sense, but that was a waste of

time too – she didn’t know what I meant. It was during an argument when I was a

stroppy teenager. I picked up one of the beige sofa cushions and shouted ‘Look it

this! See what I mean?’ and she went all cold on me and said ‘that’s all very well


dear, but it’s very serviceable. Washes well’, and went off to the kitchen to put the

kettle on. And she didn’t understand why I laughed. I guess I knew then that she’d

never understand. We get on well enough now, I suppose. I go to see her when I

can, and she comes over sometimes in the school holidays – not term time because

she doesn’t like the area and won’t come in the evening. We sit and chat and have a

cup of tea. I know she doesn’t mean me to see, but she kind of settles her

shoulders back before she drinks from a mug, like it’s a real effort, and she waves

her teaspoon about meaning ‘what do I do with this when there isn’t a saucer?’ She

has little digs about all the people in my class at school who’ve done really well. Or

the girls who now have ‘lovely families’. How does she know – they might all spend

their time rowing about the children. She spends her time cherry picking –never

mentions those who haven’t got a good job or perfect children. Occasionally I find a

film that I think she’d like and we have night out, then I take her home and stay the

night. But I have to be very careful about the films I choose! I took her to see ‘Vera

Drake’ and she said it was a load of rubbish because backstreet abortions never

happened – no-one she knew had ever had one. I bet they had – they just didn’t tell

her. God, I must be a disappointment to her. I know it’s not the same but I think I

can understand Rose’s frustration – she must feel that nobody understands her - but

still, this is too much.

The room’s stuffy and the chairs are that hard plastic that you stick to. There’s a

crack in the wall that looks like a profile, with a snub nose. If I had my paints I could

do something with that – then they could have two of us for criminal damage, and I

could tell Rose I’d done it in sympathy. I can just see the headlines. And what would

Mum say to that one? A daughter with a criminal record? Would she stand up in

court, like you hear them when their kids have done terrible things, and say ‘I don’t

know what happened. She’s a lovely daughter. Always kind to her old Mum’ – none

of which is true, of course. Or would she be ashamed, pretend it wasn’t me, hope it

wouldn’t get into the papers. I don’t know, really I don’t. Getting one up on the

neighbours has always been big in her book. I think she’d move house if she

couldn’t keep up her position – although the neighbours would have a field day.

Wouldn’t they love it! That’s a terrible thing – I don’t know whether I could rely on

her if the chips were down. Maybe. Despite my being a disappointment to her.

Why is no-one telling me anything. This isn’t right, they can’t just keep her in there.


I only managed to get Rose on this trip with a bit of help from the School Fund. Now

she’s ruined it for others in the future. They’re selfish little beasts at her age – and the

next minute they’re all tender and nice. Perhaps that’s what makes teaching so

interesting – trying to get through their armour to find something that will inspire them

– even just interest them. Well, they’ll never give us money for another art trip.

Visits to the Science Museum only from now on. Scientists would never do such a

thing. Just ruin the planet instead is what I think. So, I’m no nearer making my

decision about teaching. If I was certain I’d just do it, stay or go. But I keep changing

my mind. I’ve even written my resignation letter, just in my head. But then one of

them says something that makes me laugh, or they do a really good piece of work,

and I think I wouldn’t get that feeling in any other job. So I stay. I even arrange trips

to London. Nobody asked me to do that – I just thought it would widen their horizons,

show them new things. And I think it did – it was going well until this. They were

excited, dragging me over to see a painting that they liked or to point out something

in a picture that they’d learned at school. I felt I was getting to know them, and it

would be better in the classroom from now on.

And then this. I wasn’t actually there when it happened, but this is what I can gather.

Rose was in the Spanish room with Sandra, Ayesha and Kim when suddenly she ran

towards one of the paintings with something in her hand. The security officer

grabbed her. She was very brave – Rose might have had a knife for all she knew.

Kim ran to get me while the guard held on to Rose and the other two tried to pull her

away. They said the officer was really strong - she kind of braced her legs on the

floor like a tug-of-war, and she held Rose with just one hand and squeezed her wrist

with the other until the thing dropped to the floor – a big black felt tip. An officer set

off the alarm, so they all came running. When I got there Rose was standing in the

middle of them all crying. One of them asked ‘are you responsible for this young

lady?’, and of course I was – am. I tried to get near her, to give her a hug, she

looked so little, but they wouldn’t let me. They took her away behind the scenes, and

I just said to the girls ‘find Mr Gordon and tell him’ and then I followed Rose. They

took her into another room and told me to wait here. When someone in a posh suit

went in I pushed through the door behind him and asked if they would tell me what

was happening, and they said they were asking her some questions before deciding

whether to call the police. They said she could have damaged a very valuable

painting - Martha and Mary, by Velazquez. I did have to smile that they were so

precise about which painting. Then I thought on one level it’s a nice domestic

scene, but I probably can’t read too much into that. Quiet domestic life like Rose


doesn’t have etc. I don’t know. Any way, I think I should be with her and not out

here.

I sent a text to Jack Gordon when they left me here, to tell him what’s happened and

he’s taking the rest of them back to the coach. I’m just waiting to see if they call the

police. They can see she’s upset, not criminal, and she didn’t actually do any

damage. I haven’t called her mum yet – I will when I know what they’ve decided. I’ll

just have to wait and see. Actually, I think I’ve done enough waiting. Rose is too

young to be in there on her own. I’m going to go in, and demand they make a

decision or let her go. And I’m going to put my arm round Rose, whatever they say.

Where is He Now?

Peter Martin

The bass player of a popular British band of the 60’s was at the Nuneaton Cultural

Festival, being interviewed before an audience of about 200 who had each paid £15

for the privilege. It was the fifth such festival he had attended that year – it was a

nice little earner. After the usual questions about the band’s origins and

influences… “…we was the British answer to the ‘Turtles’” … came the inevitable

question he had been asked a 100 times before - about their keyboard player who

had disappeared at the height of their fame after their second American tour some 40

years ago.

“Well, he just buggered off, didn’t he – didn’t say ‘ta ta’ or nothing - just vanished.

We was havin’ an end of tour bash you know – the management always put

something on for us like that – and things had got pretty wild. It was only the morning

after - we were all a bit spaced out - that we realised he’d gone. I remember him

moping around at the party, by himself as usual. But he didn’t say nothing about

leaving the band – or at least, he may have done but I didn’t take it in.”

“Where did he go?”

“Nobody really knows for sure - there are lots of rumours of course – there are whole

websites convinced of some theory or another. Like he jumped off a mountain or that

he OD’d. Another one says that he retired to a remote Scottish Island and he farms


sheep or whatever it is they got up there. And then of course, there is the legendary

album he’s supposed to have recorded. But there are so many bootleg versions

going around that nobody’s quite sure what’s his and what isn’t – that’s a story in

itself.”

“What was he like?”

“He never really fitted in, you know. We used to chat backstage – I remember him

saying he thought his life was a cliché. He had this hankering to write something that

was important to him – but the management wouldn’t have it. ‘It’ll never sell’ they

said. How wrong they were. He didn’t like all the fuss – all the attention. He just

wanted to be free to write something for himself and to be anonymous. I didn’t get it

– and I told him: ‘Enjoy it while you can my friend’. He hated that – me saying ‘my

friend’. But I reckon I was the only friend he had back then.”

“Where is he now?”

“Haven’t a clue mate - I don’t even know if he’s alive. But I’ll tell you this - he’s much

bigger now than he ever was when he was in the band. He’s become a myth.

People keep asking me about him, they want to know every little detail. They want to

worship him now – it’s not what he wanted, he just wanted to be ordinary.”

“I wouldn’t know what he looks like now - he could even be here.” The bass player

waved a pointing finger around the audience – “He could be any one of you guys out

there. If you’re here, stand up– we want to know who you really are”


London is Not a Place

Michael Drew

London is not a place.

Londinium was a place.

London is a stone.

London kills and atones.

London Flumen Tamesi brings life.

London’s footpads flash their knife.

Londinium, Bodice incinerates.

London’s answer annihilates.

Fog obscures but cannot hide;

in darkness people reside.

Water-fairies come and go,

always the poor laid low.

Kings and Queens in their majesty,

stain the walls by lack of dignity.

Old soldiers beg for alms,

they’ll murder if you cross their palm.

London is not a place.

London is played as an ace.

London conquers and rapes.

London steals and owns the grapes.

London brings pleasure and sexual favours.

London harlots abused, when out of favour.

London’s Dour and Belins Gate, traders welcome.


London’s traitors-gate delivery welcomed.

Londoners come and go; remain the essentia.

London is esse.

Plan of Roman London after AD190 from "Old and New London. A Narrative of Its History, Its People, And Its Places. Illustrated with numerous Engravings from the most Authentic Sources. The City, Ancient And Modern", by Walter Thornbury. Vol. I. 1897. A 19th century plan of Roman London, after the destruction of Londinium by the forces of Bodice circa AD62. This late 19th century map of London records the main features of Roman London. Various sources are cited by Thornbury in relation to the creation of this plan. The Romans built a defensive wall around the landward side of the city of Londinium sometime between 190 and 225. This map of Roman London shows London Wall, thus dating it post AD190.


http://archivemaps.com/mapco/london/0190romanlondonb.htm�

The Dewdropp Inn

Diane Fielder

My dad was a scrap metal merchant – an “early recycler” I suppose. My

grandfather started the business and employed his sons and stepsons, buying scrap

metal from factories and sorting it, chopping it and melting it down for re-use. I went

back a while ago to the street in Battersea where the scrap-yard once was. It was a

dank and drippy wet day, cold and grey. I walked down Wandsworth Road, past a

day nursery, a storage depot, a crocodile of children being collected by an after-

school club and into Linford Street where the yard used to be. The old places are

long gone and in their stead a “business park” created by building shiny frontages

across the old railway arches and filling them with suppliers of organic foods.

Through the windows I could see people sitting at rows of computers, the sound of

work is clicking now instead of clanging. The railway still runs along the top, trains

shattering past, but in their double-glazed offices the new work-force click on

oblivious.

In the middle, sticking up like an old tooth, is the Dewdrop Inn, a pub once

owned by my dad’s brother, Johnny. It’s closed now, boarded up, but I pushed open

the letterbox and could just see, by a few slits of light from the damaged roof, an

expanse of the original floorboards and two old bikes propped incongruously against

the bar. The dark brown smell of stale beer engulfed my face, beer that had been

soaking into the floorboards year after year. I remembered that smell, remembered

being in that place as a child, smelling that smell. Pubs don’t smell of beer any more.

It was a place of fascination for me. My mum and dad and I lived quietly in

the suburbs with few visitors to disturb mum’s cherished routine. Here, the pub

kitchen was the place where this enormous, sprawling family came and went.

Brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces, cousins and grand-

children, like extras in a 1930’s epic, would swirl through this room, some cooking,

some eating, some preparing snacks for the bar and everybody always, always

talking and always, always making tea. While the grown-ups busied themselves, I

would play in the empty bar-room, happily re-arranging the echoing furniture to make

a boat, a castle, a stage. Children were not allowed in the pub at opening times so

then I would be banished to hang over the upstairs banister, spying on the crowd

below, warmed by the heaving sea of voices and sudden eruptions of stentorian

laughter, borne upwards by clouds of blue cigarette smoke.


There was a lot of wood. Hard-boned wooden chairs scraped across the

floor, wooden tables, sturdy enough, but (and there was a science to this) shored up

with beer-mats under the legs where the floor was uneven. And almost ship-shaped,

the bar itself, varnished wood and brass, the top swimming in spilt beer, with black

and brass pump handles to summon up more from below. Behind the bar, cocktail

sticks and lurid red cherries and miniature sinks for swilling out the glasses that slid

wetly down the miniature draining boards to be whisked back up to the pumps and

filled again almost immediately.

The back wall was mirror-clad, everyone and everything duplicated in a

looking-glass world, fronted by the optics, huge upside-down bottles dispensing their

liquid gold and silver to become “rum and black” and “gin and it” and other odd

couples. It formed an altar screen surrounding the holy of holies, the cash register, a

monster in black metal, curled with more brass and with keys like doorstops. When

these were depressed a drawer, with wooden compartments smooth-worn by the

scuffing of coins, would shoot out, its jangle adding to the din. When no one was

watching I would dive behind the bar, small enough not to be seen over the top and

fill an impossibly thin, undulating glass with lemonade, letting the bubbles froth up my

nose. That sharp-sweet taste stays with me, nearly sixty years later.

Another train clanked by in the gloom and brought me back to the present. I

turned out of the street, past an old Victorian school, now re-born as a prep school,

its playground full of four-by-fours disgorging mothers come to collect their offspring.

Across the road, the much-ornamented frontage of the old Battersea Technical

College has been hollowed out behind to make identical expensive apartments

screened by identical cream window blinds.

A far cry, as they say. Dad, you wouldn’t recognize it.


London’s Soul Line

Michael Drew

The gleaming waters that flow from the hinterland to the sea hold their secrets;

together they sparkle, like a winking eye, saying look at me, leaving the on-lookers to

judge for themselves what secrets it has seen. Or is it a she?

She was here long before what we perceive to be the dominant force, man, so that

we can only look on and wonder. Its peace was shattered when the brazen Romans

thrashed their ships up upon its tide and their eddies tear gashes in its sides. New

gashes appear as the Germans and Dutch and the French fought and traded along

its shore, leaving a little of themselves intertwined in the essence of the growing city’s

shore.

London reflected in its increasingly murky shine, the great stink demanded to be

smelt. Bazalgette and his Crossness Point came to the rescue. London can again

take a deep breath and the sparkle returns to welcome marauding colonialists.

With their chests of spices and all things new, London explodes its boundaries to

welcome the hordes; even those that do not want to come. It demands that all

humankind see this new mighty and monstrous city as the greatest and most

powerful in the world.

The eddies continue to shape and reshape the city, sometimes with a revolutionary

verve and sometimes so very discreetly that London does not even recognise the

change. It swirls around picking up the stragglers, rich and poor, sucking them into

the complexity that is the making of London; it awaits the newcomer to strut their

newness, whilst sucking the newness to its self, adding to its vivacious life.


Barry

Lesley Nicholls

The usual after work Friday crowd were in the bar of the Rose and Crown Mostly

local tradesmen, apart from a group of young people who sat at a table spread with

vodka and tequila. Barry jerked his head towards them and mouthed ‘wankers’ to

the barman who shrugged and pulled him another pint. ‘And a chaser’ said Barry.

The barman lingered, but Barry wasn’t in the mood for chat.

He took a long draught of the pint, and tossed back the whisky. How could she?

How could she have asked him for money for her trip? He’d told her, hadn’t he, that

if she chose to stay on at school after she was sixteen, then she was on her own.

He’d been quite clear. No more cash from him. He’d done what he could for her and

her mother over the years. Dropped a bit of cash round whenever he had any spare.

Not every week, but whenever he could. After all, he had other responsibilities, what

with her kids and the twins. How could he be expected to keep Rose and her mother

as well. And whose fault was it in the first place. He didn’t choose to go – it was the

mother-in-law who had kicked him out. Nag, nag, nag when he got home from the

pub. It was fine until they had Rose, then she said it wasn’t how she wanted to bring

up her daughter. Why didn’t she shut up then? But no, she couldn’t. And one day

there she was in the hall with her mother, the old bat, waiting for him. Told him it was

a disgrace to hit a woman, that he should pack his bags and leave. Trust his ex to

hide behind her mum! So he did. He’d show her – just stay out for a while, maybe a

day or two. He went, down to the Rose and Crown. Sabina was there –he’d met her

a few times before. Great girl. She could drink like one of the lads, not like his ex –

she never went to pubs, said they were noisy and smelly. And Sabina was a laugh.

She’d listened to his story and offered him a bed for the night. And that was it.

Never went back.

Then all the Child Support nonsense. He’d never paid up – just gone under the

radar, cash-in-hand work only. He wouldn’t have to work so hard if all the bloody

kids got a job as soon as they could. As for Rose - she’d be better off doing

computers or something useful, not asking him for money for her arty-farty rubbish?

He thought gloomily that he had been paying for bloody kids for years, one way or

another – seventeen years so far with another ten to go. Women – it was all their


fault. They trapped you with the kids, then moaned when you stayed out a bit – as if

you wanted to go home to a stroppy teenager and the twins rampaging about.

Sabina should get a grip on them. She was getting as bad as the ex. Barry asked

for another pint and a chaser and knocked them back. Might make a night of it.

Leaving the Band

Peter Martin

He sat naked on the bed and looked around the motel room like a million others in

America. He resisted the temptation to turn on the TV. Just now, he didn’t want to

know if he was news and wanted to settle to the idea of not having to perform, of not

presenting to a crowd of others and to see what it was like to be anonymous – to just

be ordinary and to find out who he really was.

He had walked out of a party last night into the darkness with just a credit card in his

pocket. Heading for a glow in the sky where there would be motels and bars he had

emerged eventually onto a neon lit strip. Spotting an all-night 7/11 he had gone

inside and with his credit card had bought a pair of scissors.

Now, unnerved by the silence around him, he turned on the TV and flicked through

some channels. He wasn’t sure what his next step would be. His life had been

managed for so long the thought of making his own decisions set a wave of fear and

uncertainty surging through his stomach.

On the TV, an elderly woman wrapped in black wept in front of a pile of rubble.

Had he done the right thing? Why had he given up that lifestyle with everything

arranged for him just so he could sit by himself in this grubby motel room and watch

endless news on TV? But he had been thinking about it. He wanted something

different, most of all he wanted to hide. The others in the band seemed to lap up the

adulation but he could see how it was changing them.

On the TV, a makeshift camp in a desert somewhere, rags waving in the wind,

children with flies on their faces stare blankly, another weeping mother.


He thought about going solo but wouldn’t that just bring on more of the same? He

would have to be managed, organised and promoted. He wanted somehow to keep

what he created to himself – to escape from the attentions of an uncritical audience.

Or he could just disappear – merge back into the crowd and live an ordinary life.

Local news now – a couple of shootings, cars in a queue, a public space with

ordinary people walking about. Nothing about him. Now a large grinning man in a

Stetson loudly selling utility vehicles.

How could he become anonymous? People would always recognise him wouldn’t

they? But, he supposed, if you took away the trappings of celebrity: the fancy

clothes, the entourage – the hair – he could look quite ordinary. He might just get

away with it. As the keyboard player in the band he was never front of stage and he

was always in the back for the publicity photos. The first thing that had to go was the

hair – by simply cutting it short he could be just like everyone else.

A knock on the door, a girl’s voice “Do you need anything sir? “

“No, I don’t think so – hang on” He quickly put on last night’s clothes and opened the

door.

“You should know that you need to check out by 12:30 and – oh! my god, what have

you done to your hair?”

“Er, I cut it – it was too long”

She laughed, “Well you’ve not done a very good job!” She looked at him strangely

“You on the run or something? You turned up last night with no bags and no car and

now you’ve chopped your hair. How did you get here?”

“I walked”

“Huh,” she joked, “Nobody, walks around here!”

After more banter about cars and roads and the weather she said “There’s a barber

in the mall just down the road if you want to know” and left. He closed the door and

returned to his thoughts. She hadn’t recognised him – she’s probably used to seeing


strange people turning up in the middle of the night. The little exchange, how normal

it was, cheered him up and an idea took shape. He would write some songs about

ordinary people. Real songs with lyrics that meant something to him. They would be

moving and uplifting. There would be no clichés – not like the stuff he had been

churning out. He could record an album. He had connections – people with

recording studios – it could be done secretly – he would do it just for himself – not for

sale – no publicity – no promotions. It would be a limited run – financed himself –

just to get it down – to get it out of him. Then, who knows?

He turned to the mirror, combed his fingers through the tufts of his hair, turned off the

TV and checked out.

A Sour Taste

Mel Wright

It’s not as if mine had said, ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ And after all they were more his

friends than mine. But I could tell that he wasn’t happy as soon as they turned up. His

face, sullen, almost cardboard looking. It was embarrassing because I know I’d have

to do all the chatting as well as prepare the meal. They brought a bottle of Prosecco.

Her’s seemed to be cuddling it in his arm and as he handed it over he told me it

needed to be chilled, as if I wouldn’t know.

I’ve come to like her though, she’s quite charming. She made nice remarks about

how I looked and what I was wearing. But I don’t know what she sees in him. Her’s is

as bad as mine – except worse. At school we would have called him a loud mouth.

He didn’t stop from the minute they arrived. His new open top Mazda sports – “A

babe magnet,” he bragged. I mean at his age! It’s pathetic. Mine was laughing at his

limp jokes. I suppose he thought he had no choice. I was beginning to regret that we

didn’t just meet them again at the Chinese – on neutral ground.

When I went into the kitchen to serve up the meal I suddenly felt completely drained.

I wanted to crawl upstairs to bed there and then and have a lay down. I mean, how

long will they stay for?

The Beef Wellington turned out well. Old big head said I should be on Master Chef

and then laughed so much that gravy dribbled onto his chin. The pudding was a


disaster though. How many more times will I forget to put enough sugar in my apple

crumble. Everyone was left drawing-in their cheeks.

We had coffee in the lounge and that’s when it happened!

Just as I handed her’s a cup I lost my balance because of his gangly legs sticking

out. I tipped it straight into his lap, cup and all. There was a second when it went all

quiet. He just stared at me in disbelief. And then he stood up and wailed like a cat.

The stain on his maroon trousers deepened. “Christ,” he bellowed and I patted his

crotch with a tea towel which drew raised eyebrows from his wife. “It’s bloody hot,” he

mouthed painfully and started to loosen his belt.

“Get’em off,” I said, “we’ll get you some new trousers.” He limped through to the

kitchen and mine found another pair. When he came back in and sat down gingerly

on the sofa the trousers rode up almost to his knees. He looked quite comical. I

wanted to laugh but I managed to stop myself.

He calmed down after that and I got him a glass of water.

When they’d gone I went straight up to bed. I didn’t even say goodnight. I just left

mine downstairs to clear up. He’d perked up by then, I could hear him downstairs in

the kitchen, clattering away, whistling.


Rose

Lesley Nicholls

I slam the door. Have to. I have to annoy her. But I know it won’t help, just make

her upset, really. ‘Fuck!’ ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!!’ I can’t help smiling – now I sound like

the start of that film ‘Four Weddings’ or whatever it was. Before my time. Trite

rubbish but Mum wanted me to watch it with her.

I pace, angry, powerless, fists clenched. I’ll get my own back. I’ll show her. I’ll

leave home, leave school, get a job. I could work in a shop, get a flat. Then I’d be

able to do what I want when I want. Stay up all night, play my music how I like.

She’d be sorry then, I know she would.

I have to talk to someone. Get in touch with Georgia. Bugger, she’s not on line.

Send a text. Too cross to press the right buttons – end up sending garbage. She’ll

think I’m mad. Try Leila. ‘Hi. PST off. She says no’ No reply. Christ, where is

everyone? Turn the music up loud, and wait for her to come banging on the door.

Well, I won’t open it.

I lie on the bed. She doesn’t come. I know she’s upset, but it’s not my fault. What

can I do? It’s not actually fair on me either. All the others are going. I know they’ll

have a great time. London, overnight. They might even see someone famous. It’s

so not fair. I don’t have nice clothes, I can’t afford to go anywhere, this house is

rubbish. It’s embarrassing. Bet Georgia and Leila are out somewhere tonight. They

never ask me any more, they know I can’t go. I’ll have no friends at all soon. I’ll

always be on my own.

Shit, my mascara’s running. That’ll show mum. She’ll know I’ve been crying.

Serves her right. But it’s not her fault either.


One Warm Mid-summer Afternoon

Glynis Watkins

One warm mid-summer afternoon, while walking her son’s dog and not thinking of

anything in particular, Miriam became aware of a faint scent, elusive and almost

forgotten, which instantly evoked a memory of childhood.

So surprised was she, that she came to a stop and realised she was outside the little

florist that had recently arrived in the street. It was the latest in the line of small shops

that came and, as quickly, went. Which of the numerous pots and trays of flowers

and plants, which spilled across the pavement, had this tantalising smell?

She remembered vividly the garden where that scent had first surprised her so long

ago—it had been dusk, but still warm, as she became aware of the delicate perfume;

they had played all afternoon---who were ‘they’ ?Must have been her brother and

there was another boy, whose garden it was, called Martin. Weren’t there a few

photos of that afternoon somewhere? It was one of the few times that Miriam

remembered her mother looking happy— in one of the photos she was laughing,

looking young and pretty- they’d stayed late, until it was almost dark, and the scent of

the flowers had begun to fade

A pleasant girl bustled out of the shop.

“What’s that lovely smell?” Miriam asked.

“It’s these,” the girl replied pointing to a tray of what looked like small carnations,”

They’ve been in the sun all day and, as it gets a bit cooler, they release their

perfume.”

Miriam hesitated, enjoying her memory. The occasional steam train that had huffed

across, high up, at the end of the garden to which they would run and wave, the

picnic on the lawn, the stripping off as the day grew hotter.

“I’m afraid this tray is sold”, the pleasant girl said “I get them from Billy Jones; you’d

never think he was good with plants, would you?”


Miriam smiled vaguely. She hadn’t a clue who Billy Jones was; after twenty years,

she just about knew her neighbour’s name.

“What a character! I’ll tell him you liked them—he may have some more.”

If there was one thing Miriam avoided it was the ‘characters’- which of these was

Billy Jones --- she had names for them all--the one she privately called Hopalong,

who talked to himself and shuffled rapidly up and down, or could it be Beerbelly Bob,

who had daily rows with traffic wardens and seemed to know everyone. At least it

wasn’t Mrs Mad-as-a-hatter, with her endless bags. Who else was there?

“Oh don’t worry”, Miriam said “It just reminded me.....” and, smiling with

embarrassment, she hurried on.

Her Inner Voice said nothing. In some ways, Miriam felt ill at ease over the silence.

The memories reminded her of her mother; how rarely she’d socialised and how that

long ago afternoon remained so special because, for once, her mother was relaxed

and happy.

She waited.

The Voice spoke.

“Yes, you’re just like your mother.”

So that is why when Caribbean Joe strolled up her path carrying a box of small pink

flowers, Miriam took a deep breath, opened the door, smiled ,and said “Do come in

and have a coffee”.


Doreen

Lesley Nicholls

Luckily it was a slack day, even for ‘Spain’. None of the others liked a slack day –

they thought they were boring. But not for her. A slack day was an opportunity. She

was in ‘Spain’ all week – not a lot of people wanted ‘Spain’ – security staff or visitors.

She agreed with them, the visitors, that is. Who would want to come and see a lot of

dreary religious stuff, and some dead Spanish kings? Nobody looking - she

stretched out her right leg. And hold – one, two …….nineteen, twenty, still no-one

here. Feel the glutes hard against the chair. Pull the toes up, stretch the hamstring.

And relax. People were approaching, and she made a mental note to do the left leg

next time. Never do nothing, complete body awareness at all times, that’s what her

trainer had said. She watched a couple looking at Christ contemplated by the

Christian Soul or some such. That Velazquez certainly knew about muscles when he

painted it. Pity about the arms – a bit puny. They all did that – never gave Jesus any

biceps. But just look at those abs! These visitors didn’t have abs like that – like she

did. Stand up straight, she wanted to say out loud. Most people were the same,

slouching around the place. Didn’t take care of their bodies at all. Disgusting. Your

body is a temple, her trainer said. Take care of it. With the fervour of the converted,

she stretched her back. Was that a click in the lumbar region – a new word for her?

She bent sidewards, left then right, concentrating, trying to isolate it. Nothing there.

She tilted her pelvis forward, then back. No, probably nothing, what a relief.

More people were arriving. Every now and then she was supposed to walk round,

make sure everything was all right. Feet flat on the floor, and rise slowly. Walk tall,

pulling in the abs - nobody could see when she did that, and every little helped.

Never let up, never get lax. Once round the room, hoping no-one would ask her

anything – it ruined the concentration. ‘I’m just security’ she’d say. ‘The information

cards are over there’. Last night’s session had been great – weights for the upper

body. She looked down at her arms, where the uniform was starting to stretch over

her biceps, and smiled. Her trainer had said the definition was coming along well.

Better than the others, she thought, although he hadn’t said so. That was because

she worked at it. The people were gone – time to do the left leg. Raise, stretch, pull

up the toes ……nineteen, twenty…..and relax. Another session tonight, although

George would complain that she was out again. But he would like her new body,

when she achieved it. She knew he would like it better than the cuddly old one. And

he’d be so proud of her when she won her first competition. Trainer said it would be


in a year or so if she carried on the same way. More people coming – on no, not the

WI squatting on their inadequate little camp stools, listening to the Curator lecturing

on whatever. Style or colour, or figure painting – well, at least she could appreciate

that one among all the other nonsense they spouted. She was right in his line of

sight. No chance of doing anything useful for the next half hour. Perhaps she should

get another job, one where she could develop her muscles. Lifting, maybe. Trouble

with that was you might strain a muscle, or use some too much and others not at all.

Perhaps she could reduce her hours, get down the gym more. In the meantime,

stretch the Achilles, flex the biceps…. just keep going.

Rosemary

Lesley Nicholls

Watching through the net curtains of her front window, Rosemary reached for her

daily indulgence, a chocolate Hobnob. Who was that? She hadn’t seen her before –

smart lady with a little dog. And she turned into number 23. That’s where Lydia used

to live, until she moved out of town, to somewhere nicer. She’d visited once or twice,

but it was two buses, and Lydia did go on about her parquet floors. Shame though,

when she left. Her Maureen had been a good friend to Alison – but they probably

wouldn’t have kept it up, not after Alison went to the grammar school. Some children

came down the road. Skirts up high, long black legs they had. Not like Alison’s

school uniform – grey skirt, below the knee. They’d been so proud of her when she

got in. She’d gone round to ask Lydia about how Maureen had got on, but of course

she hadn’t made it. Now she had a couple of kids and her own nail business in town

– seemed to have done quite well, despite not having Alison’s brains.

Julian, he’d got in too, and went to university. She saw his mother in the market

sometimes. She said he was working in the City now, and making pots of money.

Mark, he was another one who did well. His mother said he had a flat overlooking

the river, but he came to see her often. She would like to see Alison a bit more, but

she was so busy. All that marking and lesson planning after school. Rosemary

didn’t like to go to her flat in the evening – that part of town wasn’t very safe. Her flat

was quite nice though – she’d done her best with it. Old furniture painted white,

mostly. Rosemary didn’t see the point of old furniture when new was so cheap at

IKEA. Not to my taste though, thought Rosemary, looking fondly at her green suite


and beige carpet. A bit too bright for me – and way too many cushions. When she’d

said about Mark’s flat by the river, Alison had said those places were ‘soulless’,

whatever that meant.

Still, Alison was an art teacher, what did she expect her flat to be like. Her bedroom

had always been a mess, until Rosemary got in to clean it. What a row that caused.

Alison screaming at her not to touch her things. Well, it was her house wasn’t it?

Now she could do what she wanted with her flat. She’d always wanted to go to art

college. We told her it was a dead end, she’d never get a decent job, but she went

ahead any way. If she’d done something else she wouldn’t be living in that pokey

flat, working all hours. Perhaps she could change careers even now– it’s never too

late. She did have a degree after all, and it was in fine art. Julian’s mother said even

the PAs at Julian’s place got paid a fortune. Surely Alison could do that. She might

meet someone nice there, not just teachers. Not one decent car in the school car

park – she’d seen them. Julian had a BMW, his mother said. He sometimes took

her out to a nice little cafe in the country for a cream tea. Alison hadn’t even got a

car. She said they caused pollution, but that didn’t seem to bother Julian or anybody

else for that matter. Just look at all the cars parked in this road now, when there

used to be none. When the children could play out. Not now, they’d be mown down.

All that work, and no money. It didn’t seem fair. Alison hadn’t been round for weeks.

Now she was off to London on a school trip. As if she hadn’t got enough to do.

Who’d want to spend two days with kids like that – she’d heard them in the street,

using bad language. They called the school an academy these days, but it was just

a comprehensive, really. Not even a grammar school.



Bye

Glynis Watkins

“Bye, bye, love you lots, work hard at school, bye”.

She continued to wave and call until the car had turned the corner, and the street

was, once again, dark, shadowy and silent. As she pushed her gate open, she felt

every part of her body relax.

Oh the relief, the utter relief!

“You spent the whole time with a rictus grin on your face, looking at your watch and

making it clear you wanted to go home. Why do you do it?”

The Inner Voice sounded a little shrill these days , she thought, possibly because she

no longer cared what it said, where ,once, it would reduce her to guilty tears.

She noticed, as she always did, how the darkness drained everything of its colour,

leaving -no, not fifty shades, but certainly a good few of black.

“Hallo darkness, my old friend “she hummed

“Shut up” snapped the Voice. “Just another excuse to skulk in the shadows”.

It was a full moon this night ,she noticed; one of those sharp, small, metallic ones,

brilliant and unwinking ,whose shadows were darker; not a large soft blowsy moon

that filled the darkness with silver’ as she walked the night in her silver shoon’ Bit of a

cop out there, Mr Poet, she thought, spell check would have a fit.

“Cut the poetry and get in”

Ah, yes poetry, “I remember Adlestrop” ,lovely poem ,shame she couldn’t remember

any more.

“You’ve forgotten to leave a light on again. You’ll regret it someday.”

Searching for her keys on the doorstep, she could see ,through the glass of the door,

the darkness of the hall, with just the tiniest red light from a radio in the room beyond.

As she stepped inside, ‘the silence surged softly back’—the line, learnt at primary

school, seemed so perfect that even the Voice let it go.

“I wish I loved the human race, I wish I loved its silly face...” she began, turning on

the light.” Just go to bed, “the Voice said, wearily. And, with a smile, she did.

o.

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