M378
The automatic doors to the Bureau of Statistics slide open with effort, a creaking noise of metal audible over the padding feet of pedestrians and the beeping of vans reversing. James Smith resents that he has had to break stride to accommodate the doors. He is particular to the point of being prissy and measures his pace, in his words, judiciously. Judicious and measured are words he feels pleased to represent him. As usual, he is dressed plainly and carefully; a silver clip on his dark blue tie is one of the few signs of individuality or ostentation on his person. His hair is short, clean and brushed unfashionably. His suit is nondescript and inexpensive. He is, in short, nobody. You have probably passed him on the street without noticing. He is room temperature, the background, cheap furniture, muzak. Yet he is there.

He stops at the security desk, displaying his ID badge to the uninterested guard who presses a button, allowing the chrome turnstile to admit James. He walks through unhurried, making his way through the corridor without unnecessary fuss or effort. To those who greet him, he responds with a nod of the head. One arm is kept by his side, ready to produce his ID badge if it is demanded, the other hand is clutching a black satchel. As he weaves through the intersections and corridors deeper into this rabbit warren of a building, the number of people passing him and overtaking him increases. He reaches the elevator and pushes the 'Up' button. He angles his head to see the lit display of numbers above the lift doors, following the green LED countdown to the ground floor.

Others congregate by the doors, some shuffling their feet, others speaking softly to each other or on mobile telephones. Otherwise, all is quiet. The elevator reaches ground level and the doors open. There is no-one there and so James and the others occupy the car in an orderly procession, pausing only to select their destination floor. He looks around the elevator as they ascend, approving those whose sartorial blandness rivals his own, silently berating those whose appearance is marred by brightness, colour or flamboyance.

He arrives at floor 13 and exits into another labyrinth of corridors, walls painted an institutional, sanitary shade of blue. As he passes black doors, each marked in a code of letters and numbers, James' mind is perfectly, serenely blank. Until he arrives at his office, there is nothing for him to consider, approve, debate or question, so he lets his mind clear. He stops by a black door. M378. He motions his ID badge in front of a small inset pad by the door, which then slides open, smoothly and silently.

He enters his office, removes his hat and places it on the hatstand, settles his satchel on the immaculately arranged desk, and moves to open his filing cabinet. Categorised and cross-indexed beige cardboard files are arranged within the cabinet and James removes several, plucking them deftly from their homes in a flawless, practiced manner. A computer sits in the corner of this office, but it will not be touched this morning. Removing a fountain pen from his inside jacket pocket, and putting on his glasses, James begins to consider the matters at hand. He sits upright, moving only to turn file pages or inscribe notes in margins.

He has few idle moments, preferring to invest his work with an importance above its station, as this allows him to excuse his lack of progress outside institutional, sanitary blue walls. If he had time to spare, or made a moment in his pointlessly busy calendar, he might consider his purpose. But there are pages which require annotation, files which require indexing, minutes and notes which must be made or taken, and everything must be initialled, signed, authorised or countersigned. Procedures proceed, irrespective of Mr J A Smith, though he scribbles unaware of this.

Hours pass. There have been no telephone calls or knocks on the door. There has been nothing to interrupt the pure focus of James' attention. This is no accident. He discourages such things and has avoided unwelcome attentions from peers or juniors. There is nothing he can do to sidestep contact with his superiors and counts himself fortunate that he only reports to one man, Mr Robinson. He meets him twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday, for precisely one hour each day. He calls him 'sir' to his face, 'Mr Robinson' to his secretary and he has never wondered to what the C and J refer in his superior's neat CJR initials. James does not mention Mr Robinson's name to other people, chiefly because he does not know any other people.

Fraternising, as he refers to it, is for idlers and procrastinators. It is time which would be better spent at one's desk. James knows that he has not missed a day of work, or been late in the morning, or left earlier than he should, in his entire career. He doesn't take pride in this. It is proper and how it should be. It is the standard. It never occurs to him whether such a standard is expected by Mr Robinson, or his superior's superior, or even their superior. It helps that the lack of distraction in his work life is neatly, of course, mirrored in his personal life.

In point of fact, his personal life is hardly personal. He lives in a modest apartment in a comfortable, middle-class area known for nothing other than the middle-classness and comfort it offers. He drives a mid-range, mid-size, mid-price car whose brand is known for efficient fuel economy and value for money. He has many electrical appliances, his refrigerator is always well-stocked with low-fat foods, and he keeps his home clean and tidy. There is little in the way of decoration, and there would need to be more pictures or personal touches for the place to function as a show home. The curtains, walls and soft furnishings are all subdued colours. The apartment is tasteful without being fashionable, though the taste is very much catalogue taste rather than the choices of one person.

James will return to this place at just after six o'clock where he will prepare an evening meal, read a book for a while, have a bath and then go to bed at a reasonable hour. Occasionally, he will have a glass of wine with his meal, otherwise he will drink barley water. He rarely goes out, except to visit his mother. He has no brother or sister, and his father died in the war, so there are few relatives to occupy his free time. Some evenings, he will visit a gym on the way back from work, where he will follow a carefully planned exercise routine before going home.

Is he free? Is he happy?

The question is absurd.

Here
I can't be here.

This charade is wearing thin and I'm not really coping all that well. Going from coffee shop to coffee shop with a notebook and a dark cloud is hardly showing a positive mental attitude. I resent them for what they do and I loathe them for what they don't do. Lose, lose. And it doesn't make it any better, this resentment and loathing. God, I need a drink. Three months, two weeks, two days.

I don't want to be here.

I'm standing looking in a shop window with the rain starting pulling my coat around me staring at a reflection I don't recognise wondering when the bags under my eyes started looking so grey realising that the girl inside thinks I'm looking at her instead a small part of me is lying down in the discarded newspapers on the street corner things are ebbing away from me and I'm becoming a fifth wheel irrelevant to where I am uninvolved in the people around me deliberately moving away from anything in case anyone attempts to try and speak I find it hard to express my chest is heavy and it's hard to breathe.

I must not stay here.

Else.

Where.

Slowing down now. Calmer. Alone, calm. I read the paper at nine this morning so I bought three more broadsheets and read them too. That was done by eleven. I went to the library even though I could have read the papers there for free, because it seemed suitably depressing. Surprise. It was. The elderly lady librarian gave me an unpleasant look when I walked in but because I was clean, only had a day's worth of stubble, and immediately went to a free table and spread out my papers, there was nothing she could find as a reason to chuck me out. She wanted to, though, and we both understood this.

This is a little better, but it won't last.

A phone starts ringing and the librarian immediately looks over at me, then looks away. Although I am the prime candidate to break the rules this way, I'm also unlikely to her to be the owner of a mobile phone. The brief connection between our eyes confirms my opinion that she regards me as a nothing, but as a nothing which could disrupt her comfortable, hand-knitted order. I notice her hovering by the multilingual dictionaries, about a few feet away from where I'm sitting. She stays around that area for around ten minutes, pretending to look at the shelves. I take the hint, and leave. One last look back at her, and there is a faint tinge of a smile around her plain, dry lips. I hate her in this moment more than I have ever had the capacity to hate.

Back outside again. Breathing is still heavy and difficult for me and the ink from the newspapers is starting to rub off onto my fingers, making them feel and smell dirty. I feel like smearing the ink all over my face and running back through the library throwing pages of newsprint across the shelves and the computers and the readers and the floor, whooping and hollering as I dance uncontrolled across her sterile kingdom. But I don't. I know that I couldn't. So I start walking towards the nearest place I can have a hot drink and a cigarette, to calm me down.

Calm is good. I don't look in the windows, I stare at the pavement. Pavement won't reflect something back at me that I can't cope with. The pavement is level, patterned, directed. Calm is good.

Sleepless
Staring at the ceiling, wondering when you'll get to sleep, turning over to prevent your legs from getting cramp. Lying there fully clothed, hearing a footstep outside the door and wondering who it is. Holding your makeshift pillow closely and tightly, after pulling the thin blanket around you in a vain attempt to get and then stay warm.

The moments before getting to sleep in a strange place can be darkly soulless, wonderfully optimistic, or merely a delay until you can get up and go to your next event. When waiting for something exciting to happen the next day, knowing that you are due to go somewhere highly anticipated or see someone wonderful, the minutes or hours spent trying to will yourself into slumber are the dead time, prompting either fantastical imaginings or depressive self-appraisals.

There are times when you know that you're not going to get to sleep. The room may be too warm or too cold. You may be used to certain blankets or pillows, which aren't there. There may be too many fragments of thoughts and memories and feelings circulating in your head to allow you to drift peacefully away. It's a fairly dispiriting moment when you realise that you're going to have to stay where you are and hope that sleep will come soon. While the best thing is to clear your mind, that's the last thing possible because every other part of you is still and your imagination is the substitute for motion.

And so you think thoughts that you would otherwise relegate to the back of your mind, when you would prefer to muse on other things. The ideas and the possibilities run through your head unresolving, conflicting, confusing and turning, making your mind into an unsolvable maze of what if, why and why not. You replay old arguments or question old choices, uncertain now because there is no light to allow your eyes to wander, no people around to allow you to shift your focus. And you may even make the worst mistake of all by indulging in regrets.

You hope that you will be able to fall asleep soon, while keeping yourself awake by reliving mistakes or watching your memories. When sleep comes, there is a millisecond of conscious gratitude that all this can be kept for another time, before falling away.

The wind
Sam walks down the street, jacket collar turned up to protect his neck against the wind, and because he thinks it looks cool. He's not staring into the shops with their windows and windows of cheap trainers, vintage jackets, piercings and secondhand records. He's not looking at the buses passing by, lights on the lower deck showing the drunks and the couples swaying in their seats.

He's looking down at the pavement, the cracks between each grey slab showing darker, marking his way home. The street lights are filtered through leafless trees, painting patterns on the concrete. Sam's hands are stuck deep in his pockets, cradling the coins and keys that have warmed to his fingers.

He turns a corner, ignoring the roadworks, and walks down past the terraced houses with immaculate gardens and front doors painted in matching colours. He comes up to the next bus stop and sits down, though he's not waiting. He feels his shoulders start to hunch and his eyes squint. Without knowing what he is doing, he wraps his arms tight around his chest, his eyes water and he starts to cry noiselessly.

He opens his mouth for a scream which never comes and his mind wonders why not. He rocks back and forward, tears dropping down onto his coat and jeans, hugging himself for reassurance and comfort. A hand comes up from his body and his open palm drags against his eye in an effort to dry it, but the tears aren't stopping.

A bus pulls up at the stop, but doesn't open the doors. Sam stays rocking, and the bus moves away. After however long, there is nothing more to cry, and he wipes his eyes too much, leaving them red and puffy. His cheeks still betray the signs where the lines of tears have traced their way down, and his face is ruddy and blotched. He sits awhile, trying to compose himself before he continues on his walk.

Eventually, he gets up and moves on. He walks slower now. The destination isn't as important, it's the movement which matters. Once or twice he feels the stinging behind his eyes and tries to fight it. By the time he is at the front door, his eyes still shine with unreleased tears, but when Millie opens the door, she assumes that it's only the wind.

Budget
Hmm. Shopping. Trying to pick out ideal, thoughtful gifts for a cast of, well, not thousands, but certainly quite a few people. On a budget. There may be trouble ahead. If you are a close friend or relation of mine, I am offering apologies right now for the inane, irrelevant or frankly bizarre present you will receive in 10 days' time. Because I am terrible at shopping at this time of year, having no patience and very little interest in queuing for hours. Sorry.

Pirates of the Caribbean – Deleted scenes #5
INT. HMS Interceptor lower deck

Elizabeth: I believe I should return this to you.

[She hands him a gold coin on a chain]

Will: Where did you get this?
Elizabeth: I took it from you when we found you.
Will: So you stole it.
Elizabeth: Borrowed. For a while.
Will: Stole.
Elizabeth: Look, you've got it back now, so there's no need to be all sensitive about it.
Will: Thief.
Elizabeth: Come on, I was young, it was shiny, how was I to know that you were going to recover?
Will: So you were hoping that I was going to die?
Elizabeth: I didn't know you were going to grow up to look exactly like the cute one from Lord of the Rings.
Will: Elijah Wood?
Elizabeth: No, the other one.
Will: Oh.
Elizabeth: So, I've given it back to you now, which means that there's no more complications between us.
Will: You mean …
Elizabeth: Oh yes.
Will: But I'm just a blacksmith's apprentice.
Elizabeth: Whatever.
Will: And you're engaged to be married to that one from This Life.
Elizabeth: Yup.
Will: Am I the only one that sees a slight problem with this?
Elizabeth: Come on, he'll never know.
Will: But I will.
Elizabeth: You cannot be this naive.
Will: I have to find out about my father, about where I am from, about whether pirate blood really flows through my veins.
Elizabeth: Yeah. Later.
Will: Later?
Elizabeth: Are you not in the least bit curious about the fact that we're the youngest out of the lead actors here?
Will: Well …
Elizabeth: Which means that …
Will: Oh.
Elizabeth: Dad's back in Port Royal, the Commodore is playing about with toy boats, Gareth from The Office is just plain unattractive, Sparrow is just a little too weird, the guy from Shine's too old. Which leaves you.
Will: Now?
Elizabeth: Oh yes, now.
Will: This is presumably only available on the R-rated DVD edition.
Elizabeth: You bet.
Will: I see.
Elizabeth: Let me just close this curtain and we can get going.
Will: Out of interest, can you really bend it like …
Elizabeth: Better.
Will: Really?

Pirates of the Caribbean – Deleted scenes #3
INT. Port Royal brig

Sparrow: Stuck on me onesies again.

[Will walks down the stairs to Sparrow's cell]

Will: If I free you, can you take us to find the Black Pearl?
Sparrow: Uh, sure.
Will: Promise?
Sparrow: On my word as a pirate.
Will: Right then.
Sparrow: Lad, what's your name?
Will: Will Turner.
Sparrow: Oh. Related to the painter, by any chance?
Will: Painter?
Sparrow: Nothing, sorry. Getting my time periods muddled. Never a big art fan, anyway. Why do you seek the Black Pearl?
Will: They have taken the Governor's daughter.
Sparrow: I see. Crumpet, eh?
Will: Will you help or not?
Sparrow: Will Turner, release me from this cell and we shall take you to your treasure.

[Jailbreak]

Sparrow: Impressive.
Will: Come on, let's go. The guards are sure to have heard the noise.
Sparrow: Hold on, young Will. What do you know of seamanship?
Will: Er, nothing.
Sparrow: What do you know of fighting at sea?
Will: Nothing.
Sparrow: What do you know of the code of pirates and our general naughtiness?
Will: Only what I hear.
Sparrow: Well, lad, what you're about to go through will be like nothing else in your life. Which isn't saying much, by the look of things.
Will: What do you mean by that?
Sparrow: You spend all your time making swords, practising with them, and hanging about on this frankly very boring port.
Will: Yes.
Sparrow: You should get out more, get yourself an earring, live the life of a vagabond prince. Bit of rock and roll.
Will: Is there full medical insurance with that?
Sparrow: If by 'medical insurance', you mean 'rum', then yes, indeed there is.
Will: Oh.
Sparrow: And not 'oh', you should be saying 'yarr'.
Will: Yarr?
Sparrow: And throw in the odd 'ahoy there'.
Will: Yarr.
Sparrow: Didn't you watch pirate films as a kid?
Will: No, my dad died before he could take me to the cinema.
Sparrow: Oh. Sorry about that. Well, when all this is over, we'll go to one of those big screens and I'll treat you to some pirate popcorn.
Will: Erm, can we rescue Elizabeth now?
Sparrow: Oh, yes. Your little lady. Right, where's the ships at?

Pirates of the Caribbean – Deleted scenes #4
EXT. Black Pearl upper deck

Pintel: Cap'n wants to see us.
Ragetti: Oh. Why?
Pintel: Think it's something to do with parley.
Ragetti: Parley?
Pintel: Apparently, everyone's been saying it different ways and he wants to establish a standard pronunciation.
Ragetti: EH?
Pintel: He believes that in the absence of a conformed and generally accepted tonal pattern for the word, we should impose some form of received or prescribed accent, incorporating elements of the original French with the modern English tongue.
Ragetti: Uh?
Pintel: Dunno. That's what the parrot said, anyway.
Ragetti: Am I going to get a new eye out of it?
Pintel: Prob'ly not.
Ragetti: It hurts, though.
Pintel: Well, you know what Cap'n Sparrow told you.
Ragetti: What?
Pintel: Should have gone to Specsavers.
Ragetti: I did that for my contact lenses when he told me.
Pintel: You got a great deal there, didn't you?
Ragetti: Yeah, and I get my monthly lenses delivered. Shame they all go to the Island of the Dead, though.
Pintel: If any more of those UPS couriers die there, they'll surely make you go in and collect them yourself.
Ragetti: Mmmm.
Pintel: That Island of the Dead gives me the creeps.
Ragetti: It looks pretty with all that gold, though.
Pintel: A bit too Terry's All Gold for my taste.
Ragetti: What?
Pintel: I'm not a big gold fan, too bling bling for me.
Ragetti: Oh. What do you like?
Pintel: Something subtle and understated. A small silver pendant, perhaps. A single pearl earring, maybe.
Ragetti: Black pearl?
Pintel: Why, do you know where I can find one?

[They laugh at this appallingly weak joke]

Ragetti: Oh dear.
Pintel: Ahahahaha.
Ragetti: Yarr.
Pintel: Yarr.
Ragetti: What does 'yarr' mean, again?
Pintel: Dunno.
Ragetti: It's in the Pirate Code Book, isn't it?
Pintel: Not sure. I lost my copy.
Ragetti: Crikey, best not tell Cap'n Barbossa. You know what he's like.
Pintel: I'm more worried about paying the library fines.
Ragetti: Just don't use Cortez' gold like last time. That's how we got into this mess.
Pintel: I thought that if it was a choice between eternal damnation or that librarian sending me nasty letters, then damnation was where to go.
Ragetti: Just send the monkey back with a note.
Pintel: You must be joking. That monkey hates me.
Ragetti: Hates me more. Keeps trying to nick my eye.
Pintel: Well, monkey see, monkey do.

[They laugh at this even more appallingly weak joke]

Pirates of the Caribbean – Deleted scenes #2
INT. Isla de la Muerta treasure cave

Barbossa: Jack, I last saw you marooned on an island with only one bullet in your gun.
Sparrow: Well, mate, you shouldn't have left me with a chance.
Barbossa: It's a mistake I'll not be making again.
Sparrow: Now now, no need to get the hump. How's about you give me back my ship, I leave you here dead and we all go off for a tot of rum?
Barbossa: No.
Sparrow: Not even the rum bit?
Barbossa: No, Jack. I'll keep the Black Pearl, you'll die and I'll be rich.
Sparrow: You see, that doesn't really work for me.
Barbossa: I don't think you'll have a choice.
Sparrow: You're forgetting one very important thing.
Barbossa: What's that?
Sparrow: I'm Captain Jack Sparrow.
Barbossa: I know that already.
Sparrow: Oh. I thought you'd forgot.
Barbossa: No. I hadn't.
Sparrow: Oh. You sure?
Barbossa: Yes.
Sparrow: Do that cool turning into a skeleton thing.
Barbossa: No.
Sparrow: Oh, go on. That's really well done.
Barbossa: It's not a toy, Jack.
Sparrow: Please please please. It really does look great.
Barbossa: Only the moonlight reveals us for what we really are.
Sparrow: Scary, huh?
Barbossa: Oh yes.
Sparrow: Can't you just quickly change? I haven't seen it in ages.
Barbossa: No.
Sparrow: Spoilsport.
Barbossa: What?
Sparrow: Nothing.
Barbossa: What did you say?
Sparrow: Nothing.
Barbossa: Yes, you did.
Sparrow: Oh, alright. I said, 'Spoilsport'.
Barbossa: I'm the captain of a pirate ship, a member of the undead, and I have cursed treasure. And you're calling me a spoilsport.
Sparrow: Do the changing thing.
Barbossa: Oh, for the love of … alright, alright.

[Walks into beam of moonlight.]

Barbossa: Are ye happy now?
Sparrow: Very. Thank you.
Barbossa: Good.
Sparrow: I'll just pop off and bring the whole film to a really satisfying, yet funny, conclusion now. See you later.
Barbossa: Er, right. Okay.
Sparrow: Byeeee.

Pirates of the Caribbean – Deleted scenes #1
EXT. Port Royal battlements

Norrington: Governor, I come to you about a sensitive matter.
Governor: Itchy scalp from the wig, is it? Don't worry, Commodore, send your batman around and I'll provide him with some of the talc I use. Sort you out in no time.
Norrington: No, Governor Swann, not my wig. I refer to a matter sensitive to us both.
Governor: Oh, I see.
Norrington: I thought you would.
Governor: But, Norrington, we will be able to replenish our whisky supply when the next ship arrives from England.
Norrington: No … Governor, no. I do not mean whisky. Our supplies will last for some months yet.
Governor: Thank God.
Norrington: I mean a matter of some personal delicacy.
Governor: Delicacy? As in entrées?
Norrington: No. Not entrées. It may have escaped your notice, Governor, but your daughter has become a fine woman. Fine indeed.
Governor: Yeees …
Norrington: And although my career has been blessed by fortune to see me promoted Commodore, there is one thing I lack.
Governor: A trouser press?
Norrington: No, Gover …
Governor: Whisky?
Norrington: I have told you, Governor, that we are well-stocked with whisky. What I lack is …
Governor: Oh my God. You don't mean …
Norrington: Yes.
Governor: … you're a eunuch.
Norrington: No. What? No. What I lack is a suitable wife.
Governor: Oh.
Norrington: And your daughter is of marriageable age.
Governor: Ah.
Norrington: I am asking you for permission to wed Elizabeth.
Governor: Well. Well, well. I suppose you could try.
Norrington: Try? Why, do you fear she will refuse me?
Governor: Hmmm, how do I put this? The thing is … she's not quite the marrying type.
Norrington: Not the type?
Governor: Yes. She's more a … tomboy.
Norrington: What do you mean?
Governor: [Looks around and coughs] Lesbian.
Norrington: Eh?
Governor: [Coughs louder] Lesbian.
Norrington: Oh. Right. I see.
Governor: Don't take it too badly, Norrington. Lord, you should have seen the blacksmith's boy when she told him. Not sure whether it was fear or excitement.
Norrington: Are you quite sure?
Governor: Positive. Don't worry, Commodore, there are plenty more fish in the … I, ah, suppose you know that already, though.
Norrington: Indeed, Governor.

Poor tactical decision
When the girl who works at Starbucks is on a break and standing sullenly by the staff doorway, yet when you enter the coffee shop her face then lights up, she smiles and brushes a stray lock of caramel-coloured hair from her forehead in your general direction, this may be a sign that she is pleased to see you.

Saying hello to her and suggesting that, in order to get to know each other better, she "might want to go out for coffee" is an incredibly poor tactical option to have chosen, when considering her place of employment. You may then decide that all your speaking privileges should be revoked for the rest of the day.

You may also decide that, on the plus side, your new haircut is worth every single penny of the under-£15 you paid, despite the fact that your 'sideburns' are not level with each other.

Beverage blogging
Hello all. It's time for tea.

Karen, though a little scruffy, has a pot of Earl Grey and a chocolate biscuit, but I'll leave the pack with her so she can have a few more, just in case. The very smartly turned-out Stuart can bring a cup over and share in the pot, as well as some cordial and a jug of ice-cold water.

S is a bit chilly today, and has requested a hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkes. In light of the commenting over at Pix's place, I'll provide her with a straw as well. Ask Karen for a biccie if there are any left. Ben gets a cup of strong tea in a black and white striped mug, as befits a fellow Toon Army member, and there's a pack of Hobnobs by your mug.

Adrian has some fruit tea, and has very kindly brought along a cake (in the shape of a bowl, and has hard candy letters scattered across the icing in honour of Alphabet Soup's conclusion) so, if you ask nicely, you can all have a slice. D, though sulking, can have his mocha and will have to be very quick on the uptake to get at the chocolate biscuits before Karen, Stuart and S finish them all. Slight latecomer Vaughan will also be having a mocha (with Nurofen, ahem), and is free to forage for any remaining biscuits (perhaps Ben might share his Hobnobs?).

Perennial latecomer Krissa (no excuses about time differences, please), aka our favourite New Yorker, is just coming in to avoid the onrush of an evil squirrel legion to collect her cup of English Breakfast tea, laced with a good measure of Bushmills. I presume that this is not her usual breakfast fare. Or is it?

Another of the evil troika, Kate, has also arrived late, to find that a cup of Assam has been made specially for her, and I've even put a few macaroons out, just in case she fancies one. Goodness, I had better pour another cup of tea in case Shiv turns up. So demanding, you three.

Finally, I shall have a cup of Lady Grey (which my colleague R tells me is also known as 'lesbian tea' for some reason), but no biscuits. I had a big lunch, you see.

Enjoy.

And relax
Over the past month or so, we've had absolution, beauty, confusion, a doorway, Elton John, forgiveness, my grandmother, history, ice, a jukebox, kinesis, lyrics, Mad World, New Year, opaque, a pest, quiet, revealing, sun, truth, unasked, vignettes, who, what, when, where why (and how), (e)xcited, you and Zola Budd.

It's been a strange mix of quotation, biography, fiction and emotion and, quite frankly, it's been a bit of a ragtag bunch of writings (not so much a meal, more a buffet), but I hope you've found something that you liked.

What I think I'd like is a cup of tea. And I'm sure you would also. So, pop your tea or alternative beverage option into the comments box and turn up between 4.00pm and 4.30pm, dressed reasonably smartly, and we shall have tea, sandwiches, dainty cakes and possibly a little dram of something stronger.

X is for (e)Xcited
(I get excited (you get excited too) – Pet Shop Boys, from the B-side of Heart)

We're both in the gutter, that's no surprise
What does it matter when I look in your eyes?
We've lost all our money, we're thrown out of bars
We're lying in the gutter but we're looking at the stars

I get excited, you get excited too
I get excited, you get excited too

I hear the sound of the subway, the sigh of the heat
the click of the visitors' heels on the street
the rattle of the taxi, the scream of the cars
the clatter of the dustbin and the beat of my heart

I get excited, you get excited too
I get excited, you get excited too
I don't know why, I don't know why
I don't know why, I don't know why

You're in my soul
My body moves to your control
Baby, I've been thinking about you
all night long and the neighbours are talking

I don't know why, I don't know why
I don't know why, I don't know why

We're both in the gutter, that's no surprise
What does it matter when I look in your eyes?
We've lost all our money, we're thrown out of bars
We're lying in the gutter but we're looking at the stars

I get excited, you get excited too
I get excited, you get excited too
I don't know why, I don't know why
I don't know why, I don't know why

Q is for Quiet
Hello, everyone. My name is Thomas Quentin. You can call me Thomas. I lost my voice on 23 March 2001, a Friday, and I haven't spoken since. Like car keys or an important letter, I can't remember where I left it. I've tried retracing my steps but, sadly, I still can't find it. You might think that it's difficult to live properly without a voice, but you'd be surprised. It's not that tough. I haven't learned sign language, I don't have any specific medical or neurological assistance, and I stopped my tests months ago. It's just something I've mislaid.

I get by with a notebook and a felt-tip pen. When I want something, I write it down. When people ask me, I show them the front page of my notebook, which has a small explanation about me. I rewrite this explanation on the twenty-third day of each month, fresh on the flyleaf of a brand new notebook. I get through notebooks fairly quickly, because I'm pretty talkative, and you should see how fast I write. All my notebooks are collected in my bag, all twenty-one of them. It's a permanent record of my conversational life.

I find that writing in capitals works best and avoids confusion, and my handwriting is neater now that it ever has been. I used to take time to inscribe each letter carefully, lingering over each stroke of my pen to ensure that the verticals are straight, that each word is level, that each drop of ink committed to my notebook is crystallised clarity. It is said that during the Second World War, decoders at listening posts could distinguish between different morse code operators by the way in which they tapped out those vital dashes and dots. The combination of these features of an operator's style came to be known as his 'fist'. So too are my ordered scrawlings.

H and E are the letters I have yet to master, both taking three separate strokes, requiring my pen to leave the paper twice unmarked for a millisecond's break before completing the letter. I've tried changing my handwriting to improve upon this, but somehow I always return to the same method. A vertical stroke down, curved at the end. I raise my hand for the bar in the middle, raising it again for the longer bar at the top. E. Perhaps if I wrote a semicircle cut down the middle, like a crescent moon, then a bar across the centre, that would be an acceptable alternative, but I haven't stuck with it. The motions of my hand become like a spoken accent; I can try and pretend to be Scottish or Australian, but my real accent always comes through.

I take care to buy a notebook, because it becomes my voice. The last entry of each notebook is "I'd like to buy this notebook, please" with an arrow drawn for indication, so I don't confuse the shopgirl. Sometimes the shop assistant looks confused and takes my old notebook instead. A few seconds of flicking through it shows her that it's neither unmarked nor new. My own scribbled diary, not in capital letters, cuttings from newspapers of interesting stories taped to the obverse pages, bold capital letters for my conversations, pages discoloured by spilled tea or rain splashing onto ink. When I get the notebook back, I sometimes get an apology, but mostly I don't. For some reason, having two notebooks in a stationer's shop is considered suspicious.

It's irritating that my surname begins with Q. To write a Q in my handwriting takes two strokes, one to form the O, one to strike down across the south-east quadrant, barring the wheel from motion. I want to be able to write it in one fluid motion, but it looks instead like a computer-generated zero, machine-printed onto green and white striped dot-matrix paper. I hate the look of that Q more than I resent the double motion to write it, but that doesn't make me feel better. Fortunately, my signature is a scrawl, otherwise I would be reminded every single day of my graphological failures. And Q doesn't appear very often in my life, outside my name.

I can't remember what my own voice sounds like. People don't hear their own voices very often, and even then they profess surprise that their accent is different from how they imagined themselves to sound. I don't have that choice. I can hear thoughts forming in my mind when I construct sentences, whether for a doctor or a shop assistant or just for my own reading, but I don't remember if that's how I really used to sound. Even when I form the words for lip-readers, I wonder if there is a way they can interpret my noiselessness as a dialect of some kind. It would be nice to think they can.

People often assume that because I can't speak directly to them, this means that I can't hear them properly and they shout at me. I've never been a big fan of loud noises, man-made or machine-made, and this is possibly the most annoying consequence of my muteness. Hand motions focused on the ear area, or my hand laid flat, palm down, motioning downwards, indicates to them that they can speak at a more reasonable volume. I have no desire to chastise or embarrass them, but just because I cannot transmit speech does not mean that I can't receive it. A fact which would be valuable for all to remember.

I may get my voice back one day, but my doctor isn't sure, because she isn't sure what exactly is wrong with me. I'm not exactly sure what's wrong with me either, so I have the utmost sympathy for her. She encourages me to write down how I'm feeling, but I don't like showing her what I write. We're locked in a little battle at the moment about how much I can share with her, and I think I'm winning. I've been cutting down on the sessions anyway. I don't think I have a psychological problem because I feel completely normal, other than the inability to talk. As I say, my voice is just something I've mislaid. I'll come across it one day, perhaps when I'm not even looking.

Thank you for inviting me here this evening. I think that someone has arranged an overhead projector for me, so if you have any questions, please feel free to go right ahead, and I hope you have your reading glasses. Thank you again.

O is for Opaque
You didn't need to speak, I already knew what you were thinking and I shared your mind. As I gazed over at you, you seemed nonchalant, as though I wasn't even there. You searched in your handbag for your compact and then studied the reflection in that tiny mirror. Your eyes darted across the silvery surface as you turned and angled your head, little finger wetted and ready to adjust a stray hair, to smooth an eyebrow, to remove some offending trace of overapplied blush or lipstick. With the most delicate of touches, you reapplied small amounts of makeup to areas of your face which I thought were already perfect. So I was wrong. Still you didn't acknowledge, in so many words. If your attention to facial detail was not for me, then for whom?

I saw bright lights and heard a bell ring. Still I sat motionless, drinking in my observations of you as though they were the last droplets of water in the world, committing every contour to memory for perennial recollection. Finished with your small beauty regime, you returned the compact to its home and continued to browse through your small, red bag. Beside you sat another bag, larger, easier to fit over shoulders, made of canvas, a paler red. I allowed myself the luxury of sweeping my eyes across you, though only certain parts were visible. I noticed a thread trailing from the button at the top of your charcoal, fur-lined overcoat and thought it unlike you to have left such a thing unmended. Mind you, I suppose you've been busy recently.

Your neck is pale, and I can see tiny blonde hairs on the back, waiting for me to gently purse my lips and blow across them when we embrace. Your earrings are unfamiliar to me, but they suit you well, bringing out the greyness of your eyes, closely hidden by half-dropped lids. But of course you're tired, it's evening and you've been working hard all day. That's understandable, and I would never disagree. There is a tiny smudge of pale bronze lipstick on your finger. I would never have noticed on anyone else, but because your skin looks as though it has never been stroked by sun, even such a light colour shows like neon.

You crane your neck as you bring your mobile phone out from your handbag, only briefly, before dismissing it with a return. No-one has called you. They will, you can't remain untouched in this world. If they all felt as I feel now, you would never have a moment's rest from the incessant pealing of ringtones like church bells. You will be called. I see you turn your head to look at me now, and my heart leaps. I think of what I could say, but vocabulary has deserted me. You gaze coolly over me, appraising me in the way I have appraised you, deciding for yourself whether I could ever be worthy. Finishing your silent inquisition, you arch one of your perfect eyebrows and then pull away.

I hope that one day we will meet somewhere more personal than on the top decks of two different buses, waiting at the traffic lights on the Euston Road.

W is for Who, what, when, where, why (and how)
Let's take a boy and call him Luc. Let's take a girl and call her, well, what can we call her? How about Aurelie? Yes, that sounds right, Aurelie. We have Luc and Aurelie. Let's put them in a busy place, like a large town or a city, somewhere in Europe. It doesn't really matter where in Europe, because they won't be taking windy walks by the Seine, admiring the architecture of Milan or getting hopeless lost around the Barbican centre. So, "somewhere in Europe" is specific enough for our purposes. Now, we should probably think about what they're like and what they do. Actually, their jobs aren't that important, so we'll make Aurelie a student and Luc a lawyer. Oh, but it does matter, doesn't it, because you've already formed preconceptions based on students you know and any stereotype you hold, as well as compositing all the lawyers you've met to form a rough image of Luc. So instead, they will both have jobs, but I won't tell you what they are. We'll keep things nice and vague, so I'll tell you that Luc has dark hair and Aurelie has fair hair, they're both average height and that one of them wears glasses, but the other one wears contact lenses. You can guess who wears which.

Luc meets Aurelie in a bar. They speak freely yet blandly at first then, warming to one another, they discuss more risqué and personal topics. More drinks are ordered and one of them suggests that they get a table rather than stand by the bar. The other one agrees, and they sit. They both smoke, and one of them offers the other a cigarette, which is accepted. They continue to talk, but one of them keeps glancing at the clock on the far side of the bar. The other notices this and asks whether it is time to go. The timewatcher demurs instantly, explaining that they were due to meet their former partner here to discuss money owed, but how this is a much more pleasant way to spend the evening. This explanation is understood and they continue to talk about the world, about themselves, about art, about sex, about politics, about money, and about everything other than what will happen later.

Okay, okay, I'll let you in on a little bit more. The person watching the clock was Aurelie, because her ex-boyfriend Laurent owes her some money and she could really do with cash right now. Aurelie is also the person who brought up the topics of art and money. She's been reading about Magritte recently and loves the picture with the apple. Luc was the table-suggester and he offered Aurelie a cigarette. He started the conversations about the world, about politics and about sex, although he felt a little bold to speak of sex and so only mentioned this tentatively, lest Aurelie think that he wanted to sleep with her, which he does.

Onward. Luc and Aurelie are having a fabulous time, sitting, drinking, smoking and talking. One of them compliments the other on their clothes, while one of them is desperately trying to resist biting their nails. One suggests dinner, the other accepts and they go to a little restaurant nearby, called L'Ecluse. One of them turns their mobile phone off surreptitiously, to ensure they won't be disturbed. A soundtrack to a popular film is playing in the restaurant and they order from the à la carte menu. When the wine arrives, they both stage a mock argument concerning who should taste it, but this doesn't last long. The dinner is excellent, only one of them has pudding, and they linger over coffee. There is no argument over the bill, a fact which pleasantly surprises them both. They continue to linger until one takes the step of asking the other one back to their flat. This plan is accepted readily, but not too enthusiastically, in case this sounds cheap.

Still following? Good. It was Luc who complimented Aurelie on her sweater, because it is a pale blue cashmere V-neck from a very expensive shop. The sweater was a gift from Laurent, but he doesn't know that. Luc is also the nail-biter desperately trying to keep his hands busy by almost chain-smoking, which he seems to think is better. Aurelie suggested dinner because she never eats breakfast and is usually starving by evening, lunch only being a sandwich. Luc tries the wine and opts for a rather chocolatey pudding which Aurelie, who has already switched off her phone, tastes and adores. They agree early in the conversation that they should split the meal two ways, which triggers a conversation about what the Dutch call "going Dutch" and where Luc does a very good Dutch accent that makes Aurelie snort, before she realises that this is far from a sexy noise. Aurelie suggests returning to the flat.

They both start walking back to the flat, but one of them spots a taxi and hails it immediately. When the address has been given, they sit back in the cab and continue their conversation, one of them making sure that there is no physical contact, the other person hoping that there will be a hand held, but this does not happen. There is only belated contact between them when they leave the taxi and one of them stands by the driver, paying him. They enter the flat, and the person who lives there shows the other one round, giving a brief tour so that they will know which rooms belong to flatmates and hence private. They sit on the sofa for a moment, before one jumps up and offers a choice of wine or coffee. Wine is chosen and, upon going to the kitchen, the tenant discovers that there are no clean wine glasses. The inhabitant returns, and allows the guest to choose between the transparent yellow mug of wine or the frosted half-pint glass of wine. They sit and talk for a while, mainly debating what CD to play and when the flatmates will return.

No prizes for spotting that they have gone back to Aurelie's flat. Luc hailed the cab and paid for it, and is simultaneously impressed and worried by the cleanliness and style of the flat. Although he has expected something like this from their conversation, he realises that his own flat is nowhere close to this level, and feels slightly down-at-heel for being here. He has tried to be the gentleman while in the taxi, not realising that when Aurelie mentioned how cold her hands were, this was his cue to try and warm them in his own hands. He wonders about Aurelie's flatmates and what they will say if they see him here. Aurelie is not worried about this, because she is too busy fretting about how messy her room is, while berating herself for assuming that they will make it that far, and she is cursing Corinne for not doing the washing-up. She wishes that Luc would just decide on a CD rather than leave it up to her, for fear that her music might embarrass her. She is also pleased because the wind has swept Luc's hair back a little bit and he looks much more handsome that way.

Eventually, one of them decides upon a CD and they sit, talking less now that they have music to listen to. Occasionally, one of them will interject with a comment about the music or about a memory which the music inspires. They move closer together on the sofa. A hand is placed lightly and carelessly on a leg. An arm is draped across a shoulder. The ridges of soft skin on lips meet together as their necks crane to reach one another, turning their bodies to meet, to impress themselves upon the other. Hands previously held soft now range across the entirety of the other, alternately caressing and kneading, as they attempt to touch every single part. Tentatively, a sweater is removed. Shirts are mutually unbuttoned while their lips remain tight together. One stops, and leads the other into a bedroom. The lights are not on, nor are they switched on, and the door is closed.

Does it matter who has done what at this point? I think not. Suffice to say that Aurelie and Luc are too busy to wonder about making first moves now, as they have moved into an entirely different realm of etiquette. Perhaps if the night goes well for them both and they see each other again, Aurelie may tease Luc that he seduced her, or Luc may call Aurelie a femme fatale for being so forward. Or they may simply look at each other with lights in their eyes, knowing that the first move was made by them both. If the evening is not a success and they find little physical chemistry, then, well, … well, let's wait and see. But I think they that will do very well indeed. Here's hoping.

I is for Ice
When I was younger, I went to a birthday party of a friend, D. I suppose I must have been about 10 or 11 years old, and the venue of the party was at an ice rink, I think it was the one at Lea Valley, but I'm not entirely sure. I had been ice-skating before and though hardly proficient, I was decent enough that I could skate without falling over, falling into someone or generally making a complete fool of myself. Hard though this may be to understand for anyone who has met me, but when I was younger, I was actually in quite good physical shape and with relatively good co-ordination.

I went over to D's house, where I had been a few times before, slightly earlier than the alloted time so that I could go up to his room on the top floor and play computer games with him for a bit before the entire throng of people descended upon the place. I recall that he had an Apple Lisa computer which, years later, I would repeatedly try to buy from him but he always refused. He also had the best collection of comics out of all of us, a trait which guaranteed if not popularity then most certainly a certain 'cool' cachet.

When everyone had eventually assembled and all the gifts and cards had been distributed successfully, we set off to the ice rink. I will spare you the procedural details for the main reason that I have forgotten them. Ice skates were acquired, a rendezvous point was established and we all went out onto the ice and skated around a bit. There's not much else to do at ice rinks. The convention, perhaps only at this rink, perhaps at all of them, is that everyone skates in a circle around the rink, and everyone skates in the same direction.

Except for one fellow, who decided that it would be both big and clever to skate against the tide.

Unfortunately for me, I didn't see this chap until he went straight into me. Being slender and light, I was naturally the one who came away from this encounter worst, falling over and knocking my head against the ice. This is not an experience I would recommend, by the way. Although the human head is fairly well designed for general, everyday use, it does not respond well to unplanned and hard contact with solid ice. With the help of one of my friends, I got back up and skated gingerly and falteringly to the side of the rink where D's mother was sitting, guarding the various coats and chattels we had all brought. I explained that I wanted to sit out the skating for a little bit as I had hurt my head and felt a bit of a headache coming on.

And what a headache it was. After a little while, everyone else came back from skating and we went to the rink 'restaurant' for the usual burger-style lunch. I recall that the food was of an exceptionally low quality, even for plain burgers, and that my headache had intensified to the point where I couldn't eat any of the food anyway. D's mother took me over to see someone or other of a medical nature (St John's Ambulance at an ice rink? I think my memory is playing tricks on me), explained what had happened, and I was told to take some tablets and lie down for a bit. Which I did.

Next memory: waking up and looking up at a white ceiling with dimmed, inset lights and feeling a small pinprick of pain in my right palm, then falling back into sleep.

Next memory: waking up very dehydrated and leaning over to see my mother asleep on a small camp bed next to my raised, and as I now discovered, hospital bed.

Apparently the delay between lying down for a bit at the ice rink and waking up to see my mother was two or so days, and the small pinprick in my palm was due to the nurses checking that there was still feeling in that side of my body. The reason my mother was staying with me was because the doctors at the hospital had told her that my left side wasn't responding to stimuli like a pinprick and they had feared that I would be paralysed entirely down that side, permanently. Not what any mother wants to hear about her child. For the entire time that I was unconscious, they had checked my left side once each hour and there had been no response until two hours before I woke up properly.

So, although I kept a headache for a little bit longer, I was kept in hospital for another day so that they could check that the left hand side of my body wasn't just faking the whole recovery thing to avoid hospital food, and I walked unaided out with my mother to go home. No permanent brain damage was sustained, contrary to the various comments of my peers. It may not surprise you to know that I have not been ice-skating since, because I have just a little phobia about it. Wonder why.

K is for Kinesis
Michael K. has been watching the woman sitting opposite him on the tube for seven stops. She is reading a translation of Baudelaire and she has only looked up from her book once, at Warren Street station. Michael K. doesn't have a book with him. In fact, he doesn't have anything with him, except for some money in his right jacket pocket and his ticket in his right trouser pocket. He wants to make sure that he travels lightly, quickly. The woman uncrosses and recrosses her legs, her handbag shifting slightly on her lap. This makes her trouser leg ride up, exposing a tiny glimpse of her ankle. Michael K. knows this but doesn't look yet. He stares at the cover of her book.

Perhaps she is Anna O., a translator checking that the editor of this book has been fastidious with the metre and vocabulary used in translating Baudelaire. Anna O. is looking through the volume to see if the translator has attempted to keep the poet's rhymes or whether the imagery is more important than the form. She may live alone in a small flat in Kensal Rise, with cats and a tall natural wood bookcase filled with novels and collections by Rilke, Vargas Llosa, Allende, Pynchon and others. The decoration will be bare because she will wear her paintings in her soul, with little need for anything larger, and she will await the day that an average-looking man leans across her in a gallery to read the display card by the Wilton Diptych and begin a conversation. Anna O. will arrange to meet this man for coffee by the National Poetry Library the next Saturday and after hours of chatting and walking, he will invite her to dinner. They will arrange to meet several more times and while she is undecided whether she likes him enough, some weeks later they will go back to his large flat one evening and she will have dull, passive sex with him because she feels she should.

Or perhaps she is Nicola D., travelling on her way to a meeting where she will discuss marketing and value and segments and optimising and other business words. Nicola D. will be the only woman at this meeting but she will be unfazed because this is how it is for her. After her meeting she will return to her office and pass by her sullen secretary who only becomes alive when she discusses her new fitness programme. Nicola D. will sit in her office and stare at the picture of her parents in a wooden frame decorated with sunflowers, the only colour in her otherwise lifeless office. She will attend further meetings and coffee chats with her colleagues until seven in the evening when she will turn out the lights and leave for home on a commuter train where no-one ever speaks to one another. Her suburban station will only have two platforms and every other train will miss the station completely, treating it as a branch line in somewhere obscure rather than as a bona fide part of London. There will still be no hot water in Nicola D.'s house because her husband has left for a holiday with the two children and has forgotten to telephone the plumber.

Maybe she is Lindsay N., on her way to meet her agent about a new play whose auditions she wants to attend and she will have smartened herself up from her usual bohemian and always just off-fashionable stylings. She will have attended many courses in acting and have spent many hours in cheap pubs discussing spirit of text or integrity of movement or essential balance between audience and actor, omitting most definite articles from her conversation. Lindsay N. will be convinced that every audition is certain to end in stardom and recognition, despite her friends' insistence that their sofas and floors are becoming worn from her sleeping bag, and that their fridges are empty from her midnight snacking. She will spend far too long looking in the mirror and yet will not notice that her hair shows flecks of grey at a premature age. She will get tipsy on vodka, lemonade and lime, and flirt with good-looking boys with black hair in the hope that they give Lindsay N. cigarettes and then light them for her.

She may be Olivia R., an assistant in the WH Smith in Paddington station, reading a favourite poem from one of her old French A level set texts. She will be travelling to buy one of her old school friends (with whom she lives) a birthday present before returning to work to gift-wrap the present and buy a card. When she returns to the house she shares with the birthday girl and three of her other friends, and all the presents have been opened, she will sit on a bean bag with a glass of white wine and reflect on why their presents are so much more lavish and expensive than hers. Then Olivia R. will go to the kitchen and do the washing-up, watching the smaller, second television balanced precariously on the counter next to the teapot, while the others gossip. She may choose to run a bath, she may just sit on the edge of her bed and sob noiselessly for a while. Then she will lay out her clothes for tomorrow.

The tube train stops. The woman gets up and leaves. Michael K. leaves also, to follow her. His steps match hers as he gets closer and closer. He taps her on the shoulder and she turns. They speak. The doors of the train close and I can't quite hear what they're saying. I look over at another man, sitting a few seats away from me as the train leaves. Perhaps he's Michael K. instead.

S is for Sun
Helia, the goddess of sun, sat in her throne and surveyed the world beneath her with a small smile. She glanced over to where her consort, Mars, lay asleep by the olive grove. She dragged her gaze back to her world. In not one country, in not one city was there rain at the moment. Clouds had receded, their greys replaced by pure azure, winds had died down to stillness and the little blue and green planet under her charge was basking, having its moment in the sun. It had not always been thus.

In days of legend and terror gone before, where mighty war had split faction from faction, when heroes had fought and died for their kings, their gods and their ships, the weather had also entered the blood-soaked fray. Bold rain lashed down upon the sailors as they readied their mizzens and clung tightly to their masts, marshalling their vessels to engage the enemy across undulating oceans. Stark thunder flashed and darted across fields where the slain outnumbered the survivors, each peal of light and noise echoing across burnished shields and abandoned blades. Blunt winds calloused the faces of men, young and old, who had taken up their weapons and departed for unfriendly shores and violations.

And Mars had walked among them, stirring hearts to valour and acts of desperate heroism, calming minds for ruses and strategies, plunging deep within the simple man to bring him to greatness. He knew his affair, to pace through conflict stroking the plumes of the victorious and consoling the vanquished, feet stained with the blood and remains of generations. He knew his affair well.

One remorseful day, when the whistle and snap of the canvas in war camps was punctuated solely by the laments of the widows, Mars travelled awhile from the scene of carnage and wandered through peaceful glades where, brushing the fronds from his hair, he came upon a riverbank. He saw young Helia, daughter of Jupiter, laying idly by the water, brushing her hand in the stream as it passed along, composing and tickling lyrics from the air as though they were small fry from the river. Her eyes, brown as molasses, sparkled as the words danced through the leaves. Her hair, dark, fair and reflective to all the rays from her busy sunshine, tumbled to her shoulders in curls and waves, bending and curling like the sails on a trireme. Her skin was smooth and pure, caressed by the rays.

Mars approached her and lay beside her. "Fair Helia, how can I win your heart?" he asked. She laughed, the sound skimming across the water's surface, and replied, "Noble Mars, never will we be married while your days are spent in the sacking of youth. I bring sun, while your rain and lightning and mist fight against me and against the poor mortals who parry and thrust their way to Pluto's arms. Until they rest in my warmth, neither shall you." Mars thought awhile, the great warrior experiencing the most glorious and tortured of battles within his own heart. He stood and made to leave, turning back for a moment. "Princess Helia, I shall return to you and we shall rest beside one another once more."

Moving across his battlefields, Mars toiled in the work of ages, bringing restitution to the wronged, succour to the grieving, joy to the damned and peace in the place of discord. He banished his former lieutenants of the skies and, after five years of labour, prostrated himself before Jupiter for the hand of his daughter. Imperial Jupiter spread his arms across the expanse of the world, saying "Over this, I have dominion, but over a daughter? Mars, you must return to her yourself. It is only her answer that you must hear." He returned to the riverbank and saw her there, unchanged and unchanging, still plucking her stories from the sky, as though they were the strings of a harp. She turned upon his approach, stood and took his hand. They returned that night to Olympus where they wed.

And still wherever Helia travels, she brings her warmth and light, a bluer sky and a brighter day.

F is for Forgiveness
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession." The dread words of my childhood. The concepts of reconciliation, penance, contrition, attrition, absolution, trespass, transgression, satisfaction … all are ingrained within my head, but that was all just terminology. Somehow dressing up the actual act in long words (well, they are for a nine year old) removed it from the real world, and yet the motions of going to church, sitting in the pew, waiting until I was next in line to visit the confessional, entering, kneeling and saying those two sentences were partly squirmingly embarrassing and partly terrifying. Also, did God really need to be bothered about the fact that I didn't tidy my bedroom?

"To err is human, to forgive divine." I keep coming back to this little phrase. The erring part is no problem for me at all, and the forgiving side, while slightly more problematic, is not usually too difficult (though, as with so much, that depends). It's an interesting word, isn't it? Forgiving. For giving. We can use it in positive and negative senses, to imply that someone is not easily slighted and has no interest in pursuing vendettas, or to intimate that something can cover up our cracks and mistakes: "mmm, yes, cartoons are a much more forgiving medium than watercolours". It's even more emotive than that other dread word, 'sorry', because it's used less.

Forgive and forget. I never understood why we had to both forgive and then forget. If we have already forgiven the other person (or people), then where is the harm in remembering? Unless, of course, we haven't properly forgiven them, or we didn't mean it, or they didn't mean it, or we just used the words to end a particular argument or chapter rather than actually taking stock of the situation and genuinely offering them forgiveness. Will our remembrance then reopen our own little Pandora's box? After all, it can be easier to say the words without feeling the sentiment than to pause, explore our own emotional condition, and then respond honestly, kindly and openly. However, the situation may simply come down to the question, borrowing a phrase from Trollope via Tennant, "can you forgive her?".

Is there a capacity limit on forgiveness, I wonder? Like a Monopoly game, we begin with a certain amount of absolution currency, which we then spend throughout the rest of our lives until the bank refuses to lend us any more. We can receive more 'money' to add to the stock we are allowed to dispense, though this might seem to imply that we should commit more acts which require us to be forgiven, and I'm not sure that any organised religion would necessarily be happy with that. Or do we have a limitless and unbounded reservoir of forgiveness to bestow on others according to our whim, our largesse?

I believe that this all comes down to the dynamics of power. Just as the priest (supposedly) has the power of the spirit of God working through him to absolve me of my sins, provided I am suitably contrite, so too do I have the power to forgive someone who has wronged me by stepping on my foot, stealing my car or breaking my heart. Forgive us our trespasses and those who trespass against us. "I absolve you" in the context of organised religion becomes a "That's okay" in normal conversation; we lose the language of sin – thank goodness – and yet retain the issues of power.

Forgiveness is particularly interesting here because the 'forgiver' is simultaneously the stronger and the weaker: they are in a position of relative power over their friend, relative or partner because they have the ability to grant or deny forgiveness, yet they are the weaker because the other person's act has impacted upon them to such a degree. Likewise the penitent has harmed their own status by their dependency on absolution, yet they are stronger because they have managed to force such an issue, intentionally or otherwise. Short version: no-one wins. And if you think that just chanting a few Hail Marys will sort it all out, then you're luckier than you know.

Don't get me started on leading us not into temptation.