Coogee Beach Jones by Al Muhit

PART 8

Resume:Wal buckles, Beccy takes valium, charms the airline clerk and they are successfully checked through security when the flight is cancelled due to bad weather. Wal books them into an expensive hotel while they wait for the next flight.

Soon they were in a suite at the Alpine Inn explaining to Rebecca that the armed guards were to protect all the people in the hotel, not just to keep her there. She seemed to accept it and went to have a bath. Wal was on the phone like a shot.

He called Rebecca's mother and updated her. She told him Tessa, the aunt, was in the air. He called the hotel in Delhi, that he had booked from Manali, changing his booking and leaving a message for Tessa.

Next he called the New Zealand High Commission in Delhi. At 8 on a Saturday night he was put straight through to Priscilla Clark, who listened quietly to his story. He told her that he didn't think he could handle another day like this, and asked what should he do if the police became involved. She said it sounded like he was doing very well and how nice it was to meet a parent who cared. She went on to say the she would go and see Tessa in the morning and meet him off the 11 am flight. Her advice for dealing with the police was to ask for the most senior officer and only deal with him. Wal had been operating on an instinct that if he stayed in the most expensive hotels and talked only to the top people he would be ok.

When Rebecca returned from the bath she seemed to be almost normal, except that she still believed that because of the power of the mountains, the people from Verisht would come after her, and that she had to die. Wal strengthened by her confiding in him, took this paranoia in his stride. They ate in the room and after dinner he and Rebecca went for a walk.

The hotel was a modern mountain resort and happy Indian families were dining by lamplight next to a beautiful river which raged through the bottom of the gorge.

They sat on a swing and talked, Wal finding it strange to reconcile this peaceful moment with fighting and screaming in the taxis. Rebecca talked about her trip so far in India.

Rebecca had been holding a crystal for most of the time since Wal met her. In Manali she had said it represented the power the Verisht people held over her. She had shown Wal how it had cut her, even when she just touched her leg with it. When Wal tried to show her that it had a jagged edge and that it would cut anyone's leg she had pulled back from him. Now she threw it into the river as a gesture to Wal, and herself, that she was breaking way from the evil power of Verisht.

That night they slept peacefully. The Good Samaritan once again cleverly guarding the exit with his bed on the floor. Next morning Wal took a photo of the Good Samaritan dressing a smiling Rebecca's wrist wounds.

At the desk checking out, Wal fell into discussion with a couple of the men from the cancelled flight. He told them what he was dealing with, which turned out to be a good thing because when they got to the airport again Rebecca began to get paranoid about everybody. The game was reassurance, without crowding her.

Wal gradually informed more passengers of his situation and when a traveller Rebecca recognised, from Verisht, turned up, the other passengers distracted her from coming near Rebecca.

As the plane climbed out of the narrow gorge Rebecca said " It is going the wrong way. It is going North! "

" Planes take off into the wind " Wal said "it will turn around." Wal hoped it was indeed going to turn, and not go to some other strip before heading south. It turned.

to be continued ...

Cover Picture

Photo: Roger Morton

They say Oxford is a cycling town but I guess some bikes are luckier than others.

News quiz

Roger is an aficionado of the radio. He should be writing this but he's full of the cold and he's at the pub with his son. I don't mind because I loved the show so much. It was a perfect evening, especially for October 16th in London. We drove from Oxford to Muswell Hill, where we got the key to our daughter's house so we could leave our ancient laptop and overnight bag. We then parked the car and hoofed it to the bus stop, where an obliging 134 arrived almost immediately. We leapt out at Archway and made a fast dash to the tube where we made an executive decision to stay on the Northern Line till Tottenham Court Rd then change for Oxford Circus.

We had a people bath most of the way up Regent Street as we headed for the Turkish Restaurant. Our friend, Mary was waiting for us on the pavement and from then on in, it was a delightful dawdle. The place was spacious, the staff were smiley and knew what they were doing. My steak was perfection and the wine wasn't bad either. Our timing was very slick and we made the doors of the BBC in plenty of time for the 7.15pm start. I didn't dare make eye-contact with any of the queue that stretched around the block.We showed our passes and made our way through the heavy revolving doors.

After visiting M's office and her staff at Radio 7, we headed to the rarified Radio 4 recording studio of News Quiz. The place was packed. Our seats were down the front and from there on in, I laughed with total innocent abandon.(Anxieties and imminent worries all shelved and forgotten.) It was a hoot.

Carelessly dressed in mucking-out jeans, some shirt or other and a perfectly ordinary sleeveless pullover, Sandi Toksvig was in charge. Peter Donaldson read the news items. Convincingly.

Simon Evans and Fred MacAuley were in one team. Sue Perkins and Jeremy Hardy were in the other. Sue P has a great face and she is fearless and feisty and left-wing to die for. She is very funny. Sandi thought so too. Sometimes she simply threw her head back and roared helplessly with laughter. It was very effortless and seamlessly quick. Stuff like "Legg heads arms body." There were plenty of references to the libel lawyers and the editing of the ripe language was predictable and so lamentable. Maybe one day, they'll leave it in or some young blade will bang it on YouTube. Whatever. I came out years younger. I felt like I used to feel once upon a time. At one with the world.Then we went to the pub with Peter D and some of his neighbours and Simon whatsit .... fun night.
Listen to it every Friday at 6.30pm or the following Saturday morning, or download the podcast.

Joselyn Morton
The News Quiz 

New End Theatre, London

Negative Space

We caught the last night of the new play Negative Space at New End theatre, Hampstead. It was directed by Tom Hunsinger and written by Rachel Sternberg and Jemma Wayne. It dealt with the impossible pain a family suffers when an 11 year old daughter disappears whilst waiting to be picked up after her flute lesson. She is never found. Neither the mother, father or younger sister know what happened to her, can ever forget her or start living their own lives without her. The fifth character, Darren is around the same age as the sister who disappeared and he has woven a vicarious relationship with the remaining sister.

Time flitted backwards and forwards and it was a stretch for Roger and I to fit the jigsaw in place as (due to long queues at Stansted airport, the bus drive to Golders Green and the taxi ride to the theatre) we did miss the first 20 minutes even though we had a very slick arrival as our friend Yehudi arranged with the kindly front-of-house manager to guard our bags and take us up the fire escape to the back row. Nonetheless even with our antennae on full-alert it was not straightforward to figure out what was going on.

The missing daughter Calllie was expertly portrayed by April Pearson, her father's princess in a tidy school uniform. The other sister Hannah Tointon blasted her way through the less-sympathetic role of Samantha very ably and determinedly. Russell Floyd as the Dad of two very different daughters was quite heart-rending and although Susan Sylvester was sometimes endearing as the mother, she did not despair enough. She was not devasted enough by the dauther's death. She was too much a girl guide (but maybe her grieving happened in those first missing 20 minutes.) Equally the character of the Samantha's friend Darren played by Jamie Harding was not convincing. He vascillated. He wasn't a nerd or a geek or a perv or a victim or a freak. He wasn't perfectly formed at all. He was lumpy and needed working on and I'm not sure Jamie Harding was capable of making him any more convincing than what we saw.

The stage design however, was convincing and innovative and evocative of the various emotions it was called upon to realise. I loved their use of the walls. (I yearn to stick my clothes up just like that and yank them off as needed.) They cobbled together a double bed in two-shakes of four boxes. Pretty good.

I did wonder why the cast didn't take an encore - it was the last night after all. Our end of the audience was particularly enthusiastic.

The play could transfer. It has an audience. The following evening, I heard of two families whose daughters had died and the tragedies racked and rocked the families to hell and back. Parents should die after their children and brothers and sisters should wait till old age to die ... and the grape shouldn't wither on the vine.

Joselyn Morton
New End Theatre 

Photos from Mr Mwezi in Kabul

Yes I’m at home and have been since the 4^th of  October.  I have been spending time with the family and haven’t been on the computer for a while.

There was sad news with the Samoan Tsunami. Some friends had just returned from the villages that were hit by the wave. And an old work mate of mine lost his 2 yr old daughter, she went missing for a week and was found drowned in a drain pipe close to where she went missing. So there has been a lot of emotions from different people since my return .

Mr Mwezi

 

London photos by Roger Morton

Zurab Nijaradze

Georgian artist
Have met my first Georgian artist, who was exhibiting in a Mayfair Gallery and I'm entranced. I want to be rich so I could buy some of his paintings. Perhaps this is what my life has been missing - a goal. Now that I'm driven to own a Zurab Nijaradze painting or two - who knows what riches might land in my lap. Nijardze was disappointed that his canvases had not jumped off the Gallery walls. He now has a disparaging opinion of the English art world. Nonetheless, this was not particularly portrayed on his handsome face. I had assumed Zurab was a sexy zesty sixty year old until I read his catalogue and discovered he was already eighty! He was not alone, he was framed by family members - his wife, her sister and his daughter, all with flashing eyes, black hair and exotic winning ways. I'm very pleased to have met them all.
Joselyn Morton

poem

The Moon

While the Chinese expanded

their horizons with bamboo

and the Rarotongans depended

on their versatile coconuts

the Western world twice a day

pulls at the hairy udder

of their millions of cows

as the ancient, magical

rhythm of the moon

tugs at their tides

encircles their lives

and the madness of their March hares.

by Joselyn Morton

 

Bordeaux arts & music festival

Bordeaux is having an arts and music festival called Evento this month and we went on Sunday to see a couple of Malian bands. Bassekou Kouyate  and his band Ngoni ba. Truly amazing, 6 beautiful Africans all in robes of shot silk playing modernised  versions of a traditional instrument, the ngoni, plus percussion and singer Amy Sacko.

Bassekou used to play with Ali Farke Toure and shocked the Malian music world by actually getting up and walking around on stage whilst playing his ngoni, which had never been done before. So now he is a riot rock star. Bit like Dylan going electric. Now everyone is doing it!

Next on was Oumou Sangare, Malian Diva with a brilliant band and a couple of pretty girl singers and dancers. She is the Voice for African Woman, and a lot of her songs extol the beauty of African women and the need for respect and love etc. There was a crowd of young girls standing next to us all singing along and proudly announcing “Je suis une femme Africaine.”

“So are we all,” thought I.

Anyway, at one point during the proceedings Oumou asked if there were any djembe players in the audience. A young black boy leapt over the barrier and onto the stage before she'd finished speaking. She welcomed him and then asked was there a white djembe player out there? I translated this for Jim who also leapt over the barrier (with the aid of a few helping hands ) and clambered up. The black boy was very confident and played really well and was led off-stage quickly. Then it was Jim's' turn.  My heart was in my mouth, he looked a tad vulnerable, this middle-aged white man amongst all those handsome, young musicians. After a bit of hassle with the harness, he started to play and the place went wild.  The Malians, who clearly were not expecting much, all looked amazed and their djembe player was walking around giving the thumbs up and nodding his head in approval. When he finished Oumou gave  him a huge hug and everybody on stage shook his hand and patted him on the back. On his way out backstage all the musicians congratulated him and as he made his way back to me,  people in the crowd did the same. What a moment!  A dream realised for Jim. Plus a smudge of Oumous' lipstick on his cheek! I was so proud of him.   Judith Lord

(Check out the piece in last week’s posting entitled scene ouverte – the drummer is none other than Jim Corboy, described above. He puts himself about a bit, huh! …Watch out, he might well be at a venue near you, in the near-distant future. The editor)

Bill's mushroom finding in the Auvergne

Plenty of mushrooms were found by Bill, Leila, Ben, Chris and co during their foray for champignons near Ali and Harry's comfortable and charming auberge at Chassignoles. Knowing (first-hand) what excellent cooks they are, I am sure they all feasted well on their forest plunder.

Coogee Beach Jones by Al Muhit

PART 7

Resume: Screaming, struggling, fighting and kicking Rebecca is driven to the airport in taxi number two and then Wal discovers the Good Samaritan has lost his bag containing passports and money …

The Good Samaritan runs back to the Airport building. Wal is still holding Rebecca down. He buckles, this is more than he can take, he lets Rebecca go. “I can't do any more" he says. He is shaking. " Go on, run if you want to. I can't stop you." For a second Wal sees Rebecca change, although she was free she hadn't moved. Wal turns on a real helpless fool act. "I've lost my tickets, passport and money, Beccy I'm fucked." he slumps to the ground. " If you want to go, then go. I can't help you anymore."

Rebecca, released but not moving, looks closely at him. Wal continues to act the lost fool.

" OK. Give me the Valium." Wal turns to her.

“ Only if you promise to swallow it."

"I will."

Wal gives her 20 mg and watches as she swallows it, then says. "I have to look in your mouth, Rebecca." She opens her mouth and moves her tongue around. She has swallowed it.

The Good Samaritan comes back, " here is your bag. The airline guy had it.”

Wal announces, "Rebecca is coming with us . "

"Oh. Great. Well this is going to be posh, Bec, one hour in air conditioning instead of fourteen on a bus eh ?”

They go into the terminal, to the check-in counter. The airline clerk, looking at Rebecca and speaking to Wal, said " We can't let her on the plane." After what he'd just been through Wal was not phased by this. " Oh, she's ok now. She was upset, but she's ok. I'll walk over there and you can talk to her." Wal and the Good Samaritan went over to buy some tea. The Valium wouldn't cut in for sometime, so it was up to Rebecca. They stood and watched. Rebecca was now in full survival mode and as she had always been a streetsmart charmer, the clerk didn't stand a chance. She left the clerk and as she passed them she smiled and said " I can go" and went into the toilet.

The two men watched the door helplessly until she emerged smiling, talking sweetly to another woman. Inside the toilet Rebecca had checked with all the women to see if were they going to Delhi. Fortunately they were.

Just before she changed Rebecca had watched Wal and the Good Samaritan at the gate, and when she saw Wal give the Good Samaritan money for a ticket, she began to believe they were who they said they were, that they hadn't planned this. When Wal lost his bag she became more convinced that they were helping her. When Wal let her go she decided to trust them.

The two things that really helped, Wal discovered later, was the fact the he was wearing Blunstone boots and that he was carrying his old black and purple shoulder bag.

They made it through the heavy security, after taking batteries out of walkmans and cameras. Wal freaked when he saw the hypodermic needles show up in Rebecca's bag under the X-ray. The security people weren't bothered, seems all travellers carry them. 

After sitting by the door to the runway for about 20 minutes, the word came that the plane was cancelled due to bad weather. Wal shivered. They were still in the valley of death and although Rebecca seemed to trust them, she was now becoming more and more paranoid about everybody and everything else.

The fury at the airline counter was amazing - later Wal found out that this airline had a policy of not leaving Delhi if the weather looked dodgy. They kept up the pretence of the plane arriving so people would not make other travel plans.

Wal looked at the bun fight in front of him for a moment then quietly went up and spoke to one of the beleaguered airline staff and confirmed them on the next available flight, 11 am the next day. He then asked for the name of the most expensive hotel around.

to be continued

Cover Picture

The Shark became the most famous resident of Headington when it landed in the roof of 2 New High Street on 9 August 1986.

This ordinary home (built as a semi-detached house in about 1860 but now attached by a link to a second house to the north) suddenly became the centre of world attention and the headless shark still excites interest today.

Bill Heine commissioned the shark and still owns the house. An American who studied law at Balliol College, he was running two Oxford cinemas at the time, but since 1988 he has been better known as a Radio Oxford presenter. When pressed by journalists to provide a rationale for the shark, he suggested the following:

The shark was to express someone feeling totally impotent and ripping a hole in their roof out of a sense of impotence and anger and desperation.... It is saying something about CND, nuclear power, Chernobyl and Nagasaki.

The headless sculpture, with the label "Untitled 1986" fixed to the gate to the house, was erected on the 41st anniversary of the dropping of the atomic bomb on Nagasaki. Created by the sculptor John Buckley, it is made of fibreglass, weighs four hundredweight, and is 25 feet long.

Oxford City Council tried to get rid of the shark on the grounds that it was dangerous to the public, but engineers inspected the roof girders that had been specially installed to support it and pronounced the erection safe. The council then decided that the shark was development within the definition contained in Section 22 of the Town and Country Planning Act 1971, and that as such it had to be removed. Their offer to display it in a public building such as a swimming pool was not, however, accepted by Bill.

Bill played for time, but in 1990 he was refused retrospective planning permission by Oxford City Council. Undeterred, in 1991 he appealed to the Secretary of State for the Environment (then Michael Heseltine); and in 1992 Heseltine’s Inspector Peter Macdonald came out in favour of the applicant, and had the following to say about the shark:

It is not in dispute that this is a large and prominent feature. That was the intention, but the intention of the appellant and the artist is not an issue as far as planning permission is concerned. The case should be decided on its planning merits, not by resorting to 'utilitarianism', in the sense of the greatest good to the greatest number. And it is necessary to consider the relationship between the shark and its setting .... In this case it is not in dispute that the shark is not in harmony with its surroundings, but then it is not intended to be in harmony with them. The basic facts are there for almost all to see. Into this archetypal urban setting crashes (almost literally) the shark. The contrast is deliberate ... and, in this sense, the work is quite specific to its setting. As a 'work of art' the sculpture ('Untitled 1986') would be 'read' quite differently in, say, an art gallery or on another site. An incongruous object can become accepted as a landmark after a time, becoming well known, even well loved in the process. Something of this sort seems to have happened, for many people, to the so-called 'Oxford shark'. The Council is understandably concerned about precedent here. The first concern is simple: proliferation with sharks (and Heaven knows what else) crashing through roofs all over the City. This fear is exaggerated. In the five years since the shark was erected, no other examples have occurred. Only very recently has there been a proposal for twin baby sharks in the Iffley Road. But any system of control must make some small place for the dynamic, the unexpected, the downright quirky. I therefore recommend that the Headington shark be allowed to remain.

And so it has survived. No one living in Headington notices it much any more, but it caused a tremendous stir both locally and nationally on the day it appeared. It had been winched up by a crane overnight, and although the police were aware of what was going on they were powerless to do anything, as there is no law to prevent a man from putting a shark on his own roof. In 1992 Bernard Levin wrote a long article in The Times about the Headington Shark, describing it as a "splendid lark" and adding:

There is nothing about smiling in the analects of the planning committee of the Oxford city council, and that august body ruled that it must come down, giving as the reason that it had been put up without planning permission, or more likely just because it was delightful, innocent, fresh and amusing — all qualities abhorred by such committees.

Photo by Roger Morton
see Roger Morton's Photographs at Proud Chelsea 

Mongolia

MM: A Mongolian experience

The actual trip:  6 weeks in-country, with a 24-day van safari, from Ulan Bataar (UB), the capital, down through the Gobi desert, up through Central and then Northern Mongolia, which borders Siberia, and finally back to UB in time for Nadaam, which is a yearly event, a festival, a party, an Olympic competition, a parade, all rolled into one, followed by 2 days at Khustai National Park to track the wild horses, which have been brought back from the brink of extinction; then 5 days in a family ger, hiking and relaxing in Terej National Park and finally 6 days in traffic-choked UB, as I couldn’t change my air ticket.

I choose the letters “MM” to sum up and describe the nature of my time in Mongolia, a most unique travel destination.

MM stands for many things        

1. Mongolian Mystery – Why did something happen? Or not happen? Why was someone happy or angry?  Due to linguistic and cultural limitations, I was often mystified by events and people’s reactions.  At first, trying to analyze, and then accepting the ambiguity. 

2. Mongolian Meat, mainly fatty mutton, where strong smell permeates the gees and restaurants and is difficult for a vegetarian to get used to. I was able to survive by self-catering and careful ordering. Needless to say, I lost weight.

3. Mongolian Mud, and sand, and wind, and rain and even hail, all of which I experienced, sometimes in the span of a single day.

4. Mongolian Monotony, lots of waiting time; waiting for the driver, waiting for negotiations to be finalized, waiting for food in restaurants, waiting, waiting for weather to clear.

5. Mongolian Men – not a handsome one in sight. My girlfriends and I tried very hard to spot attractive mates but with little success.

6. Mongolian Mechanics/Machines/Motors are often held together by string, wire, what not!  Breakdowns are a given and give one a chance to admire the scenery or spot an eagle, mountain sheep, or hawk.

7. Mongolian Monasteries – After the harsh Stalinist purges of the 1930’s, Buddhism (Tibetan) is once more being practiced.  Restored temples, young monks, photos of the Dalai Lama, abound.  I went to lectures on Buddhist meditation in UB, where the participants were equally divided between locals and foreigners.

8. Mongolian Majesty – which describes the vastness, the velvet mats, the never-ending sky and horizons where the landscape usually reveals many more animals (cows, sheep, goats, yaks, camels, and of course horses) than people in this, the most sparsely populated country in the world.

9. Mongolian Magic – its people and their warmth and openness…a harsh geography which encourages cooperation, hospitality, and resilience to survive and flourish. The people are flexible, curious and honest; encounters are so positive.

Hurry to visit Mongolia, the unique nomadic life is fast dying out.

Carole Beauclerk

Stephen O'R's Oz

Now entertain conjecture of a time when students facebook and parents despair. For this is the time when the HSC is here.  Higher School Certificate. 

Tens of thousands of dollars spent on private school fees go for nothing and thousands more are thrown into the bottomless pit of teenage indolence.  Trainee teachers rub their hands in glee as they reach maximum earning capacity – their mobile phones jammed with messages “Oh hi, I was just wondering if you could fit another six (two-hour) sessions in for Paris (or Jason) this week?”

In ten days time the countdown starts and one by one the subjects are ticked off until at last no more hope can be had and only results to wail over.

Books are appearing on the market offering that same vain hope to desperate parents who are now begging to downgrade their expectations from Doctor to Dentist to Lawyer to speech pathologist to the Army – a child I know having been aiming at NIDA (National Institute of Dramatic art – birth place of our Mel (Gibson) or our Kate (Blanchett)- has suddenly switched to Officer Cadet in the Army where he will get paid to do a BA in political science before going to Afghanistan.  The new scheme where you can join the army for just 1 year was oversubscribed in ten minutes – quicker than a rock concert.

Me, I have just read Fay Weldon’s book on Jane Austin underlining the relevant bits for questions on writing techniques in ‘Pride and Prejudice’.  The pool is kept warm so flagging energy can be revived by a quick dip.

And all this so they can go to University with others who don’t want to be there. Lectures offer time to ‘catch up’ on facebook my space and twit city.  In the back rows of lecture theatres, stories are swapped of what a bludge this or that subject are.  Presentations are given where the PowerPoint is perfect but the content is missing.  Teachers tell groups of thirty of how when ‘they’ were at Uni their tute had two students.

So it is for this that a sort of madness has crept into houses containing children of 18 who can go to the pub after school but can’t read a book. “I never had this chance!”

The Chinese and Indians who dominate our selective schools, our scholarship lists and our medical schools reap the rewards of years of coaching and instilled work ethic. My local Uni is 84 Chinese – most Australian but also the rich of Indonesia, Taiwan and Red China. Happy groups copying each others work openly in the cafes. Organising boat discos on the harbour and enjoying the legacy of two thousand years of competitive learning.

My son’s only ambition is to move to London and hang out with that beautiful tutor we hired there last year. Good luck to him: a more desirable young woman I have yet to see.

Daily Life in Kabul by Mr Mwezi

A selection of images taken by Mr Mwezi in and around Kabul.

National Poetry Day

Atlas by Carol Ann Duffy

Give him strength, crouched on one knee in the dark,

with the earth on his back

                                          balancing the seven seas,

the oceans, five kneeling

in ruthless, empty, endless space

                                                     for grace

of whale, dolphin, sea lion, shark, seal, fish, every kind

which swarms the waters. Hero.

                                                    Hard, too,

heavy to hold, the mountains;

burn of his neck and arms taking the strain –

Andes, Himalayas, Kilimanjaro –

give him strength, he heaves them him

to harvest rain from skies for streams

and rivers, he holds the rivers,

holds the Amazon, Ganges, Nile, hero, hero.

Hired by no-one, heard in a myth only, lonely

he carries a planet’s weight

                                            islands and continents,

the billions there, his ears the last to hear

their language, music, gunfire, prayer;

give him strength, strong girth for elephants,

tigers, snow leopards, polar bears, bees, bats

the last ounce of a humming bird.

                                                       Broad backed

in infinite, bleak black,

                                      he bears where Earth is, nowhere.

head bowed, a genuflection to the shouldered dead,

the unborn’s hero, he is lover’s lift;

sometimes the moon rolled to his feet, a gift.

the devil and angels

One of the highly coloured and decorative statues in the small church in Rennes Le Chateau.
Photo: Roger Morton
see Roger Morton's photographs at Proud Galleries 

Short story

Roger Morton

Buddy Boy by Joselyn Morton ©

Before Charles left he told Soon-young he was a war photographer in the Middle East. It was their third day together. For Soon-young it was a lifetime. No other time existed. Only the time with Charles ... B.C. did not exist. It had been deleted along with all her files. The virgin files. The phone-your-family-on- Friday files.

Charles anticipated that Soon-young would be upset and when she first heard the news, Soon-young felt a numbness seep into her heart, hardening it into a hammer-fist which plummeted and self-imploded without a trace, causing a pathological mystery as complicated and unsolvable as the virgin birth.

            No physician or psychologist could have diagnosed that Soon-young’s spirit had slipped away. Left. The essence of the girl evaporated. The lovely creature Charles comforted and caressed was a hollow lifeless shell.

            Encountering no opposition to his departure, Charles cheered up. He explained that his flatmate, Alex Van Zeld would return in two weeks. He was completing post-grad work. Soon-young was welcome to stay till she found a flat. Alex wouldn’t mind, he was absorbed in his studies.

            Charles then organised his departure. Couriers picked up dry-cleaning, delivered packages. One was from a jewellery design company. Inside was a greenstone heart set in solid 9ct gold. Inset into the gold were eighteen small diamonds - one for each year of Soon-young’s life. As Charles tried to fasten it around Soon-young’s neck she weakly took the golden gift in her hand. Then she lay down.

When Charles left at dawn, Soon-young stretched her hand out of the window and dropped the green and golden heart. Like an Oscar Wilde fairy-tale, a seagull swooping past scooped up the necklace.

The glistening chain swung in a golden arc from the seagull’s beak. Hearing the rustling of a fish and chips wrapping far below, the seagull opened its beak in anticipation. The green and gold heart fell - but before it smashed onto the concrete pavement, a young solvent-abuser from South Auckland raised her beanie-covered head. Using super-tuned reflexes she had acquired avoiding bashings from heartless bastards ... fffssshung ... she thrust her fist fast into the air, her feet flinging off the pavement.

The green heart blazed its golden fall. The rapper’s timing was immaculate. She snapped her hand around the heart as she would have wrapped her hand around an eel’s tail or slam-dunked her palm onto a fast-moving toheroa. It was hers. She opened her fist. The golden chain and the heart with its eighteen perfectly formed diamonds sparkled and winked.

Kiri’s grin spread and threatened to split her face in two. She said to her mate,

“Get a load of this, Bro. Check this out, eh.”

Her mate came closer and shook his head in disbelief.

“Choice, eh.”

With a gracefulness he had only ever used when tying knots on his nylon fishing line or unrolling a condom under Kiri’s mistrustful gaze, Buddy-Boy draped the golden chain around Kiri’s neck.

For the first time, he was aware of the soft curve of her skin, the smoothness of her naked shoulders. He felt her worth. He felt her trust. He lent closer to see how the tiny catch worked and to her surprise and his, he tenderly kissed the nape of her neck. Sweetly. It was the first time he had kissed her when they weren’t even shagging.

Kiri felt a warm glow suffuse her, stirring memories and feelings from when she was little, down south with her Gran, before she’d taken off. She fingered the greenstone heart around her neck. It felt lucky.

 ‘Sweet as.’

Buddy Boy is an extract from Joselyn Morton's novel The Transparent Trampoline.

scene ouverte

Saturday 3rd October and Scene Ouverte (open-mic night) at Riberac's La Gavotte restaurant. This happens on the first Saturday of each month. Once again the place was packed out. We left at midnight and the restaurant was still jumping. That was my third visit. Already I'm a total convert. The unexpected, the brave, the blue fiddle, the voice that knows how to shout and melt, the gutsy and the very very good. It's a gas, gas, gas.

Photos: Roger Morton, text: Joselyn Morton

poem

Cul-de-sacs

The difference  between thought

and madness is slight

especially in the dark of the night

when the sun exits

tricks of the mind

flick twist and bound.

It’s hard to pretend

the kinks, dead-ends,

cul-de-sacs and bends

don’t matter

as you down all the whisky

in the house in search of laughter.

by Joselyn Morton

Dog in Carcassonne window

Coogee Beach Jones by Al Muhit

PART 6

Resume: Tense moments in the Holiday Inn as Rebecca recovers from the effects of her bad trips and her father, Wal tries to get her to Kullu airport with the help of the Good Samaritan and a taxi driver...

They struggle to get her back in the van. Rebecca is a strong girl and tall. Wal and the Good Samaritan have a fight on their hands. She is screaming to passers-by out for help. They half get her in the van but she bursts free and jumps into the driver’s seat. Rebecca can't drive. She turns the ignition key, the van's in gear and lurches forward but the driver leans in and snatches the keys. They drag her out screaming and force her into the back. Wal using all his strength to hold her.

Finally the back door is closed, the Good Samaritan screams ‘drive’ to the driver and gets back in the front where his Raybans are kicked from his face by Rebecca's sandal-clad foot. Wall is struggling to get some Valium out with one hand and trying to stop Rebecca climbing out the window with the other. The Good Samaritan grabs her long dancer’s legs and holds them. Rebecca is screaming. They drive in this state for a few minutes then a second puncture comes. Wal stays in the van just holding onto Rebecca who continues to fight struggle, bite and scream. Somehow another taxi is stopped and they drag Rebecca screaming and kicking into it.

Wal has the Valium and is speaking into Rebecca's ear   " Rebecca you have to stop this. We have to get on that plane. Take these pills they will help you." Rebecca allows the pills into her mouth, pretends to swallow and then spits them out. Wal head is spinning, he can't believe it is happening.  They pass a Hindi ritual with a bunch of people in make-up dancing round a wheel in the middle of the road. Rebecca sees this; then catches sight of the driver putting a Shiva statue back on the dashboard from where it was dislodged. She tries to push Wal out of the window. The fight to keep her in the van is so intense that Wal is scared of hurting Rebecca but he can only fight, he can't think about right or wrong. She starts to bite his hand but pulls back before the skin is broken. Wal holds Rebecca with all his strength.

The Good Samaritan is shouting at Rebecca like she is a naughty child "Rebecca  stop it. Stop it at once !"

The Van driver is saying "Please. Madam don't." 

In this terrible state they arrived at the airport gate.

Rebecca won't stop. They get her out and Wal drags her screaming in through the gate to an empty guard box where he jams her and holds her. Stuck there he looks up at the gathering crowd of people. The Good Samaritan is still in traveller mode and is arguing with the driver over money. “ Just give him the money," shouts Wal. The fare is paid and the bags unloaded.

"Do you want me to come to Delhi with you? " says the Good Samaritan.

"Yes," Wal replies desperately and pulling a handful of US dollars out his pocket, thrusts them into the Good Samaritan’s hand. Then he gives him his 'Essentials bag' containing tickets, passports and travellers cheques. When the Good Samaritan returns in a few minutes he is smiling, "we are ok, I got on." 

"Where is my bag ?"

“What bag? "

"My bag, with everything in it !" says Wal.

" You didn't give me your bag. "

"I did."

Wal loses it. His physical strength is fading, he wants this nightmare to stop. 

to be continued …

Cover Picture

Driving back from the spectacular Old City of Carcassonne on Thursday 8 October, we left a warm 25 degrees and headed up the A61 towards a black horizon flashing horizontal lightening. Soon the rain came and for the next 3 hours Jos drove womanfully through the downpour. Scarcely able to cope with the sheer volume of water, the wipers struggled, leaving an interesting pattern through which I pointed the little Lumix camera. The Autoroute signs said 'ORAGE- soyez prudents’. I was able to gather that it meant be careful in the thunderstorm.

Text & photo Roger Morton

National Poetry Day

Our much-loved popular poet Spike Milligan
“Few things give better voice to our deepest feelings than a poem"  said  former Poet Laureate, Andrew Motion at the Opening of National Poetry Day, October 2008, and I'm sure many of us can relate to Andrew's sentiments.  National Poetry Day is an annual UK event which celebrates and promotes all kinds of poetry. It was set up in 1994, and involved thousands of people of all ages in live events and activities focussing on the appreciation of poetry.

The initial launch was highly successful and the idea has continued by exploring a different  poetry theme each year, covering such subjects as Food,  The Future,  Identity and Dreams.

Last year's theme was Work  and this year the theme is Heroes and Heroines. Members of the public were invited to nominate their Poetry Hero. Voting closed in early September and the result will be announced on National Poetry Day,Thursday 8th October.

I didn't actually vote, but my nomination would have gone without hesitation to that great all-rounder, musician, script-writer, artist, poet, and ‘some-time vexation’ (according to his manager of many years) Spike Milligan, a true Poetry and Comedy Hero.

 In a poll to find The Nation's Favourite Comic Poem, in 1998, the most voted-for poem  was Spike's delightful Ning Nang Nong, a place where  The cows go Bong!  The trees go Ping, The mice go Clang and the teapots go Jibber Jabber Joo!

If you don’t know it, it is well worth reading - you might even find yourself learning it off by heart. A year later, in yet another poll, Spike was voted ‘the funniest person of the last thousand years’. That's quite an accolade, covering an awful lot of time!

Another poet for whom I might have cast a vote and who is widely hailed as being The Worst Poet in British history, gained his reputation by  writing about tragedies and disasters - the bigger the better.

He penned those memorable opening lines to his poem The Tay Bridge Disaster:

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvry Tay
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879
Which will be remembered for a very long time…..

And the cry rang out all round the town,
Good heavens! The Tay Bridge has blown down!

The poet of course was William Topaz McGonagall, a weaver from Dundee and writer of over 200 poems.

He was a  Poetry Hero, of sorts.

Apparently after the death of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, McGonagall visited Balmoral in the hope of seeing Queen Victoria to enquire whether Her Majesty might consider him for the position of the next Poet Laureate.

Unfortunately for William, the Queen was not in residence.

There is a link between my two heroes - Spike and McGonagall - Spike occasionally gave readings of McGonagall's worst verse and also appeared as the poet in a 1974 film, The Great McGonagall, with Peter Sellers in the role of Queen Victoria. McGonagall was resurrected by Spike in The Goon Show, in the form of a character named McGoonagall, played alternatively by Spike and Sellers.

Both poets were of Irish parentage and neither poet sadly, was ever honoured  with the ‘butt of sack’, the 600 bottles of sherry traditionally given to the Poet Laureate. But we can still laugh or groan, at their lasting works.

The current Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, is the first woman to ever take the  post, which had been held for four hundred years solely by male poets. Carol is one of the best-selling poets in the UK and combines critical acclaim with popularity. Her ‘butts of sherry’ are well -deserved.

 In her role of Laureate, she has written a poem for National Poetry Day. This will be posted on 3rd October on the National Poetry Day website: www.nationalpoetryday.co.uk  and can be sent as an e-card. Go on, send one.

As the poem is not yet  available, much as I would like to,  I am unable to leave you with Carol's latest poem, but I can leave you with a few lines from my ultimate Hero, the inimitable Spike Milligan:

Climb every mountain -
Ford every stream -
Follow every rainbow -
Till you find you're knackered 

Mary Kalemkerian, BBC Head of Programmes, Radio 7