Greater London House

This is intended as an exercise in “stream of consciousness” and description. The location is real, but I am not going to “let the facts get in the way of a good story”. Don’t take it seriously!

When I worked for Foster Wheeler Power Products, they were based in Greater London House, opposite Mornington Crescent tube station.

The building is distinctive and famous. It used to be the Carreras Cigarette factory before it was converted to offices. When I was there it was painted a cream colour and had lost some of its decoration. It has subsequently been restored to something like its original glory. It really is a spectacular building. An art-deco Egyptian temple in the middle of London!

The building takes up a full block. It’s a slightly irregular shape to fit the site. The main building stands on pillars and it has a car park underneath. Viewed from above it is a “ladder” or extended figure of eight to allow for light wells through the building. Foster Wheeler’s offices were on the second floor. Power Products has since been absorbed into Foster Wheeler Energy (or sold to Rolls Royce) and moved to Reading.

When I was there I remember the office had a suspended hardwood floor which was taken up to install some specialist equipment. The windows were original Crittall steel. One unusual aspect was that the goods lift in the North-West corner of the building had a set of doors which served the outside world, and another set of door opposite which led into the building and the man who acted as the security guard and goods inwards controller had a desk in the lift which he rode up and down all day! Maybe it wasn’t that unusual, because the tube station at Mornington Crescent has a similar arrangement where the ticket offices are in the lifts. If you wanted to buy a ticket (everyone I knew, including me, had a season ticket) you bought it in the lift. I tended to use the stairs from the platform level, even though they were really only intended as an escape route. They wound their way around a circular shaft.

 (31st December 2016 – 328 words)

This is another one of those “scenes without a story”. The idea came to me, and I thought I would write it down. I don’t know what “the plot” is supposed to be. I think this would be an opening for a story. It creates all sorts of possibilities. The “back-story” is just that. Not part of the story, but the ideas I have in the background.

Watch Changeover

John stretched and glanced at the clock. It was coming up to change-over time. Usually he wasn’t too bothered whether it was early or a little late, but today he had something to say, and that made it all see a little more important. He poured himself a mug of coffee, scratched behind his ear and waited.

He was sitting in the communal area. The crew of every ship developed their own traditions as to how they did things. Traditions evolved as new members joined and old members left. Eventually it felt as if the tradition belonged to the ship itself, rather than the crew members. Of course, there were procedures, but traditions mattered too. On the “Scarab”, the tradition was that changeover took place in the communal area. They had other traditions too; like dressing formally for meals. They even wore pretend paper neck-ties, anything to vary the monotony.

Peter came in. He poured himself a mug of coffee, pulled back a chair, sat down and yawned.

“Morning. Anything exciting happen overnight?”

It struck John that talking about morning and overnight was another one of those traditions. This ship operated according to a variation of Earth Zulu time, even though that was completely irrelevant out here.

John took a sip and answered “Yes. For a change something has happened. Do you remember those spikes of static, we were wondering about?” Peter nodded. “Well I think I may have found an explanation but there’s something even better first”.

John paused for effect and watched as Peter leaned forward. “Well?” He drawled. “What is it? We could do with something interesting around here.”

“Here it is.” Said John, pointing at a diagram on his notepad, “You can see here,” he indicated on the screen, “that we have an incoming object. On its current trajectory it will cross our path during your shift.”

“Oh! I shall look forward to that,” yawned Peter. “Have you told Head Office? And I don’t suppose there is any risk to us, is there?”

“Yes, No and No” smiled John. “Yes, I sent an alert as soon as the systems spotted it, no, there is risk to the ship. It should be visible as it passes, and no, there is no risk to the Earth either, and there is a little more.” He was enjoying this.

Peter took a leisurely sip from his mug and looked at his colleague. “Well. Do go on.”

Back Story

I imagine this story set some time in the future. This is not the super-hi-tech world of Star Trek. There is no faster-than-light drive. Communications are at the speed of light (and over long distances that means slow).

Mankind has made it to the planets if not the stars. One of the things that has happened is that we mine the asteroid belt. Most of the actual mining is automated. Robot machines mine an asteroid and process the material into convenient lumps of metal, which are then boosted into a long elliptical orbit back towards Earth. It’s a convenient way of getting around pollution problems but does present problems with energy (sunlight is a bit diffuse out there).

One of “the jobs” is that there are people who make long slow trips around the asteroid belt inspecting how the robots are getting on and picking up the products and sending them Earthward (or sunward) if you prefer. The habitable parts of the ships are fairly small. People do it for various reasons, mostly money, some to break drug habits and “forget” and some unpaid as a variation on Community Service or a prison sentence. Most of what these people do could really be done by automated systems but there is a desire to have someone on the spot to make decisions, so the systems have been adjusted to give the people something to do.

Of course, this story is partly ripping off “Rendezvous with Rama”!

Note: I found this file on 31st December 2016 while doing some end-of-year tidying up. I'm posting it here, but not including it in my exercises for today.

(655 Words. Originally created: 22^nd December 2015)

See also: follow-up

Glen Douglas

This is intended as an exercise in “stream of consciousness” and description. The location is real, but I am not going to “let the facts get in the way of a good story”. Don’t take it seriously!

The A82 road runs along the west bank of Loch Lomond. At Inverbeg, just south of Tarbet, there is a turning off to the left which is marked on Google Maps as “Tulloch Road” and I remember being signposted as “Glen Douglas”. The geographic features in that part of Scotland mostly run roughly north-south Glen Douglas is an exception, it cuts across the mountains to the eastern arm of Loch Long and the A814 heading north towards Arrochar. Although it is a more direct route, it is the long way round. I had noticed the sign-post over the years and one time decided to explore it on my journey to the west.

When you turn off the main road, the road through Glen Douglas rises steeply through a couple of hairpin bends. After that it continues for several miles along the bottom of a flat-bottomed Glen. The single track road (“with passing places”, the signs remind you) runs along the bottom of the valley with the river at the left and the mountains rising steeply on either side. There are places where the road is “grass up the middle”. There are few houses on the road and only a few farms off to the side. You are unlikely to meet another vehicle. Apart from a few trees in the shelter of the valley bottom the vegetation is mostly rough pasture and heather. All is quiet and the landscape is beautiful, in the rugged way which is typical of that part of Scotland.

As you continue west the first indication you will get that something is changing is the presence of a fence on your left separating the road from the river. The fence is over 2 meters high, made from chain links. The posts are concrete with a crank at the top to support several strands of barbed wire. The fence is old but well maintained. From time to time, the fence and the river change places. Sometimes the river is between you and the fence, sometimes it is the other way round. From time to time you may notice small clusters of buildings in fenced compounds on the other side of the fence. They are usually screened by stands of conifers.

The next thing you are likely to notice is two rows of electricity pylons. They cross the valley from North to South and at the point they cross there is a private road turning which crosses the fence in a cluster of buildings and is sign-posted “Private Road. DM Glen Douglas”. As the road descends to Loch Long it enters a conifer wood and there is no view to either side.

 (30th December 2016 – 443 words)

Film Sets, Star Trek, Star Wars and Reality

This is piece is not intended as either fiction or well researched fact. Instead, it is just musings and ramblings. I’m trying to maintain the habit of writing regularly. Don’t take it seriously!

I have read several SF stories recently which look at the contrasting ideas of “reality” and “virtual reality”. It’s a popular topic at the present because advances in computer technology are making the unreal more realistic! I don’t want to talk about people becoming lost in virtual reality or anything like that, instead I’m going to write about how what we mostly agree is “unreal” is actually impinging on reality. Yes, it really is…

Have you ever stood on a film set or a stage? In particular, have you ever had the opportunity of looking at it from the wrong angle, an angle which the director did not intend it to be viewed from? Many sets are intended to be seen from one particular angle, seen from any other they look distorted and distinctly unreal. They lose their magic and become definitely physical. They become masses of plaster, fibreglass and paint. Sometimes they look very odd indeed.

The physical life of sets can be a problem. They wear out! I read somewhere that on the original Star Trek sets, the doors on the elevators were actually operated by people behind the scenes pulling and pushing the doors manually. That’s about as low-tech as you can get. One of the reasons was the appearance of “Next Generation” changed so much was that the sets had to be re-made and the producers took the opportunity to spend a little (probably quite a lot) more money.

Spending more money can be a problem though. If you have seen the original Star Wars movie (the one now called “A New Hope”), then you may remember the ramp of the Millennium Falcon. The story goes that once again the ramp was “manumatic” that is to say, it was actually operated by some stage hand operating a winch to raise and lower it: simple, cheap, but a little crude. For “The Force Awakens” the crude manual arrangement was replaced by something more expensive. Unfortunately, the designers didn’t take the possibility of people doing unexpected things into account. This contributed to what might have been a very serious accident which injured Harrison Ford. (Daily Telegraph) That is an example of “more expensive” not necessarily being better and the “unreal” (the film set) having a very definite impact in the real world (the injury to Harrison Ford).

Let’s go back to Star Trek. I am aware that as the franchise has developed and more series and films have been created the production people have maintained records of what they have done and the details of what things are supposed to do. What do “di-lithium crystals” really do in Star Trek universe? When you think about it, this sort of record-keeping is essential if you are to avoid too many of the continuity errors and plot inconsistencies which those who study artistic creations, and especially series of artistic creations, love to spot and point out! The production people are creating historical records of events which never happened and detailed technical descriptions of imaginary technology.

If we flip back to Star Wars again, I heard an interview on the radio where someone described how for the more recent Star Wars movies, the sets and individual props were created in a 3D modelling tool. That makes excellent sense. Many of the larger props will never actually exist on the film set, they will be created as “Computer Generated Images” (CGI), so originating them inside a computer (Virtual Reality) makes complete sense. It even turns out that some of the digital models used actually started life (?) in video games.

This is where it all starts to get even stranger, because when I said that “the larger props will never exist on the film set” that is true, but it does not mean that those same props will not exist in the real world! A substantial part of the income from Star Wars and Star Trek comes from licensing toys and memorabilia. According to what I heard, the better quality (plastic) models and such-like are created from designs which are derived from the same 3D models which were used to create the graphics in the film (there’s an anachronistic use of language for you) and in the video games.

So there you have it: digital models of virtual objects, be it the USS Enterprise (whichever version you fancy) or a light sabre are used to create both images and tangible objects which you can pick up and which can do you real physical harm. It makes you think!

(29th December 2016 – 756 words)

The Asteroid Belt

This is piece is not intended as either fiction or well researched fact. Instead, it is just musings and ramblings. I’m trying to maintain the habit of writing regularly.

I’ve just finished re-reading Iain M Banks’ “Surface Detail”. One of the locations he uses in the story is the “Tsungarial Disk”, a group of several million dormant space factories orbiting around a gas giant planet.  It got me thinking about the locations for simple low-tech science fiction: the asteroid belt, the rings of Saturn and the moons of Jupiter all make potentially interesting locations.

I’m going to concentrate on the Asteroid Belt for this piece.

The asteroid belt has lots of characteristics which make it a really good location for drama.

First of all, “asteroid mining” gives any protagonists a reason to be there. There is plenty written about it on the internet. That means that there are plenty of facts which I can use if I choose.

The asteroid belt is a long way away. According to Wikipedia the main belt is between 2.2 and 3.2 Astronomical Units (= orbit of Earth) from the Sun. It is a very dispersed body of things. (Assuming closest possible approach) That would mean that messages would take a minimum of 9 or 10 minutes to reach the Earth. That would make conversation impossible. Instead you would have to send messages and wait for replies.

The asteroid belt is (apparently) very dispersed. I had imagined it to be like a shoal of rocks. I was wrong. Most of the time you can drift through it without any real risk of bumping into anything. Collisions do happen, but they are rare.

One of the issues to think about would be what source of energy to use. The light of the sun would be very diffuse from that distance. Harvesting solar energy would be possible but it might not be practical. That would seem to indicate that I’d have to consider nuclear power of some sort, and/or using something found on the asteroids themselves for a source of energy.

There we are: ration written!

 (28th December 2016 – 315 words)

The Shadow – Part 2

The following day, on my way to the pub, I decided to take a look down the road with the Wrighton factory. I don’t really know why. I was curious, I suppose. I wondered if I would get any clue about the man I had noticed the previous evening.

At the entrance to the cul-de-sac I noticed the name of the road “Rosemead Road” and realised that although I had lived in the area for years this was the first time I had noted the name. It’s funny how you notice things for the first time. There was no reason for any traffic to use this road, it didn’t lead anywhere except to the gates to Wrightson’s at the end. There were cars pulled up on the pavement. Some of them looked like they hadn’t moved in a while. The 50 yards or so of the road were lined on both sides by small office or light industrial units. They were all boarded up, they had fences in front of them and the gates were all locked. Grass and other vegetation was starting to take hold here and there. When I reached Wrightson’s gate, looked hard at the padlock on the gate. It didn’t look like it had been disturbed. The gatehouse cum security lodge was boarded up and dorbed with the usual tagging graffiti. On its flat roof buddleia had gained a foothold and grasses were growing in the gutters. The whole place exuded an atmosphere of decay and abandonment.

(22st December 2016 – 260 words)

The Shadow

The Shadow - Part 1

Imagine a man who doesn’t seem to live in any one place. No, he is not a vagrant, at least not in the conventional sense. He has resources and money but somehow he manages to exist without being pinned down in any one place. He’s a bit like Harry Lime in “The Third Man”…

The first time I noticed him it was late at night and I was leaving the pub. I followed him down the road. Followed is not quite the right word. We were walking in the same direction and I was walking about 25 yards behind him.

By choice I live in a run-down part of town. It was always cheap, but it used to be convenient for work. It’s not convenient for work anymore, because work moved away. I remain in my house from habit rather than anything else. Some people would describe the area as “rough”. Maybe it is, but nobody bothers me.

Anyway, this man was walking down the road ahead of me. I was a little surprised when he turned left in the direction of the old Wrightson factory. I was surprised because I know there are no houses down that road. There is nothing down there at all except factory buildings and they are all boarded up. I suppose I assumed that he had gone down there to relieve himself. That’s not very hygienic but people do it and it’s none of my business what they do or where they do it. I continued past the road end and glanced down there, it’s well enough lit and you can see right to the end where the gates of Wrightson’s close off the end of the cul-de-sac. There was nobody to be seen. There are no obvious exits. So there he was, gone, or maybe you would say “there he wasn’t”. I was puzzled but put it down to it being night and me having had a skin-full. Perhaps there was some way out of that road that I wasn’t aware of. I wasn’t going to hang about wondering about it so I continued on my way but  I have to admit, I really was puzzled.

(21st December 2016 – 363 words)

“87 Degrees” – Moonrise

He grasped the wheel and looked down at the binnacle where the compass card wallowed lazily, its luminous face visible in the darkness. The boat was heading eastwards. He released the lashings on the wheel and peered forward. His eyes strained to see anything beyond the boundaries of the boat. There was no horizon and he felt that he was sailing through dark nothingness. The only light came from the stars overhead, their occasional reflections on the surrounding sea and the glimmer of the hurricane lamp in the cabin around the hatchway. The only sounds were the hiss of the bow-wave and the occasional slap of a wave on the windward side. He could feel a gentle breeze on his right cheek.

Gazing ahead, quite suddenly he became aware of a bright silvery blue light bobbing in the darkness ahead of the forestay. As he watched it grew larger and brighter. It was the full moon rising in the sky. 

As the moon rose it seemed to separate the sea from the sky. For the first time waves became visible in silver track between the moon and the bow of the boat. Absentmindedly, he stepped around the wheel and, holding it with one hand, switched on the echo-sounder. Returning to the steering position he watched the flickering red bar. No definite indication of a bottom at all. He was sailing alone, over a bottomless ocean towards an unknown destination. He turned his attention forward again towards the moon rising in the cloudless sky.

 (20th December 2016 – 256 words)

“87 Degrees” – Waking for the second time

The second time he woke he felt different. Somehow he was more aware of his surroundings, more connected, more awake. He threw back the sleeping bag which was draped over him and swung his legs onto the deck. It seemed like the first time for everything. Everything was new, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He recognised that he was in the saloon of a small sailing yacht. The small space was lit by a hurricane lamp which was suspended above the chart table opposite. It had been tethered so that it could not bang into the bulkheads.

He stood up, stepped across the saloon and steadied himself on the chart table. Above the table the number “87” was written on a grubby whiteboard. On the table lay a chart where someone had laid out a course and seemed to have been tracking it left to right. The chart contained very few features, just a few scattered rocks and islets some distance from the plotted course. He did not recognise the area depicted on the chart.

In the corner of the saloon stood a pair of waterproof trousers, their ankles fastened around rubber seaboots. He pulled on them on, slipped the braces over his shoulders settled the top of the waterproofs around his chest. He paused for a moment and then opened the hatch.

It was a moonless night. Overhead he could see nothing but stars. The sea and sky blended into velvet blackness. There was nobody in the cockpit and nobody visible on deck. Someone had lashed the wheel so that the boat was sailing a fixed course in the steady wind. He stepped around the pedestal of the steering position and looked down at the compass card which bobbed gently. He read that the boat was heading eastward. He was completely alone in the darkness and silence.

 (17th December 2016 – 310 words)

“87 Degrees” – Waking for the first time

He woke slowly, as if he was swimming upwards towards the light. His head hurt and his mouth had an unpleasant taste. His vision was slightly blurred and somehow the room seemed unsteady. Did he have a hangover?

Slowly he wriggled free of the sleeping bag. He was dressed in underpants and a plain white tee-shirt. He swung his legs off the bed and onto the ground. It was then he noticed that the bed he had been sleeping on was unusually narrow and the floor seemed to be sloping away from him. Gingerly, he leant forward and stumbled towards the other side of the narrow room. Catching hold of the cabinet he staggered sideways he opened to door of a wardrobe and flung himself down on the tiny lavatory bowl he found inside. Lifting himself to pull his underwear down to his ankles, he relieved his bladder and paused to wonder how he had known there was a lavatory in this cupboard? Feeling suddenly nauseous he turned and spat into the bowl. His mouth tasted rancid. He brushed his hair backwards with his hand and felt a large bump on his forehead above his right eye and felt the crust of dried blood. Pulling up his pants he crawled back to the bed, leaving the lavatory door to slam shut.

As he sat on the side of the bunk, he noticed that on the opposite wall there was a small whiteboard where some writing had obviously been erased, leaving only a multi-coloured smear and the number “87”. He did not know what that could mean and did not care. He pulled his legs up onto the bunk, drew the sleeping bag over himself and went fell into a dreamless sleep.

 (16th December 2016 – 291 words)

Sponsorship Interview – British Steel

Over the year leading up to my A Level exams I made a lot of trips on my own. The trip to Middlesbrough left a lasting impression. I think I interviews from other potential sponsors. I have an impression that I had an interview with Courtaulds, but I may be confusing it with an interview in my final year.

This is what I remember my interview for the sponsorship with British Steel. The journey north was an adventure. I took the train from Euston to Darlington and then changed to a diesel-multiple-unit to Middlesbrough. It would have been a train to Saltburn. I found the idea of actually visiting Darlington (as in “The Stockton and Darlington Railway”) interesting in itself. I remember looking at the structure of the station building.

My interview was an all-day affair. It was held in the Royal Exchange Building which was close to the railway station. The morning was lots of psychometric tests and the afternoon was some sort of board interview. I remember that the tests involved me doing all sorts of things, including some where I had to use my left (non-dominant) hand to draw lines. I don’t remember that much about the board interview, but I got the sponsorship which made my life at University financially secure.

(15th December 2016 – 219 words)

Daily “Memoirs” exercise for when I’m not doing anything which I regard as “creative”. This is written almost stream-of-consciousness and is not edited very much afterwards.

This would be in 1974 or 1975. I was 17 or 18.

Choosing a University Course and Job 

This is what I remember about how I chose a University and indirectly, my first job, The action would have taken place in 1974 and 1975. I was 17 or 18. Looking back, some of this thinking may have happened a little earlier. Things can get squeezed together by my memory.

The decision making process

Like most teenagers I didn’t really know what I wanted to do. I had formed the view that I wanted to go to university, but I didn’t know what course and I didn’t have a clear idea of what career I wanted to follow. I had filled in all the careers advice forms. What I remember of the careers process sounds rather negative, but it wasn’t unhelpful at the time.

The limited careers counselling I had convinced me that there were lots of things I didn’t want to do. There seemed to be a bias in the system to direct me towards what you might call “office work”, and that wasn’t what I wanted. Maybe I was simply being contrary, but I felt I didn’t want to be stuck behind a desk (although that is what happened in the end) and I didn’t want to be commuting into London (though that happened too).

Choosing a Subject

I remember that I had some kind of hankering to be involved in “engineering”. That is almost certainly because of my Father’s background. The subject I was best at and the one I enjoyed most (at least partly because of the influence of Dr Medinger) was Chemistry. From there it was a short step to “Chemical Engineering”.

To be honest, I didn’t really know what Chemical Engineering was. I saw it as a subject in the prospective for several Universities, read the blurb, and thought “that sounds ok”.

There was probably some interaction between my choice of Subject, my choice of University and my Sponsorship. I don’t really remember which came first. In don’t think I would have chosen “Fuel Technology” without some idea of British Steel and I know that Fuel Technology (which is just a special case of Chemical Engineering) was definitely in my choice of courses.

Choosing a University

Having at least roughly identified the subject I wanted to study, the next step was to choose a university. I remember deliberately “hedging my bets”. The topic I had identified was “Chemical Engineering” but the subjects I applied for where “Chemical Engineering”, “Applied Chemistry” and “Fuel Technology”. On the advice of the careers guidance teacher, I aimed high, middle and low. That is to say, I chose courses and Universities which covered a range of exam outcomes. As far as I remember, the list went something like this (The order is uncertain, but I remember UCL was at the top and Aston Applied Chemistry was at the bottom):

• ·         University College London – Chemical Engineering (no, I don’t know why I didn’t choose Imperial College)
• ·         Manchester UMIST – Chemical Engineering
• ·         Aston – Chemical Engineering
• ·         Sheffield  - Fuel Technology
• ·         Aston – Applied Chemistry

That makes 5. As I said, the sequence is uncertain and I think UCCA may have allowed a 6th. It could be that I applied for 2 courses at either UMIST or Sheffield.

I know I had an idea that I wanted to get away from London. UCL was a deliberate choice. I think I was attracted to the ethos and particularly Jeremy Bentham!

I also remember that I took the opportunity to travel to all the prospective Universities. I remember seeing quite a lot of Euston Station and being excited by travelling. I have the idea that I had the brown chalk-stripe suit by this stage! I must have looked like a gangster!

Sponsorship

My earlier brush with the Royal Navy had persuaded me that “sponsorship” was a good idea. I knew that my parents did not have a lot of money and that I was the first from either of their families to think seriously about third-level education.

The idea of sponsorship appealed in several ways. It provided an additional income during term-time. The amount before it impacted my grant probably sounds trivial (I remember about 5 pounds a month), but was equal to what I finished up paying for a room each week in my final year. It provided guaranteed, relevant employment for the long vacations (also good for the finances, as well as for the course). Finally, it provided a firm prospect of a job at the end of my course. It was almost a guaranteed job. It all seemed like a good idea at the time and even with the passage of time and hindsight I still think I made some pretty good decisions.

I remember going through directories in the Careers room and looking for every company which would sponsor courses in Chemical Engineering. I know there was interaction between my choice of courses and my choice of potential sponsors. I remember applying to lots of companies including British Steel in several different guises (definitely Stewarts and Lloyds in Corby and Teesside (where I finished up)).

I have the impression that I applied to pretty much everything. In the end British Steel Teesside (what had been Dorman Long) sponsored my university course.

There are more stories to follow.

 (14th December 2016 – 876 words)

Daily “Memoirs” exercise for when I’m not doing anything which I regard as “creative”. This is written almost stream-of-consciousness and is not edited very much afterwards.

The Moon

Have you ever seen the moon rise over the sea? To begin with there is only starlight and no horizon. You are adrift in the middle of darkness: stars overhead and their reflection on the sea below. The only sound is the gentle his of the bow-wave and maybe the slap of a wave against the windward side. Behind, if you sneak a glance, the expanding wake of the boat trails luminous behind.

Then quite suddenly there is a bright light ahead. It may take you by surprise. The moon itself seems to create the horizon, to separate the sea from the sky. As it grows the effect increases and as the moon rises it casts its reflection towards you, always directly towards you, forming a straight, bright track over the waves.

The light of the moon is different to sunlight. It has a different quality. Colours are bleached and shadows are darker. The artist paints with a palette of blues and greys. The billowing sails rustle as the wind changes and everything seems unreal.

 (12th December 2016 – 177 words)

10 minute writing exercise without preparation.

Introduction – Memoir – Coal, Coke and Gas

This entry is a new departure. I decided that I want to write regularly. If it is to become a proper habit, then I probably need to write every day. The nominal target I’m going to set myself is 300 words per day. The problem with a target like that is that I don’t want to put pressure on myself to be “creative”, but I still need something to write about. On the one hand I want to avoid the risk of becoming “blocked” and on the other, I want to produce something useful.

I already do the “Morning Pages” each morning. The Morning Pages is a useful exercise, but what it produces is completely unstructured and often repetitive drivel. To me that doesn’t count as “creative writing”.

What I have decided to do, is to start writing my memoirs (sounds like a Victorian old soldier). I will use the memoirs as something I can fall back on to fill in the spaces when I have nothing creative to say. I hope that this will serve the purpose of allowing me to establish the writing habit, which I can then use for several purposes.

I do not intend to plan these memoirs. Instead they should be regarded as simply “notes for memoirs”. Although they will form part of the creative blog, I do not consider them to be truly creative. They are there mainly to give me a guaranteed something to write about while at the same time encouraging me to write down what I remember in a semi-structured way, so that I may be able to use it in the future.

Where possible in the memoirs I will include relevant references and sketches for diagrams. All the time the emphasis is going to be on “getting it down on paper” (or magnetic patterns on some sort of medium) so that it can be referenced and searched. I am deliberately not going to try and be impartial. Instead, I am going to write from a stated point of view – mine and from a particular time – the time when the events took place.

That’s the first day done. Let’s see how it goes from here on.

 (13th December 2016 – 371 words)

Mrs Bennett’s Christmas Party

I’m not enjoying this Christmas dinner. The food is good. In fact, the food is very good, and plentiful, too plentiful for my taste, but I’m not enjoying the surroundings or the company. All the same, I’m glad to be here.

I look at the food on my plate: the inevitable turkey, but also a slice of ham, roast potatoes, golden with slightly frazzled corners, parsnips and a variety of other vegetables. There is really more there than I want. I prefer a less fully loaded plate. If I want more I can ask for it. 

I only really know one person here, my Father. He’s content, he enjoys the company and that is a good thing.

The people round the table can be divided into two groups: the carers and the “cared-for”. Looked at like that, my Father is “cared for”.

They say that “birds of a feather flock together” and that is what has happened here. Three unrelated families have combined together to address their common need. Each family has someone who could not manage alone. Each family has people missing, partners or parents who died or could not stand the strain and ran away, or brothers and sisters who are always too busy with their own concerns.

Despite being by far the oldest here, my father is not the least able, no, not by a long way. The worst I have to cope with is getting him to and fro. Of course, that means I cannot drink, but that’s not such a high price to pay for a Christmas dinner and a little distraction.

Mrs Bennett is acting as host. Her daughter Claire is 30 and has cerebral palsy. Although it pains me to think it, she is the classic “spastic”. Her legs will barely support her, her hands move jerkily and unpredictably and her head droops to one side. She has to be fed, and her eyes have a vacant look most of the time, though her face does brighten sometimes, particularly when she looks at the Christmas tree. There is someone home, at least some of the time. Mrs Bennett has another daughter. She was injured in a car accident and hobbles around on crutches which limits how much she can share the fetching and carrying.

The remaining two men are brothers. They are both late middle aged, I suppose the older one is in his fifties and his brother is a few years younger. I don’t know what is wrong with the younger brother. It isn’t obvious at first, but he doesn’t speak, he walks with a shambling gait and all his movements are clumsy. He seems happy enough, in a withdrawn sort-of way, but his brother looks care-worn and drained. Not only is his hair grey, but his face seems grey too. Maybe he is younger than he looks. I suppose that he was left looking after his disabled sibling when he parents passed away or became too frail to cope. Like me, he is the loser in a tragic game of pass-the-parcel.

So there you have it: four men and three women sharing a Christmas dinner. We take comfort, if not pleasure, in the company. We go through the motions. The elderly and the disabled have no choice and the carers have a choice but find the alternatives unacceptable.

There will be no witty conversation around this table. There will be little laughter, except when we watch, dutifully, whatever light entertainment Mrs Bennett chooses on the TV. Love, guilt and resentment make a bitter-sweet cocktail. There is a plentiful supply of all of those here this afternoon.

When the guests depart we will go our separate ways. All of this seems inevitable or predetermined. Lives on fixed paths, like railway tracks or lives suspended and put on hold. Unless something changes in the meanwhile we will return, next year, to Mrs Bennett’s Christmas Party.

(12th December 2016 – 652 words)

I'm pleased to say, this is fiction.

Canal- Side:

He dropped from the wall onto the towpath. Overhead the fog billowed and the walls of the cut reflected the sound of each step. Debris and fragments of ice bobbed about on the oily surface of the canal.

He marched towards where the canopy of a warehouse overhung the basin on the far bank, giving protection to the loaders. Lamps flickered and he could see silhouetted figures moving purposefully to and fro. Keeping to the shadows he slipped past and took shelter under the bridge. Overhead a passing cart rattled over the cobblestones and a horse exhaled with a snort, adding it’s contribution to the fog. The cold was gnawing at his bones. He rubbed his hands together, put them under his armpits and squatted down, leaning his back against the bridge brickwork. It was going to be a long night.

He came to with a start. He must have dozed off. Shaking himself, he came to full alertness and directed his gaze towards the warehouse on the far bank. He could smell the coal fires of…

(5th December 2016 – 177 words)

Written without preparation in about 15 minutes. Meant to be an “atmospheric piece”.

Based on real canal locations in Birmingham between Dartmouth Circus and the city centre and just north of Brentford.

In answer to my own question: coal does not float. I tried it out!

Airports - An experiment with "Flash Fiction"

Flash Fiction: Can I tell a story in 300 Words

Subtitle: LHR, AMS, VIE, DME, OVB

It was late September when Peter Symon presented his ticket for Vienna and checked in his bag at the KLM desk in Heathrow Airport. His breezy “I don’t expect to see that again” was met with a forced smile. The bag was found but he wasn’t.

In Schiphol Peter changed flights. He bought a cheap raincoat in duty free and found time to shave and discard two small packages. He left his glasses in the wash-room. When he glanced at his boarding card he could see it said “DME”. He boarded an Airbus bound for Moscow.

In Domodevo Peter presented his battered passport at immigration. The woman behind the glass screen scowled. He looked nervous as he was led away.

Peter looked around the grubby office. “Things have changed a bit since you were last here” said the official in heavily accented English. “I suppose they have” replied Peter.

“You were expected. Your loyalty, or lack of it, has earned you a trip to Siberia. There’s no purpose in running” said the official. “Do you have any luggage?”

“I expect it’s in Amsterdam” frowned Peter. The official nodded. “In that case, here is all you need. You have 2 hours to wait till for your flight” he said, sliding the passport across the desk between them.

Peter glanced at the back of shiny passport, inspected one of the hundred-rouble notes and looked closely at the boarding card. It read “OVB”.

“Novosibirsk is pleasant at this time of the year. The days are still warm, the leaves have started to change colour, and the first frost has not yet come. I will show you the way out” said the official.

And Pyotr Pavlovich Semyonov went to buy a cup of coffee and live out the remainder of his life.                                                                                                (1st December 2016 – 298 words)

This whole story is intended to be slightly ambiguous. Also, the final paragraph/sentence is a play on "and he lived happily ever after". The LHR etc in the subtitle and the story are the IATA codes for the various airports.

Watch Handover 

Jeff took a sip of his coffee and leaned back in his seat so he could look at the stars outside the window. The mess-room had been decorated in wood-grain effect panelling in an attempt to make it more “homely”. The attempt had failed utterly.

The door slid open and Jeff greeted the visitor with a cheery “Morning Tom! I’ve got you your usual” as he gestured to a container of orange and a plate with two slices of toast.

Tom grunted in reply, flopped into the seat and took a sip of juice and a bite of toast.

“Did you sleep well?” continued Jeff, glancing at the screen in his hand. His eyes ran down the list of items. Nothing particularly notable to draw his opposite number’s attention to: only one scheduled event and a couple of things to watch out for.

Tom swallowed and replied: “No, not really. I’m not sleeping well at the moment. Don’t know why. It’s not like anything has changed. Anyway, enough of that: anything to report?” He took a screen from a pocket in his overalls and held it in his left hand, while taking a bite of toast.

Jeff looked at his screen. “Everything is working as it should. There in nothing untoward to report at all. The last spell has been downright boring.” He gestured to something on his screen. You can see that in a couple of day’s time we’re due to pass Ceres. The mines there are due to release a cargo Earthbound. We probably won’t need to stop though.

Tom nodded and then indicated something on his screen. “What about this? Do we have a visitor?”

Jeff grinned. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. The sensors have detected something inbound, and it’s due to cross our path about the time we’re passing Ceres. You’ll want to monitor it, but I expect it’s just a dirty snowball. Boring!”

Tom nodded again. “And those pulses of communications interference we were getting?”

Jeff scrolled down his screen. “You can see here. I ran the diagnostics and left the system monitoring things but it’s all rather inconclusive. It’s difficult to be sure whether there it is a very minor internal fault or something outside. I haven’t been able to establish anything for certain. I was hoping to either cross it off the list, or leave you something positive to do. Sorry.”

Tom shrugged and grunted. “Not your fault.”

Jeff looked at his companion and, touching his screen firmly with his index finger, and changing the tone of his voice, clearly enunciated “You have control.”

Tom replied by pressing his screen and said “I have control. Enjoy your break.” He got up to leave. As he was leaving, he turned and asked “Are you going to the ‘pub night’ next week?”

Jeff looked at him – “Yes, I thought I would this time” he said. “It breaks the monotony, doesn’t it?” Tom nodded in agreement and left, allowing the door to close behind him.

Jeff collected the remains of breakfast, tipped the scraps into the garbage disposal and put the plates into the dishwasher. Then he set off for his cabin, leaving the mess-room unoccupied.

 (28th November 2016 – 536 words)

An experiment with dialogue. I'm not entirely satisfied with it.

Better to leave well alone

Better to leave well alone

Do you believe in resurrection? I don’t mean as an article of faith, or in a metaphorical sense, or even in the macabre way you see in horror movies, I mean literally. I have seen the dead walk in broad daylight. It was both a pleasant surprise and deeply unsettling. Let me tell you about it.

I don’t know if anyone ever owns a cat. We have a cat that visits us periodically and allows us to feed her. She also allows us to open doors and condescends to sleep on a chair by the fireside. The neighbours on one side call her “Blackie” and we, showing no imagination at all, simply call her “Cat”.

Cat is plump, sleek and black. She has thick, shiny fur with a white star, or spot on her belly. She lives her own life. She comes in and out at times she chooses and woe betide the servant who does not open the door or bring sustenance when she requires it, because she is complains loudly.

The other day I was returning home from business. As I turned into my drive I noticed a black bundle lying motionless in the road a little beyond my house. As it wasn’t far away, I parked my car and walked back. There, lying motionless in the road was Cat, dead, the victim of a road accident. I prodded her corpse with the toe of my boot. There she lay, not apparently injured but motionless: fur dishevelled and slick with the drizzle, green eyes sightless and dull, beauty broken. Saddened, I turned back to the house wondering what to do.

I’m not particularly sentimental, but it seemed improper to leave her there on the road to be ground into the tarmac like refuse. I went to the garage, put on a fluorescent jerkin and picked up a shovel. Then I returned the 25 yards or so to the body, slid the shovel under it and lifted it up. There isn’t much weight in a cat. I could tell from the way the shovel slid under her body that rigor mortis was setting in.

The question now was: what to do with her? I rested the shovel, with Cat, on the top of a boundary wall while I considered what to do. This wasn’t something I had planned at all. I suppose I had intended to carry the body home and bury her in the garden, but that would have required digging a grave and the ground is stony. Instead, I waited for a break in the traffic and crossed to the other side where a small copse separates the field beyond from the road. Placing Cat on the verge, I reached down into the ditch and scraped a hollow with the shovel. I placed the body into the hole and dragged the autumn leaves across to cover it. It was the shallowest of shallow graves. There were no prayers and no tears but I felt melancholy as I trudged home in the light rain.

Imagine my surprise when, as I walked down the drive, out from behind my car walked Cat! She marched up to me and rubbed herself against my legs, mewing loudly. As the drizzle was turning to rain, I opened the back door and she swept past me while I turned to the garage to put the shovel away. On my return indoors I found Cat in her usual station, on the chair by the fireplace. She watched me as I laid the kindling and lit the fire. All the time she had that look, which said: “Where have you been? Hurry up! It’s cold outside and I need the fire. And by the way – Where’s my tea?”

What had happened? Obviously there had been another cat which looked very similar to our Cat. It was this second, unknown cat which had been killed, and which I had buried. Except of course, there is room for another explanation.

When my wife returned home I told her what had happened. All the time we were being watched by Cat. My wife said: “Don’t you remember? Siobhan (one of my daughters) sprinkled the cat with Lourdes water.” And that was true. There was the tiny bottle of water, sitting on the kitchen table, and there was Cat, sitting on the chair beside the fire, washing herself.

So now there is the tiniest doubt in my mind. It seems just barely possible that I have been witness to a minor miracle and Cat has been granted an additional lease on life. I suppose I could try and put the conflicting explanations to the test, but the rational side of me has no wish to go digging for in a ditch for a corpse, and the part of me that hopes for miracles is reluctant to look, afraid of what I might, or might not, find. Sometimes it is better to leave well alone.

 (20th November 2016 – 825 words)

Awakening

We woke from a dreamless sleep to darkness and silence. Our chamber was lit only by starlight. The clouds of our breath hung in the frozen air.

We are aware of you in the distance. You have no reason to suspect that we exist. You will continue on your present path. You have no reason to deviate from it. Your projected track will cross ours in the near future, at a time which we can estimate and does not even occur to you. You will make no preparations for the encounter, but we will. As you draw closer, we will listen and we will watch. We will be ready, you will not.

We were waiting. We are watching. We are coming!

 (14th November 2016 – 114 words)

An exercise in writing a prologue or beginning for something longer. This is intended to be menacing. It is almost stand-alone. The beginning of the story proper will start fresh and be disconnected.

Conversation – “Turn up at the page”

(Direct speech)

A: “Have you completed writing that piece yet?”

B: “Not quite. I’m putting the finishing touches to it right now.”

A: “You should have done it ages ago. I’ve been so worried, what with that and all the other things you are supposed to be doing for me.”

B: “Just relax and let me get on with it. You know I told you that I wrote something on the first day. It’s in the folder. That would have done at a push. There has never been anything to worry about.”

A: “But you never seem to treat these assignments with the seriousness they deserve, and you’re always putting things off until the last moment.”

B: “You know that’s not true. This isn’t the last moment, and I’m certainly not rushing to complete it. It’s flowing easily from the pen, or at least from the keyboard keys.”

A: “There you go again! You’re dismissing me, not taking things seriously enough. How do you expect to write something good if you don’t agonise over it and spend ages editing it and polishing it?”

B: “But you know that’s the point, don’t you see? I’m good at editing things. I’ve been doing it for years. English grammar (of a kind) comes naturally to me. What I struggle to do is produce something which flows, has a little dynamism, a little ‘punch’. The easiest way for me to produce that is to imagine the characters and listen to them talking, which is what I’m doing right now.”

A: “I’m so cross! You know you are just using me! You’re taking advantage of me!”

B: “Yes. I suppose I am, in a way. Look, I’m grateful for your contribution. You provide the drive and the editorial input. There it is – finished! You can edit to your hearts content now. Satisfied?”

A/B: Silence…

 (24th October 2016 - 307 words)

Johnnie (with adjectives)

(Description with adjectives- Past Tense, Third Person. This is stream of consciousness, from the Morning Pages.)

Johnnie Campbell walked like a duck! You wouldn’t dare say it to his face, but he did. He thrust his chest forward and stuck out his arse. I remember him (or maybe it was someone else) telling me that he had broken one or both his ankles at some time. Maybe that was the explanation.

At work he wore a long brown warehouseman’s coat and a white hard-hat which was set at a jaunty angle. He always wore a blue shirt to work. I’m not sure if it was always the same shirt, maybe he had several. At the neck was a dirty brown knitted tie. That was always the same. There could hardly have been two like it! It was dirty and its colour shifted from one end to the other. Nobody else wore a tie at Someplace.

When Johnnie was washed and ready to go home he looked smart. Still the same shirt and tie, but his face was polished and his grey hair combed and he wore an old, but smart, tweed jacket.

They were all characters at Someplace. They all seemed to dress distinctively. There was Arthur Fothergill, the Manager. I’m sure I remember him having a grey raincoat which he wore with a belt tied round the waist. Maybe it wasn’t a belt at all, but a length of rope, like a tramp. He was a lean man. That is all I remember.

When Someplace closed, along with everything else at Somewhere, he went down to Redcar. That must have been a hello a way to lead up to retirement.

Davie Foster (the called him “Doctor Foster”, or “The Black Doctor”) wore a grey warehouse coat. I seem to remember that he was the only other person who wasn’t clean shaven. How times change!

 (23rd October 2016 – 321 words)

Johnnie (without adjectives)

Johnnie

(Description without adjectives- Past Tense, First Person)

I remember Johnnie, or maybe it was someone else, telling me that he had broken one or both his ankles in the past. Maybe that was the reason he walked the way he did. He thrust his chest forward, stuck out his arse and swung his legs as he strode along. It made him waddle like a duck! But nobody would dare say that to his face.

All the foremen and management at Someplace were characters. The production workers wore uniform overalls, but each of the supervisors dressed as an individual.

When Johnnie was at work he balanced a hard-hat at an angle on his head. He wore a blue shirt, beneath a dust-coat, and round his neck was a brown knitted tie which changed colour with grime from one end to the other. Nobody else wore a neck-tie at Someplace, but Johnnie did. Before he left for home at the end of each shift he washed and polished himself and put on a tweed jacket, but he retained the blue shirt and brown tie which rather spoiled the effect. I hope he changed them when he got home.

Many years before Johnnie had done his National Service in the Airforce. It still showed in his bearing. He was Scotsman and he said that he disliked the base in the east of England because the country had no hills. Goodness only knows what had made him come to Somewhere, probably work, like the rest of us. He said that when he left the Airforce and first came to Someplace his hands had blistered when he first shovelled coal. That had been a lifetime ago.

 (23rd October 2016 – 291 words)

The Argument (Second Person!)

The Argument (Second Person!)

(Second Person – Future Tense – This is unsettling!)

You will change trains at Darlington. You will hurry along the platform to the waiting diesel train. When you climb aboard, you throw your bag into the overhead rack and throw yourself into a seat. You will notice that the carriage was almost empty and that it smells like a damp dog. You will notice the rivulets of condensation as they run down the inside of the window, as you settle to watch the rain outside.

When people start to join the train a couple will take the pair of seats opposite you, on the other side of the chipped Formica-topped table. He will be was wearing a stained khaki jacket, and holding a bundle wrapped in a black bin-liner, which he will stuff into the luggage rack. She will be smartly dressed in tight jeans and a tailored black jacket. You will assume that they are together, because they will keep exchanging glances.

Outside, the guard will blow his whistle. The steady rattle of the diesel will rise to a roar, and, with a jerk, the train will lurch forward and pull out of the station.

The man in the khaki jacket will lean towards the young woman and say something which you do not catch over the roar of the diesel. She will shrug her shoulders and look away, out of the window, at the passing buildings.

 (16th October 2016 – 245 words)

This is rather unsettling, both to write and to read. I imagine it feels strange to listen to as well.

The Argument (Third Person)

The Argument (Third Person)

(Third Person – Past Tense)

Tom changed trains at Darlington. He hurried along the platform to the waiting diesel train, climbed aboard, threw his bag into the overhead rack and threw himself into a seat. The carriage was almost empty and smelled like a damp dog. Rivulets of condensation ran down the inside of the window, as he settled to watch the rain outside.

People started to join the train and a couple took the pair of seats opposite him, on the other side of the chipped Formica-topped table. The man was wearing a stained khaki jacket, and holding a bundle wrapped in a black bin-liner, which he stuffed into the luggage rack. She was smartly dressed in tight jeans and a tailored black jacket. They were obviously together, because they kept exchanging glances.

Outside, the guard blew his whistle. The steady rattle of the diesel rose to a roar, and, with a jerk, the train lurched forward and pulled out of the station.

The man in the khaki jacket leaned towards the young woman and said something which Tom did not catch over the roar of the diesel. She shrugged her shoulders and looked away, out of the window, at the passing buildings.

 (16th October 2016 – 210 words)

The Argument (First Person)

The Argument (First Person)

(First Person – Past Tense – This is derived from the original)

I changed trains at Darlington. I hurried along the platform to the waiting diesel train, climbed aboard, threw my bag into the overhead rack and threw myself into a seat. The carriage was almost empty and smelled like a damp dog. Rivulets of condensation ran down the inside of the window, as he settled to watch the rain outside.

People started to join the train and a couple took the pair of seats opposite him, on the other side of the chipped Formica-topped table. He was wearing a stained khaki jacket, and holding a bundle wrapped in a black bin-liner, which he stuffed into the luggage rack. She was smartly dressed in tight jeans and a tailored black jacket. They were obviously together, because they kept exchanging glances.

Outside, the guard blew his whistle. The steady rattle of the diesel rose to a roar, and, with a jerk, the train lurched forward and pulled out of the station.

The man in the khaki jacket leaned towards the young woman and said something which I did not catch over the roar of the diesel. She shrugged her shoulders and looked away, out of the window, at the passing buildings.

 (16th October 2016 – 217 words)

This is the original version, scribbled in a few minutes in class. I’ve transcribed it here with very few alterations.

Listening is what I do best (First Person - Loving)

(First person – Loving, Kind – Present tense)

Listening is what I do best. I sit here in the twilight listening to someone I cannot see and who cannot see me. We are supposed to be anonymous, but that is a fiction. I usually know who is sitting there, and they certainly know who I am. In a sense though, I’m not me at all, but someone else entirely.

They come to me with their troubles and the things that are troubling them: the things that weigh down on their shoulders and make them sad. I listen to what they say, and give them relief for at least a little while. They come to me with their misdemeanours and I give them the means to wash themselves clean again. Like little children they will get dirty, but they will be clean for a while, and that is important.

Listening is one of the great services I provide. It is so personal, so private and so intimate. Of all my sacred duties, this listening is one of the greatest, behind that greatest service of all, when I am lost, transformed, transfigured and they are fed.

I have heard so many things here, from the serious to the trivial, but who am I to say what is trivial? That is why the listening is so important. It is important that they feel that someone has heard them, and I feel it is important that, through me, he hears them, that he hears their cries and, in his mercy, through his grace, grants them forgiveness.

Now I hear sounds from the adjoining space. What will I hear in a few moments? Yes, there will be the formula, and the excuses, but what will I hear? Perhaps I will become witness to some tragedy, or complicit in some felony, I cannot tell. These things I do know: This is important, it matters to them and it matters to me. It is important that listening is what I do best.

(9^th October 2016 – 348 words)

Listening is what I do best (Cheerful)

Listening is what I do best

(Third person? – Friendly, Cheerful – Past tense)

“Listening is what I do best” he used to say. Then he would lean back, take a long pull from his pint and create that pregnant silence for someone else to fill. And he was good at listening. When someone started talking, filling the silence he had left, he would lean forward, his eyes focussed on their face and follow what they were saying intently. His grey eyes opened wide as he followed their words and he would nod or shake his head to demonstrate that he understood the significance of what they were saying.

Jack was certainly a good listener but he was a good talker too. That was why people used to join him at the table and buy him drinks. People would even hover behind those who were seated and strain to hear what he said. When the first speaker had finished, Jack would pick up the thread and start weaving his own story.

Jack’s stories where the stuff of legend. He didn’t talk about the usual pub topics of: politics, sport, current affairs or the state of the nation. Instead he would take whatever the first speaker had been talking about and slowly turn it into something else, something strange and other-worldly. As often as not, he would start with “I remember when…”, telling the audience about some event in the distant past. Then the magic began. He would draw people into the story as slowly it became more and more bizarre and eyes opened wider and jaws dropped lower.

The best tales involved fishing. None of the audience doubted that Jack had once been a keen angler, but in his tales he had landed fish that should have required a trawler to bring them ashore. The “ones that got away” were larger still. People recounted one occasion when Jack described himself riding one particular monster down river like a surfer until it eventually escaped him in the sea.

Jack was certainly good at listening, but most of the regulars in the pub, and plenty of visitors, thought that what he was best at was telling stories!

(7^th October 2016 – 363 words)