Pen Friends is a writing group of many different people, set up in the Teesdale area, at the Richardson hospital. We exchange views on various subjects and are a very friendly group of individuals. But we are as one, bound together by the fact that we all have mental health problems and we are all enthusiastic writers. Each member is able to make an imaginative, humorous or poignant contribution.

Good company and like minds. And there is a therapeutic value in expressing our thoughts and imaginings on paper. The group is where you can let your hair down and say whatever you like on paper, which is easier for some of us than talking face to face. Sometimes we surprise ourselves at what we’ve written. Stories and ideas can be triggered by a single word or idea. Looking at writing through a reader's eyes, and hearing reading through a writer's ears.

The work gives us a sense of achievement, self-esteem and makes us feel we’ve got something worthwhile to say. We’re non-judgmental, enjoying each other’s work: seeing your work and your friend’s work improve. It is a personal lifeline and can bring us back to reality after a storm.

Our differences and our similarities make up a fabric of work that is demonstrated by this book. It is an Arc of treasured memories, feelings and thoughts. More importantly, it is a testament to a wide range of skills held by a section of society often viewed with suspicion and distrust.

Our general in the battle to break down the barriers and carry forth the banner of togetherness is our WEA tutor Jackie Litherland. Patience, it has to be said, is one of her strong points. But we would like to think that we do her proud.

We have a lot of other people to thank but we must head the list with our Mental Health team, especially Mary Allison and our support worker, Isobel Gregory, who believed in our worth and performed miracles of applying for financial support for our project. Pen Friends also raised money in various ways: second hand book sales, a cake stall and other ventures. Thankyou to group member Isabelle Connelly who wrote many of our letters.

The support from our own community has been tremendous. We are extremely grateful for the substantial funding given by many local organisations, including County Durham Foundation, DART (Developing Arts in Rural Teesdale), Teesdale District Council, GlaxoWellcome, County Durham Social Services, WEA(Northern District). The cover collage by Peter Bates was the result of a workshop financed by Artworks Teesdale District. We must thank also the National Lottery Charities Board for a grant and the Friends of Richardson Hospital for its timely replacing of our Community Health Centre computer with a State of the Art system. It made the task lighter for Editor Jackie Litherland and our Trojan typesetter and Techno-Supremo, group member Andrew Knights, whom we thank for collating our material on disk. Many of us learnt our first computing skills through courses organised by Durham County Council Adult Basic Education Service. The Richardson Hospital and staff also deserve thanks for providing a meeting room and general assistance. Lastly we would like to say thankyou to the kindly anonymous donor who provided biscuits, tea and coffee, for the group for so many years.

Without you all, this book could not exist.

A tangled web of life and love,

Twisted branches, deceit and death,

Turning, crawling, reaching out to hold,

No way out - too late for that

Looking up against the light,

Black evil snakes, an awesome sight.

Some thicker than others but

No less poisonous.

Was there hope? A slender chance.

A small plane crossing the sky,

Containing the life of another being.

Free to fly above the clouds.

Would they too have tortured minds?

What would it be like in that isolation?

I could not see, it was too late for that.

Unable to look past my own hell

No sense or sight could I make

No educated reason passed through my mind.

Slowly I bent and picked up the rope

Those evil snakes my means of escape.

Night full of hidden shapes and dark foreboding,

Nightmares screaming, anguish, pain.

What lies within mind’s secretive core?

Inaccessible to all but those with probing gain.

A chair, a couch, no matter which,

A reason will be found for what life brings.

Day approaches, and with hope,

Light dances softly and shadows fall.

Secrets still but not so menacing now,

Not always, but sometimes I can talk about the pain.

A park bench for lovers no matter what age.

A reason need be found for what nature brings.

As equinox approaches, night and day will be equal.

All I ask now is, will my pain and joy be the same?

A glimpse of life in a vacant space,

Tangible proof, palpable grace.

Large patterned wings,

No voice that sings,

Yet untold grace.

Dead-End.

Tall and straight,

Reaching high -

Gasping, gripping,

Fresh earth sky.

No more hope,

Smoke belching upwards,

Enveloping the clouds,

Created by God, being

Destroyed by man.

Rough grass creeping,

Through barbed wire fences,

Put up to hold back

Children from straying

Onto the road.

Forbidden highway,

Upwards or down,

Whichever way you looked,

Skyscrapers pointing towards

Early demise.

I knew that I had to go purely and simply because we had been told so. Both at school and by our parents, but the reality was no less terrifying. The station, which had been the start of so many happy holidays and a place of excitement, had now become the embryo of a nightmare.

The ‘war’ had reached us now. I remembered when my father had called me in from the garden to listen to Churchill’s speech, I think he was, in his own way, preparing me for the event that was now occurring, realised now that it was probably just as hard for them.

I was their only child. The sister I should have had died in infancy and my mother never really recovered from my birth. Indeed, I had been brought up by a nanny for the first two years of my life. Then I had been sent to the PNEU School in Newcastle where we lived and it was here that I had been told we were being sent to the Lake District for the duration of the war.

Idyllic you must think - but not to me as I stood at Newcastle Central Station with my small suitcase down by my feet and my gas mask slung around my shoulders. The normal noisy chatter of my school friends was replaced by just a numbed silence. The odd word was all we seemed to be able to manage. My father was trying to keep a brave face for all our sakes but my mother was struggling to hold back her tears.

My teacher began to round us all up and the guard announced that we were to board the train. I could not stop crying. My whole world was falling apart - who was this Hitler who was wrecking all our lives? Last farewells and we boarded the train. I craned my neck to catch a final glimpse of my parents on the platform. Were gone. Slowly I sank back into my seat and tried to tear my thoughts from what I had just left, to where I was going. A sheer impossibility.

"Please can I go in Mum?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

I’d been looking in the shop window for weeks now – well it felt like it and exaggeration was one of the perks of being five or a woman. Well, that’s what my Dad said.

Anyway, to get back to the matter in hand. Every Saturday morning Mum dragged me, or rather took me, (just so we don’t get the Social Worker round) around the shops collecting all that we needed for the weekend.

Roast for Sunday dinner, vegetables from the market and then something called clothes-shopping. That was the worst. Aimlessly wandering around Marks and Spencer’s trying to find the right outfit for Mum to impress Dad or her workmates. Which, I’d worked out, depended on the colour, cloth and length. The rest I’ll leave to your imagination!

Finally, to placate me, she would take me for a milkshake in Macdonald’s, passing the toy store by the crossing. To be fair, she always let me look in the window, even if she did hop from one foot to the other while my eyes eagerly traversed every item.

Every week I checked to see it was still there. ‘It’ being a smart red fire engine with gleaming paint and metallic bell. Every week I hoped my hints would be enough!

But no.

"You’ll have to save up your pocket money and it will be very expensive."

"But how will I know if I don’t go in Mum?" "Don’t be obtuse!"

"What’s obtuse Mum?"

Silence.

Then came the week I’d been dreading – it had gone. How was I going to know what had happened to my pride and joy? It would have been the envy of all my mates. I’d have finally had one over on Johnny Briggs.

"It will soon be your birthday."

It would soon be Christmas, but then I’d been born in December.

Macdonald’s beckoned, reflected in the window of the toy store. Slowly I sighed and grudgingly made my way over the road.

"Perhaps you’d like a doughnut with your milkshake, Billy," said Mum softly.

Huddled in the doorway of a broken down store,

Was a lady of antediluvian age,

No pampered aristocrat, she,

No constant source of media attention,

Here was a case of real deprivation.

Anger boiled over as I made my comparison.

I hesitated, and moved in her direction.

Only to be checked by my companion.

To him it was routine, a harsh day to day reality.

To me a stark reminder of life’s inequality.

Fresh eggs, Weetabix, Oranges, Stork,

Not nutritious food, but clothing, their cartons she wore.

Over the top, I could just make out her face,

Wizened and grimy, helpless and weak.

Yet her face was not void of all expression,

Her eyes drew me with their constant attention.

Down by her feet, all that there lay

Was a small collie dog and a carrier bag.

The moonlight softly illuminated her pale skin caressing her face and gently touching the soft folds of her breasts now covered by her gown - no sign of the passion of moments before.

I marvelled at her serenity. She glanced down at the book on her knees – I wondered at its content. What could occupy her mind now? The fierce emotions of our lovemaking before would surely not be erased.

We were as one. I knew that now. On the table stood the bottle of wine and glasses - the prelude to our unity. The fruit seemed symbolic. The wine the product of the grapes, our new found intimacy the product of an age-old ritual.

Slowly I began to become aware of what was happening around me. The soft breeze and the lapping of the waves at the shore. Two figures stood on the pier in the distance. Would they too be as one? I doubted it. No two people could be so well matched. Again, I wondered at the contents if her mind.

The book gave me a screen to recover. I could not believe the surge of emotions within me. The words just blurred on the page. Cautiously I glanced up at him. I wondered at the complex emotions mirrored in his face. Would they have been the same with his previous lovers? What were his thoughts of me?

The moon above was the only focus I had of reality. The wine on the table seemed a decade ago. Our previous conversation meaningless. Yet it hadn’t been. That had been the beginning.

Can you hear me, or is your head turned away from me?

Scant time has passed, since I found it so erotic, curved and sensuous in the darkness.

Your waif-like figure has blossomed into a sensuous woman.

I need to find you now that you are here; you are a confusion of curves, your breasts, your bottom, even the amulets on your wrists. Will you make love to me once more?

I need to know you feel the same way, to achieve my masculinity. I don’t want to bind you, merely bond with your inner self.

All was quiet in the garden. Nothing stirred, no living thing moved. The stillness was in itself unreal, there was a feeling of great expectancy, of a mighty power to come. The key was the soundless ticking of time marching on, over which no man had control.

Who would arrive first? Mercury the Messenger or the Devil himself, burning red with pent-up fury? It seemed that the whole area surrounding the tree, in the far corner of the garden, was a contradiction in terms.

Underneath the branches, weighed down by fruit, stood a pair of scales. They shone with light, reflecting both thought and word. The fruit, ready for harvest, was plump and ripe. The ground surrounding both the scales and the tree was, however, barren - no longer a source of nutrition, and already beginning to crack.

Beside the scales were two, identical, red boxes, the lids firmly closed, and tied with ribbon. It could not be seen whether the contents were identical, this would be disclosed by the victor. Whosoever arrived first would win the chance to place both the boxes on the scales.

If they balanced, then life in the garden would continue - procreation would follow. If they did not, this would mean that the power of the devil was too great. God himself would have no control and mankind would only be letters on a page.

The thunderous mountains of water, crushing our weary, laden ship.

Our salt-caked freezing hands work with frenzy to keep ourselves afloat.

No rest in these long days and nights, we are weary, bedraggled and near defeat, dreaming of our reward, talk of gold, silver and treasure, a powerful lure.

For our greed, must we pay the price of death?

To disappear in the icy gloom?

A kick in the ribs "Get up it’s late" and another day begins with an argument.

A slating from the Boss "You’re useless. You can’t even translate simple English"

Relief on the way home "A pint please and can you put it on the slate?" "No more credit for you" replies Mine Host.

Some flowers for her - perhaps that will clean the slate of this morning’s fight and prevent another tonight. No such luck. My greeting - "The garage roof’s collapsed. If you weren’t so lazy you’d have repaired it months ago"

I reach for a bottle; not to slake a thirst but to help me forget.

It doesn’t and now on top of everything else I’ve got to find the money to have the garage roof re-tiled.

Sundays were best. We all went to Church dressed in our

finest and brightest.

Now we go only as far as the gates to see black horses

and wooden boxes.

No one smiles.

Lunch with both meat and a pudding.

Other people came and drank beer and laughed.

Now there’s no beer no laughter. Only talk.

Mons, the Hun, Mustard Gas. Everyone’s angry. Why?

Then to the Park high on Father’s shoulders.

Bands, swings, boats and kites and, best of all, ice cream.

Now no games, no fun. Only a handful of men dressed

like brown ants with wooden legs.

Afterwards tea with cakes and jam and cream.

A game in the bathtub and a story from Father in bed.

Now it’s the same as every other night: falling asleep

My brain is the picture, the grey canvas and the story I resist telling.

Is my brain a friend or the instrument pulling me down dark alleyways I fear to tread? The controller which is so subtly working out areas of destruction and pain. Bombarding thoughts running through my veins, demanding actions of my body, so unacceptable and unkind.

The thoughts in my brain must never show on my canvas or the world will show its disdain.

An intelligent geologist named Ole Gimmer Solskinger was sitting in a brightly coloured café, drinking strong coffee, when he heard two men talking:

"Do you remember the cave in the east of the region?"

"Yes, the one with the winding tunnels, it had some amazing rock formations with an atmosphere..."

This interested Ole, because of what had been described and the volcanic importance of the area. So he decided to leave the tranquil fishing village that afternoon to see the cave for himself.

Ole, a small, rugged and wealthy man, at eight o’clock got into his red four by four Off-roader (which was his pride and joy) and set out for the cave. On leaving the area, he travelled into the vast oasis of volcanic rock, grey and angular in form, whose population consisted of only the natural elements, and neared his destination. It could be surmised that nature had been cruel to this area but to Ole it was a land of magic and great beauty.

The four by four had coped well with the terrain, which appeared like steeples standing tall and menacing in his way. He could see the formidable cave by a spring of angrily gushing water. Ole got his equipment out of the Off-roader and entered the gaping mouth of the cave and began to descend down to its depths. A smile of achievement grew across his face as he began to collect crumbling lava for analysis in his laboratory. Suddenly his beaming flashlight went out on his helmet, he nervously attempted to re-light it, but it was in vain.

Ole knew he was in trouble, stumbling around in a shroud of darkness, knowing inadvertently that he’d lost a sense of direction, he began to panic.

He made a forlorn cry, "Will God slow me down? Mercy, please help me". Suddenly he became immersed in water. Down and down he sank, he started kicking his feet as they and his body grew numb. Ten seconds longer he knew he’d be dead! Then his face could feel the air of the cave rushing around it; he’d reached the surface.

Ole quickly got out and ran tiredly towards the cave entrance. Raising his head he saw light; he scrambled towards it when he recognised the spring by his car. He then ripped off his wet clothing, changed into his mechanic overalls and began beating himself frantically to get warm. Immediately after this Ole drove back through the volcanic mountains as quickly as possible. On arrival, lucky and relieved, he sought medical help.

The final whistle has been blown, the game is on a knife-edge, the tension in the arena was at such a height we five mortals could hardly bare the strain. Millions of eyes were trained for the next fifteen minutes on whether we could bring glory to our country or be just another contender.

Four penalties had been taken; it was sudden death. I rose to my feet as thoughts rushed through my mind. I was scared, terrified and nervous, a cocktail that simmered in my stomach walls like a witch’s brew. My neck tight as I looked at the spectating wolves baying for blood. But I knew I was special, able to compete with the best ‘England class of 98’. I thought this was my David and this was my Goliath!

I’d made it to the ball and tentatively I put it on the spot. The Argy goalie pranced about on his line but it was my domain, this is my destiny and I was about to break into Fort Knox and steal their gold from under their noses. Looking at the goalie, I smiled! Striding back, the whistle blew, I knew a star was born but who would it be?

Well, let’s get the show on the road, bearing down on the ball I pulled the trigger ‘what a sweet as candy left-foot connection’! Argy flung his big jelly hands at the ball and couldn’t contend with the ferocity of the shot; he fell in a heap on the hallowed turf crying like a girl. The three lions roar to the quarterfinals of the World Cup.

I sat in the red seat, Row four, Seat twelve, surrounded by people of all descriptions as the noise began to rise when the players arrived victoriously on the rich green pitch. The stadium grand yet intimidating overwhelmed my thoughts and took me back in time to a Roman amphitheatre as the lions came out from behind caged doors to challenge the gladiators.

It seems strange that such a thing was allowed to be participated in, being cruel to man and beast. Yet today we are emulating them in our noble and national sport. One side, the lions seeming to have a small chance to win the fierce contender and on the other the gladiator proud and strong hoping to gain fame and glory.

I ask myself, would I watch a lion die at the sword? No, but I will go to a football match in the hope that the opposition will be humiliated. A or Z any letter that the spectator who came to see blood flow. I was stirring up the same emotions within side of me.

It was great to see your side win, but what was it like to be the one who is conquered? Do I stand any less tall than those who win? Maybe I’d have more esteem, having gone into battle knowing I couldn’t win, yet having faced my greatest fears. Should I support the lion or the gladiator? Should I strive for glory at all cost and at the expense of the opposition? Should I be here at all? The crowd rose to leave the ground. I sat to think my thoughts over and their consequences.

Stofler was a young Viennese man who was to become one of the great ice-cream merchants of all recorded time. He developed many famous varieties, the most well known was ‘Moon-Cream’! This empire started in a little shop standing on the corner of a cobbled back street in the heart of his hometown

On a wintry night Stofler put his cat to bed and made a mug of warm milk. Making his way to bed he muttered under his breath how tired he was after a hard day’s work. Things weren’t going well for Stofler as sales were always slow in winter and the rent of five silver shekels was due on his shop. He pulled the hand woven blanket back from the wooden bed, pushing his stone water-bottle to the bottom, flopped himself down, his heavy weight causing a ripple. Stofler, then blew out the candle, lay his head on the pillow and began a grumbling snore.

He was soon dreaming of times gone by, good and bad, happy and sad! His dreams then took him to a turning point in his life - THE MOON! It was how he imagined it, as if the planet was made of ice cream. He always pooh-poohed the idea it was made of cheese, "How ridiculous!" Suddenly three men dressed in what Stofler could only describe as soufflé suit (pink, red and orange). They appeared friendly but Stofler had never been to the moon before so decided he’d be cautious.

The biggest man flung out his hand jerkily and stuttered, "H-ello sir, pleased t - t - to meet you, I’m Ranger Seven and these are my f - f friends Pickle Plant and Mr Baggage."

Stofler realising they were kind people (he reservedly held the right to call them that) said, "Hello gentlemen, I’m Stofler from planet earth, pleased to make your acquaintance but I have to get back by nine am to open my shop, so I’d better wake up."

Mr Baggage (so-called apparently because he took regular holidays, therefore never unpacked) said, "We’re going trawling for sardines, sure you’ll not join myself and the lads?"

Stofler looking at his time-piece, knowing he would be late, agreed and off they all went to the quay-side and set sail in the tutti-frutti boat on the ice-cream sea.

They sailed round the moon and caught many sardines, then ‘Pickle Plant’ (who liked the odd ice cream) interrupted ‘Ranger Seven’ and handed Stofler four recipes titled ‘Whipple cream’. Pickle told him if he added these recipes to his ice cream he’d soon be selling them like hot cakes. (Stofler laughed to everyone’s bemusement).

Thanking his new-found friends Stofler said goodbye, saying, "See you soon," waving excitedly on his way. Suddenly Stofler came down to earth with a thump; he’d fallen out of bed! He rearranged his dress, pulled himself together and found the ‘Whipple cream’ recipe on the floor. He hurriedly put on his slippers screaming and shouting as he tumbled downstairs, getting to work on his new products immediately. Soon he’d moved to a factory and world-wide distribution had began. In the first five years consecutive record sales had been achieved, children flocked from their homes when ‘Stofler’s Whipple cream vans’ drove by. He made it through the weather-beaten years but never forgot his friends and the ice cream moon!

Drugs, fast cars and alcohol,

Death taps them on the shoulder.

Wheeling and dealing

Dirty needles and amphetamines.

Acid parties and raves.

Side alley meetings

Police on the corner,

Watching the dealer

Run to the cars,

Then the chase starts.

Rocking and rolling, the music is blasting,

Windows are open,

Alcohol flowing, laughter and speed.

Faster the car goes,

Blue lights flashing, sirens sounding,

The police give chase.

DEATH TAPS THEM ON THE SHOULDER.

Faster they go, more alcohol flows

And down go, the amphetamines.

The jokes and the laughter

It don’t matter, the Devil looks after his own.

They fly down the road, not caring what goes.

Rubber burning – brakes screeching, horns blowing,

People caring, angry, shouting, swearing

Cars stopping, swerving,

Banging into each other, just to get out of the way.

Blue lights flashing, sirens sounding

Police still give chase.

DEATH TAPS THEM ON THE SHOULDER.

Round the corner, fast they turn.

Not knowing what was there.

Crashed into a brick wall

That was the last, they saw or heard.

Blue light flashing, No sirens sounding,

Crushed bodies everywhere.

Ambulance wailing, Fire engine flying.

Drugs, fast cars and alcohol

Let that be a lesson to one and all.

DEATH TOOK THEM.

Sports Room

Scaffolders working way upon the roof

As gymnasts below, warm up in their groups

The pole-vaulters and the bar workers

All nervous and tense

The screens that separate each event

The blackboard and easel there for the score

Sitting on the benches around the tables

Drinking their coffees and teas

Are their friends, families and their trainers

To spur them on and hope to relax them

The games have started

The exercise bar for balance

Jumps, high kicks, and tumbling

The pole-vaulters pole bends as over he goes

The scaffolders stop working to watch down below

The bell has gone to finish the games

The scores are read out

From three to first

They go up to the table

For the medal they won

Competitors happy, some sad

Not everyone wins

I am a rock, floating around the black blue sky and have craters and holes all over me.

I have no plant life as such, just spring-like ferns with no special colours.

There are lots of gasses around me, and they make me out to be of different colours, also I have lots of dust particles, which move about now and then.

Very often the gasses build up and cause small explosions, parts of me break off and I fall through the sky with a small flame behind me.

When you look through the night sky you could see me as a light that seems to shimmer or twinkle or you could see me as a flying stone.

You could also say I am a lost soul looking for something as I fly through the sky to disintegrate into the emptiness all around me.

Some people throw three wishes to me as I fall.

I wonder why, for after all, I am only a rock, far out in a black blue sea.

As it stood there on the rock.

Cold wind howling. Sky overcast.

Sea birds weaving, diving and screeching

Hard against the wind

Waves high and mighty

Crashing and bounding over rocks and ledges.

Preening its feathers, with powerful beak,

Coat shining like jet

With sparkling diamond droplets of the sea.

Its white chest puffed out proudly.

Then it’s gone. Into the waves .

To see a master in the sea

Catching fish for its tea.

See how still it stands

Listening, Watching, Waiting,

Sounds all around

What is it waiting for?

What is it watching for?

Why does it listen so hard?

What is that noise?

What does it hear?

The sound of little ones so near

So it stands on guard

So close, so still and watching.

DANGER, DANGER all around

Birds above and on the ground

Many to fear, to get what they can

So it stands there

Still, quiet and waiting.

What was that noise?

It seems so close

Watching, waiting, wait no more

It’s only the mate, coming back from the sea

To feed the little ones

Waiting patiently

Watching, waiting, listening,

The winter had been very hard and severe. The mountains had been covered with snow, but now the sun was shining it was comparatively warm, now that spring was on the way. The thaw had started and the snow was melting very quickly. Standing on the highest peak of the mountain, I looked out over the land, very quickly spread out my wings and slowly flew out over the mountains to see what I could spy for my dinner, there was more to choose from now the snows were melting. There was the odd mountain goat or other smaller animals to catch.

Flying free with the cold wind blowing through my feathers and sun shining and the blue sky above me made me feel good. Another winter over, feed myself up, get my feathers primed and look for a mate to spend the rest of my years with and hatch a brood of chicks to feed, grow and learn the ways of our line, for very proud and ferocious birds we are.

Flying slowly and then gliding gently on the air currents spied down below an Indian village, not many wigwams only about ten. I could spy the children playing in the snow that lay in small pockets of holes where it had drifted. Some of the women were down by the river, which flowed by with small ice floes still in the current being washed down from higher plains. From the wigwams there was a small measure of smoke coming from each through the small hole in the top.

There were some squaws sitting just outside the tents, fixing, mending and beating the furs from inside to give them an airing. They were wearing soft hides from buffalo, deer and rabbit and the beads they wore to adorn their clothes and hair came from the bones from the animals they eat. All the clothes were soft, warm and very hard wearing. The men wore trousers of the same hides also and they are dark of skin, they wore tops with no sleeves and tied with leather thongs. They only killed when hungry, and were a peaceful folk.

The dogs were skulking around the main campfire, and the horses were tethered at the side of camp, with some of the Indians watching them.

The main Indian men must have been out on a hunting party, as the children all were shouting and pointing and then six Indians came into view carrying buffalo, food to ease their hunger and keep them warm until summer comes into her own. Singing and song and a prayer to their gods for a good feed from the hunt around the main camp fire for everyone later in the day. A child is looking up shouting and pointing, it was me they had seen so I gave one harsh call and flew higher into the sky.

Flying away from the village, I kept a keen look for food on the ground before I made it to the tall pine trees growing on the side of the mountain. There were a few flowers that had broken through early despite the snow the warm sun brought them out. Wait, what do I spy moving down there? It is standing still, down I will go for my tea. The rabbit stood not a chance it was hooked in my cruel talons and lifted before it knew I was there. Up I went to a high point of the mountain and enjoyed my feast. I am going to kill and eat some more before I go home to my peak, but once I have had my fill, I will kill no more until the next time I get hungry.

We are proud and fearful birds that like to fly free over mountains and forests screeching and calling to our mates, we stay in our own territories not invading others. We live in the wild with a wild law to follow. Spring is here, summer is coming, And it is good to be alive, flying free.

I love birds; they are so beautiful and so fascinating to watch, so delightful to hear. I love to see the local finches and blue-tits swarm all over the nuts and seeds that I hang in the garden, on the trees, at the first sign of cold weather. In spring, I love to see them collecting twigs for their nests, then tirelessly feeding their ever-hungry offspring. I am thrilled when the parents show them off, as they teach them to fly. The blackbirds, chaffinches and robins, who live in the garden hedgerows, are almost as familiar to me as my own dog.

It is a challenge to try to identify each different species, using binoculars and poring over illustrations in my old bird book. I add every newcomer to my list with an enthusiasm surpassed only by Charles Darwin, and can claim an amazing total of thirty species, at different times of the year.

From tiny goldfinch to big tawny owl, I think they are all beautiful.

Cats are not welcome in my garden, no matter how beguiling they are - I want it to be a haven for birds, where they can be certain to get food and water, in complete safety.

But what is a bird-lover to think when the most unusual, the most exotic visitor to the garden to date, is a bird of prey?

On a winter’s day, late in the afternoon, suddenly, incredibly, a hawk was there, underneath the trees! Its’ brown and buff feathers so exactly matched the dead leaves that, at first, it was difficult to see. It must have caught some small creature, probably a mouse, and for almost half an hour it stood, in full view, hungrily devouring its prey - long enough for me to consult the book. I finally decided that it was probably a young female sparrow hawk, who had accidentally strayed into suburbia. Small tufts of white filled the air around her, as her deadly beak tore at her tiny meal. Totally engrossed, she only occasionally glanced around the garden for signs of danger.

I stared, scarcely able to believe that such a visitor should honour our humble garden with her rare appearance. Although it was only 4 pm the small birds had disappeared, too scared to gather the last few crumbs of the day. The garden was strangely hushed, devoid of any birdsong. A softly coloured dove, a regular visitor, landed on the lawn, less than a metre from the shrubbery, completely unaware of the danger in the usually safe garden. However, the young sparrow hawk only glanced at it, too hungry to be diverted from her catch. The dove pecked leisurely at some bread, for once unchallenged by the blackbirds.

When she had finished eating, the hawk raised her noble head and flew onto the nearby fence. She surveyed the landscape, unhurriedly, for maybe ten minutes, her hunger satisfied for now. Finally, she slowly, magnificently, took off. I watched her fly into the distance and disappear. Only then did I fully take in what had happened. I hurried into the garden and, with horror, realised the full cost of her visit. A sprinkling of feathers and part of a wing was all that was left of one of my tiny garden-dwellers. One of the chaffinches would have to find a new mate. My pleasure evaporated and was replaced with sadness, as I gazed down. I know that the hawk must feed to live and that, eventually, she will rear and feed her own young. I accept the uncompromising law of the jungle but why am I left with a feeling of hypocrisy and confusion.

After all, I only watch the birds - it’s not for me to judge their behaviour, is it?

Lunch outdoors, in the Spring sunshine.

It sounds quite grand, I suppose.

But it’s only an Edam cheese sandwich

And I’m alone, on the bench

In the hospital grounds.

A squirrel runs along the wall top.

It amuses the old lady in room six,

Who throws it her bread.

Hedgehogs come here, too.

They are fed by the night staff.

It’s not as warm as it looks, out here,

But the cool air is welcome and fresh,

Away from disinfectant and illness.

I watch healthy people walk past -

Not everyone in town walks with a zimmer!

I once saw an old lady, in Holland.

She walked with a zimmer, out of the sea,

Alone on the vast deserted beach.

Perhaps she had crossed the Channel?

Or ‘escaped’ from her local hospital?

Here comes a chaffinch, looking for worms.

He knows I will give him some sandwich.

When I sit out at home

The nuthatch comes down for scraps

That are left in Sophie’s dog bowl.

This sandwich is good, with thin folds of mild cheese,

Like they make them in Holland.

Not thick chunks of strong Cheddar.

I wonder why the Dutch are so tall?

Perhaps it’s all the dairy foods and chicken they eat!

Those new houses are being built so fast!

Just last Spring, dogs played in that field.

Where did the dogs go? Where did the year go?

Where did my lunch hour go?

I must go indoors and finish my shift,

Refreshed by my lunch outdoors.

I know how important I am. Sam never goes anywhere without me - and she knows it. You would not believe the panic when they can’t find me - which is most of the time. I hang by the door but there are six hooks to choose from, and I am always on the last one, of course. I enjoy the little game of hide and seek, watching Janet lift up the coats and bags that somehow get hung on top of me. I can see her get crosser as I nestle down further into the dark corner - a lead’s got to get his laughs somehow!

Once I am found, there is always a struggle to fasten me to the dog’s collar. Sam is so excited that she leaps around and shakes her head, prolonging the exercise by several minutes. Even then, it’s not always straightforward. I sometimes manage to wedge myself in the garden gate - it’s on a spring and is like a big mouse-trap. A good trick is to take the dog round the other side of every lamp post and telegraph pole that we pass or, even better, a thorny bush. That really makes me laugh - they think it’s the dog being silly!

There’s a favourite puddle of mine, just by the cattle-grid - the really muddy one. On a good day, it has lovely pools of purple and green oil floating on top. I often manage to slip out of Janet’s hand and let the dog trail me through the murky water. You should see her face as she picks me up, very, very carefully, and tries to clean me up with a tiny tissue!

If I’m really lucky, we go along the old railway track. This is a lovely walk, with swing-gates to get through, one of us at a time, and - even better - stiles! Sam is a great ally, here. I can count on her to wriggle under them, whilst Janet climbs over, with difficulty. The tangle that follows just ties me in knots!

When we get home, back I go, on the hook. Sometimes I manage to slip onto the floor as a last act of defiance, but if I ‘accidentally’ fall into someone’s pocket instead - well, roll on the next walk that’s what I say!

3 am - awake again.

Cautiously, I reach out for my radio headphones and put them on. Slowly, I turn up the volume. My husband jumps in his sleep - the headphones are not plugged in!

Guiltily, I lie rigid until he settles back to sleep.

I reach out again and begin to surf the radio waves.

Classic FM, my usual stand-by, lets me down - a String Quartet playing with saws on cats’ tails! Try again. Oh, no! Not Radio One - something more relaxing or boring might help me get back to sleep.

Ah - World Radio - news from around the planet. Fascinating, but mostly depressing - a coup here, a massacre there, famine here, refugees there. An urgent message to Brits in Zaire - "Leave NOW, repeat leave NOW!" I imagine hearing it in Zaire and my blood chills.

An owl screeches nearby - he’s wide-awake, too.

Try another wave band. Unfamiliar languages jostle for my attention, too many to separate.

A broadcast in English, in a wonderful, lilting accent, from Albania, thanking someone in New Zealand, another in Finland, for their kind messages. ‘Aid workers are coming to help feed our hungry. Please keep writing to us.’ He lapses back into Albanian and I move on.

Some wonderfully sad Arabesque music, from Turkey, unfortunately spoiled by interference.

Outside, the curlews are calling to each other - they, too, are insomniacs!

A broadcast now from Croatia, in English, about elections and Serbs, calls me back. The female broadcaster sounds very stern. More depression.

One more attempt on World Radio - that’s better - Red Dwarf! I shake with silent laughter at its zany wit and my husband is disturbed again.

From downstairs a gentle persistent scratching intrudes - now the dog is awake, too, and wants to go out.

5 am - might as well get up and read.

The blackbirds and thrushes are in full song, now. Pigeons add their monotonous descant. They blot out the quiet radio tones. I give in and reach for my dressing gown - who needs sleep anyway!

When Aunt Hilda failed to take in her pint of milk at the usual time, her very good neighbour, Mrs Smith, discovered that the old lady had died in her sleep. Her dog, a bearded collie called Candy, her beloved companion for eight years, was sitting beside the bed, staring at her dead mistress and whining softly. Mrs Smith duly contacted the doctor, then Hilda’s nephew, from the address book, by the telephone. She took Candy home with her, tried to tempt her to eat a little chicken and made a fuss of the bewildered animal. "Poor old girl!" she said, "I wonder who’ll look after you, now?"

There was a small gathering at Aunt Hilda’s funeral; two nephews, Patrick and Paul, from her brother’s side, and two nieces, Rachel and Hilda (named after herself) from her sister’s side - all married, with young families. A few elderly cousins turned up, as they always do at family funerals, wondering who would be the next to go. Some neighbours, including Mrs Smith, went along, to pay their respects. Hilda had been a popular woman, a good neighbour, although her own family, who had little time to visit her, thought she was rather eccentric, and was only interested in her garden and her old collie.

After the funeral, the relatives made the obligatory visit to the solicitor. The will held no surprises and they returned to their aunt’s home to sort things out. There were some quite nice antiques - a Victorian dining table and chairs, a grandfather clock, a large china cabinet filled with ornaments and brasses - the usual accumulation of family memorabilia.

The will stated that they could each choose a piece of furniture and an ornament. The remaining antiques (Hilda had been aware of their value down to the last £1) were to be sold and the proceeds used to keep her faithful companion in Pedigree Chum for the rest of her life. Here the family, none of them dog-lovers, cast sour looks at Candy, who had found her way back home, and who was innocently, and futilely, trying to lick the tangles from her unkempt hair. Everything else was to be shared out between them - Oxfam could have the rest. There was a mention that her carpet bag and its contents should go to the eldest. A little ripple of excitement ran through the group and Rachel set off eagerly to the bedroom to look for handbags.

Oh, yes, and Hilda hoped that one of them would give Candy a good home. The dog’s bed, bowls and towels were under the stairs, together with her brushes, leads and collars, which were kept in an old holdall. Beyond a few grunts and raised eyebrows, this last request produced no reaction from the nephews and nieces.

Rachel returned, carrying various handbags, a cheap jewel-case, two old watches and some old-fashioned jewellery. She opened the kilim bag that Hilda had brought back from Istanbul, many years ago. Inside was the elegant, genuine pearl necklace, with matching earrings, which she wore on all the family photographs, a few hairpins, and £2 in change. Rachel was delighted with her finds, and carefully transferred them from her aunt’s shabby old handbag into her own fashionable black patent shoulder bag.

Eventually, anything of interest was shared out amicably between the cousins, arrangements made with an antique dealer and Oxfam was contacted to take the rest, mostly clothes and crockery. "What about the dog?’ asked Patrick. It seemed that no-one was interested in Candy - after all, they hardly knew her and the children already had pets of their own.

Fortunately, when Mrs Smith thoughtfully took the grieving relations a tray of tea and biscuits, and asked anxiously about the dog’s future, she noticed how hesitant they all were and offered to take her in herself. She had often enjoyed taking her for walks and Candy knew her so well. They accepted, gratefully, but she murmured that it was the least she could do for her friend. Then she picked up the dog’s bed and hold-all, and Candy followed her to her new home, blissfully unaware of the relief on the faces of the family, as they prepared to leave Hilda’s house for the last time.

Back home, Eleanor Smith knelt beside her new companion and promised her a good home and lots of walks by the canal. "We’ll both Miss Hilda, won’t we, love?" Candy looked up, hearing the familiar name. Mrs Smith hugged her and gently stroked the hair back from the dog’s sad brown eyes.

"I’ll give your coat a good grooming," Mrs Smith announced, briskly, unzipping Candy’s bag. It was worn and dingy with use but a little of the original Turkish carpet still showed in parts. She remembered that Hilda had always taken it on her travels, in her younger days. Her hand, searching among the old leads and squeaky toys, found a stiff brush and what felt like a collar. "Goodness, I never knew you had one, Candy!" she exclaimed. "I’ll dress you up, as soon as I’ve brushed you. Then we’ll go for a walk. You will look lovely!" The dog wagged her tail, pleased at the gentle tone. Eleanor glanced at the collar, as she drew it out of the bag, and suddenly realised what she held in her hand - the blue, soft leather collar was studded with diamonds! Stunned, Mrs Smith looked towards the house next door, the tears welling up in her eyes. When she could speak again, she murmured "Fancy that! Well, Candy, it looks as if you and I were meant to have this! Hilda knew who would give you a loving home. She was such a good neighbour, bless her!"

Molly sat in the quiet farm kitchen, thoughtfully staring at the Aga. She was thinking of life - her life to be precise. She’d lived and worked on this farm for 30 years or more. Molly had been a townie, and had to adjust to country living very quickly. She’d met Joe at a dance and she had been impressed by his short wiry frame, and the way he could take charge of a situation. He had been up to Newcastle to stay with relatives and his talk had been of the grand farm he owned high in Teesdale.

They had married hurriedly, as she was already carrying her first child. Her Da had said "Oh you’ll be fine with Joe - He’s straight as a die." Marry in haste repent at leisure, she’d thought, Well repent she had. Joe taking charge had included her, and the list of ‘don’t-do’s quickly out-stripped the ‘do’s. Straight as a die was, to put it plainly, bullying.

She and Joe had two children, and she thanked God no more came along after the second difficult birth. They had both left home as soon as they could, to be released from their tyrannical father, and she wished them well. Joe’s farm was but a small holding high up on the fells. A few pigs, sheep, one or two beef cattle and a mean draughty cottage very much needing a cleaning. But with hard work, she’d transformed it into a warm and comfortable home. All the cooking had to be seen to on an old fashioned range (The bane of her life). When she had demurred Joe had growled that it was good enough for his mother it would be good enough for her. She deliberately undercooked or ruined food in the hopes he would buy her a ‘proper cooker’ but had soon discovered he wasn’t averse to giving the odd slap or kick.

She soon mastered how to use the range after that provocation.

But she hated the range almost as much as Joe. Well, at least in this matter, she’d got the upper hand, she’d entered Country Life competition and won a beautiful top of the range Aga. It had 3 ovens, the main one big enough to roast a pig in. It gleamed and sparkled under her care she lavished on it, it was her pride and joy.

Joe had grumbled for weeks, especially after it had blown back on him one day and removed not only his eyebrows but a good chunk of his nose hair, but he’d thawed a bit when he discovered he could put his boots in the oven last thing at night and they would be warm to slip into early next morning. She’d wrinkle her nose at this but if it stopped his complaints it was but a few minutes work to wash the oven out after he’d gone to feed the pigs.

Molly had fallen into bed exhausted and woken that morning with the sick realisation that it was much lighter than usual: she’d slept in - flustered she dressed and stumbled down the stairs to put breakfast on, part of her amazed that Joe hadn’t put his foot to her backside – his romantic way of rousing her.

She’d bustled about with the startings of their meal and as she waited to mash the tea, she started her routine of cleaning and buffing up the Aga and wiping out the oven. As she opened the oven door she discovered a large pile of ash, and the sides of the oven were greasy and blackened. Fury overtook Molly, "He’s been cooking up something disgusting for the pigs again."

Then she thought. As Molly scoured and cleaned she told the Aga all her troubles, in fact Molly poured her heart out regularly to that Aga, it was her best friend and she loved it.

Some while later the porridge was simmering and the eggs were ready to go into the frying pan. Where was Joe? She would have to make a fresh pot of tea. But for now, sit and finish her first cup and enjoy the peace and quiet. Molly’s eyes slipped lovingly over the Aga, its huge comforting shape, its shine, its pair of boots standing neatly at the side. Molly’s eyes leapt back to the boots and back to the Aga, just as a loud rumbling noise emitted from its bowels and the oven door flew open and the hot blast of air rushed over her. Molly sat thoughtfully, staring at the Aga. You know, she mused, that sounded suspiciously like a burp.

Paddy’s mam died on Sunday. She’d just come back from 11 am mass, and still had on her best hat (a huge confection of tulles and pleats) when she collapsed in the hall like a sack of spuds. Then Paddy had crawled out of bed, having sunk a few Guinness the night before. He berated his mammy to get up, before his still sozzled brain realised she wasn’t moving and in fact he’d better get the doctor to her.

Well, Doc O’Donnell came, pronounced her dead, that her poor old heart had given out at last, that it’s not surprising considering the hard life she’d had, and all the troubles from her brood, nine in all. The wake was planned for Wednesday with funeral mass and internment the next day. Mammy’s casket was stood on end, she was dressed in her best, and a glass of stout was fastened to her hand. Mammy’s eyes were wide and staring (they had tried in vain to keep them shut).

The wake had gone well and everyone had had their fill of boiled ham and fruitcake and were well into their cups. They had got to the maudlin stage and were talking softly of all her adages and good works. No mention had been made of her close purse strings and how she almost brained their Kieron when she found him rooting under her mattress, looking for her stash (for her old age as mammy put it).

As the strong ale took its effect, Bernadette the eldest said she wondered where mammy had hidden it (her stash). The house was duly, if drunkenly, searched from top to bottom, even old Father Cornelius helped. Nothing! Well, said Paddy, she couldn’t take it with her that’s for sure. They all looked at mammy propped up in her coffin. That was when the dead woman moved. Her left eye dropped in a slow sly wink. Well, said Molly, wherever she’s put it, mammy’s keeping it under her hat.

It’s a beautiful summer’s morning. Mum and I are going to work. Mum is Manageress of Renee’s hairdressing salon, on Warbrek Moor, Aintree, just under the Railway Bridge. It’s a tough working class area of back to backs and factories almost as far as Aintree Racecourse.

It’s my turn and I’m very happy, my sister Mickey and I take turns each Saturday to come to work with mum and we love it. Mum and I have to walk from Walton Vale, it’s too early for the Maghul bus. Mum starts at 7 am in the summer because lots of girls from the local factories want a hair-do before they go off on holiday to Butlins or the Isle of Man.

"First things first, put the kettle on." Mum fills the lacquer bottles; I bring the clean towels from the back.

Marguerite, Sheila and Val, the Apprentices arrive. "I went to see the new Elvis film last night, Lil, he’s gorgeous, when he was kissing his girl I was dead jealous."

The first appointments arrive, girls from Jacobs Biscuits and Hartley’s Jam plant. I brush up the hair and tidy the trays of rollers, pins and clamps.

Mrs Guy comes in. She’s one of mum’s special friends. She’s tall and bony and has salt and pepper hair and few teeth. She always has clamps and setting lotion and her hair is allowed to dry naturally. Talk fills the salon. The dryers are going full blast. The girls lip-read from dryer to dryer. Mrs Guy gives me sixpence; she always has time to chat to me, I like Mrs Guy. "Common" Auntie Marie would say with a sniff. "Salt of the earth" my mum would say with a wink. Dinnertime (lunch they call it now), Bain cakes with flowery tops, boiled ham and a whole vanilla slice all to myself.

Mrs Kenny from the cake shop bounces in; she’s plump and blowsy with frizzy hair. Oh but she’s funny is May Kenny, another of mum’s special pals. The talk turns to the chemist down the road. He’s just been caught making funny phone calls to the salon. Mum, being the manageress, had to keep him talking so the police could trace the call. He’d done a few minutes heavy breathing until mum asked how his asthma was, then he asked her what colour knickers she was wearing that day. Mum answered that she couldn’t remember and to hold on and she would have a look, then said they were white cotton very serviceable, would that do him?

The constable laughingly said he was hard put to know who to charge! Laughter fills the salon, I join in because it feels good, even though I understood only half of the conversation. "I’ve brought you some of yesterday’s pineapple creams, Lil, you don’t eat enough, get that down you." The door opens, dust and fumes from the busy main road mingle with the smell of perm lotion and strong lacquer. A breathless Magsie Murphy comes in, "Lil I want me hair done real special today, it’s our Billy’s coming out party." "Oh," says mum naively, "Has he done his national service?" "No he’s done two years in Walton for burglary and we’re giving him a bit of a do tonight. Laughter.

Suddenly a shriek from across the salon, "Balloons Lil balloons!" This is a pre-determined code for head lice (not uncommon in 1958). The poor woman is sent home with a towel wrapped round her head, a fine toothcomb and Derbak lotion in a paper bag. Everything within 6ft, rollers, pins, towels, combs are taken in the back to be boiled.

The afternoon wears on, it’s very hot in the shop, Val backcombs my hair into a bouffant. Mum doesn’t like it; it’s too old for you. I love it. 7 pm mum’s worked 12 hrs straight. Time to catch 2 buses back to Bootle, Nan and Aunt Marie are waiting.

Nursery tea for me cheese on toast and a chocolate biscuit. Mum has her usual Saturday night tea, her favourite (and mine) bacon and eggs. "Don’t give the girls any of your bacon Lilian" says Aunt Marie. "You’ve been working hard all day." Auntie fusses with the tea pot. Mum surreptitiously slips me a piece of bacon, cremated just as we like it.

"Watcha, Uriel, how’s it hangin’?"

"Shush - I’m on a verbal warning, the Boss says I’ve been taking too many fag breaks. He’s got his beady eye on me, I can tell you."

Marcus and Uriel have met just inside the perimeter wall of heaven. Not a bad spot as it happens, the weather is usually fine. Though if you want to be picky, if the wind is blowing from down to up (there’s no North, South, or East and West in heaven by the way), it can get a tad hot. And it does tend to carry up the cries of the damned from hell, which can be a bit unpleasant at times.

Uriel is lying on his side, wings tucked neatly behind him. A look of deep tranquillity settling on his remarkable face again, as he puffs contentedly on his Benson and Hedges. His eyes are iridescent green, with gold rings around the irises. His hair curls naturally and softly around his face. Nothing effeminate about him, though his body is well defined and his wings are powerful, however his nails are chewed to the quick.

Marcus, on the other hand, bears a strong resemblance to the late Kenneth Williams (who’s doing nicely in purgatory by the way). He’s a bit on the weedy side, and his wings need a good preening. He looks down his thin arched nostrils at Uriel, "I say old boy" He becomes rather posh at times, "When are you going to kick the weed? Really a guardian angel with a smoker’s cough is beyond the pale. I gave up 2 millenniums ago, best thing I ever did."

Uriel interrupts hurriedly, as he’s heard all of this precisely 108,762 times. "You’d smoke if you’d been allocated the soul I’m guarding," he says becoming morose again. "Anyway how’s things with you? Still with the soul in Calcutta?"

"Yes, easiest job I’ve ever had," he says airily. "Really, she doesn’t need much help. Works her fingers to the bone, poor love, helping the sick, the dying and the destitute. I’m just on maintenance duty, have been for years, It wouldn’t surprise me if she is nominated for saintdom when she ‘de-bodies’. (Angel talk for soul moving on). Any breakthrough with yours yet?"

"No, not much, I’m at my wit’s end I can tell you. I’ve tried everything, every trick in the book, attack of conscience, guilt dreams, visions. I think the Boss will have to intervene with this one. I can just about stomach the murders, the nepotism, the greed and the arrogance, but he’s really flipped this time, he’s talking about invading ‘Kuwait’. Same time tomorrow, Marcus?"

We arrived at lunchtime at Pitcolomini, the air was cold and damp. At the top of the street I could see the men and children leaving the mine, and making their way home, to the caves in the hillside on the outskirts of town. As I drew close to the mine-workers I could sense a feeling of discontentment in their voices. On becoming level with the miners I asked what the discontentment was about, on which I was told there was to be some redundancy, as the seams of coal were fastly becoming exhausted. This was very disappointing, as a lot of the workers had moved to the moon from Earth, when the Earth became extinct.

Our next destination was to be Catherina where they mine for precious stones and minerals, the machinery in this mine was very much up to date. As the rocks were mined they were brought to the polishing sheds where jewellery and trinket boxes were made. The export trade was flourishing with goods being sent to Mars, Jupiter, Venus and other outlets in the galaxy.

The Moon was soon to become a very rich planet, as Amsterdam was known as the diamond centre of the earth, Catherina was to become the gemstone centre of the Galaxy.

Anastasia had started to dance at the early age of four years. She practised hard and the long hours made her tired, sometimes the practice seemed never ending but each movement must be perfect. By the time she was fourteen she was dancing in the chorus of the Bolshoi Ballet Company.

Anna liked music and was enthralled when she heard the waltz being played by Tchaikovsky. She was often to be found in the wings when the Prima Ballerina and her partner were dancing. On the opening night of swan lake everyone back-stage were exited for Anna. She had been asked to dance the lead part in this latest production, a quiet moment made her reflect on this opening performance, all those hours of practise had paid off. At times she thought this moment would never arrive; it’s a childhood dream come true.

The orchestra starts to play the overture, the curtain rises and Anna nervous and excited prepares for her first major role

The maid opened the curtains to let the bright summer sunshine filter through. It was morning after the hunt ball and everyone was feeling rather fragile. The ball had been a huge success, all the nobility from the neighbouring counties had been present. It was a grand climax to the Hunt for wild boar.

Eloise was now very much awake and thought back to the events of the night before, her time on the dance floor with Pierre, then a walk in the gardens and down to the lake. The moonlight glistening across the water.

Eloise walked into the breakfast room, her eyes searching eagerly for Pierre. She sat down at the breakfast table, her eyes intent on the door, waiting, waiting, for Pierre to put in an appearance.

Finally, he walked into the room. Their eyes met and suddenly the events of the night before became a reality.

Soon it was time for all the guests to leave. The carriages arrived at the door and one by one they all started to take leave of their hosts. Finally there was only Pierre.

After taking their leave of one another, Eloise and

Pierre began to think of when they next would meet, both of them hoping their next meeting would be very, very, soon...

Man has planted thee to trap the sand on its relentless windward journey inland,

You must stand up straight, not buckle or warp against the furious tide.

The sand will travel all around, through and over your salts but still you must not falter.

And as the force of sand builds against your stretch it begins to cause a bow,

There must be no breaking,

And as the dune of sand advances through, you must trust in man to prepare you for the next wave.

A man comes to turn the wires and increase the tension and you are unmoved.

The sand is steady now, only shifting slowly through your slats.

Time goes by and your sand consolidates,

Then the wind picks up and sand is blasted at you stripping your wood and curving its edges.

The cold flick of the waves dampens your slats aiding the weathering,

The dune builds up, shifting the bows of your length and further burying you in your sand sarcophagus.

Jamie McBain

The TV news bulletins signature tune invades my kitchen.

I get out of my chair and wonder towards the fridge,

Cheese, bread, tomatoes, a carton of cottage cheese,

I could have a sandwich,

Thousands are dying in Rwanda, Jim Metcalf has the story,

Plates, plates, plates,

Just a little more cottage cheese,

There,

I return to my seat carrying the sandwich,

The French trucker’s dispute is over,

All that food wasted at the ports I think,

I switch channels,

Sesame Street,

The food fills me and the letter is S,

Time for forty winks.

The day began with a large cup of coffee and a cigarette. The coffee was bitter and the cigarette dry. Wilber had only two interests in life – surfing and time travel. Wilber sat down in his time traveller’s armchair and thought about where he wanted to go today. He could go anywhere in time and space and so deciding was not all that easy. His armchair would propel him to his required destination comfortably and safely and what was most important of all was that he would not be able to be seen or felt by anything at his desired destination, he would be invisible.

Since Wilber was from Earth he was most interested in the planet’s history; this did not mean that he hadn’t visited important points in the history of other cultures. In fact he was almost as interested in I Harkonen history, as it was similar to the Earth’s. It was similar in many ways, the build up of civilisations with their leaders, the civilisations sudden demise, and the take-over of power by other regimes. He had no fear of altering history because he would be totally invisible to anyone he came across.

He decided to go and watch the ancient Hawaiians surfing. He gave the commands to the chair that would land him on one of the best Hawaiian beaches some time in the 15th Century, at the time of a festival. It would be one of the best spots shaded by palm trees with a panoramic view of the beach. The second he said ‘go’ there was sudden darkness then he was almost blinded by the scene in front of him. The ocean rollers crashed in and the sun shone down on the scene from high in the sky.

The long boards of the high priests and the short boards of the lower orders were out in force. Even though the shortest boards were far longer and heavier than the longest of modern boards the Hawaiians manoeuvred them with expert skill.

They rode the waves for a great distance, remaining standing right to the end. Villagers festooned with flowers stood on the beach watching the surfing.

Wilber watched the surfers in great admiration for a long while. He was becoming thirsty so he decided to return home for a cool drink. He returned and sipped his drink in the shade. The day continued and towards evening, just when the sun was setting like a giant glowing sphere over the Atlantic he spoke some words and returned to his home.

Dearest Emily,

By the time this letter and my comrades are found, we will be gone. The weather has worsened and we are losing the ponies at a hell of a rate. To add to this, one of our supply veins has been cut off by a shift in the ice, revealing a crevasse some thirty yards across by one thousand feet deep.

Things are looking bad for us, old girl. The crevasse opened up one third of the way up the line. Even when it is bridged, we suspect it will be too late. There are too many mouths, and not enough food.

Please try to explain to the girls why this has happened and that it is God’s will. Be gentle, do not let them suffer, as my brave friends have suffered.

I am just going outside now. I may not be back for some time. Don’t worry, old thing, I heard it in a play once. Stay well!

Your ever loving servant,

William

P.S. When you see the first snows of winter, think of what might have been, and me.

Come Adam take me from this evil spirit

Evil serpent

The devil take you, roared the thundering mass

evil serpent, evil tree. Evil god?

No, said Adam . Not for me she treads her weaken path

The taking of the apple.

You must bear the antagonistic god.

You will bear life in such a painful manner

As to damn you to be enslaved in Lucifer’s cauldron.

She knew not why the sky thundered.

Could hear God cursing the very limits

Of his brethren, for were they not fashioned in his own image?

The tree stood for a million years

pretty flowers that dotted the ground below their feet

none could console not even for the comfort that god had given and,

that man had foolishly denied.

Then what greater horrors could occur?

Not so the bible tells us

with flood and famine and feast and friendship

the lord giveth and the lord taketh away.

Then on horseback they came.

Oh travesty of human reckoning.

The four horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Blood red horses, red eyes and a breath of flame

Cutting down the hordes with preparation for their master.

For was the master not of Lucifer’s brethren?

The Grim Reaper with the scythe of death

playing on the fear of rich and poor alike.

Sitting in a cold dining room,

facing limp lettuce sandwich.

Red hats, blue faces,

a cough, a shout, "Over here Nigel!"

Rosy red cricket ball apple

that scrapes the tarter off your teeth.

The young lad with greasy hair,

sitting on his own gazing in silent wonder

at the leggy blonde strolling down the dinner queue.

Suddenly a rush, another shout, "I’m in first."

Priority queue. Thunderous footsteps.

They were forged tickets anyhow,

from ticket touts in the fifth year.

Priority tickets, race for the line,

I’m first, No ME!

A sense of urgency.

Pick up a plate,

Get your dinner,

.Move along

Mince and dumplings,

Cabbage and carrots,

Pass the sweets, treacle tart,

Over the final fence and pass the check-out.

79p please.

Dinner’s over quick, one more round,

then back to class.

Teenagers terrorise town - News report.

They landed in their space craft, on the outskirts of town. Hid it with brush wood and slowly crossed the band of the waste ground into town. There must have been twelve of them. Little green men, with red eyes and purple dots. They were wicked, they were hip, for they were the Teenage Mutant Ninjas from Mars. They wanted earth beer and they wanted it. Now!

Breaking into a shop, using a ray gun in glass-melt mode, they stole human clothes and set off in search of a rave. They came across a rave club called Perry’s.

"Beep, Beep, dit, dit, Beep."

"Dit, Dit, beep, Beep."

"Okay. We’ll go for a Beck’s in here, please remember to speak English and your best behaviour is required."

As the bell went for last orders they all trooped out.

"Well! Wicked!"

"Rushin’!"

"Yeah. Feel the music of Mr. Bong!"

They were well away, full of beer and ready to take the town by storm. They needed a plan of action.

"We’re gonna leave this town in one helluva mess!"

"Yeah! Rushin’! Where’s the Semtex and nuclear detonator?"

"Rushin’! Feel the bass like a heart attack!"

They spent the next two hours leaving the area like a minefield of high explosives and tiny nuclear devices.

"Yeah!"

Just to set the groove, hiding behind the bushes, they managed to turn the smartest area of town into a blitz situation.

People fleeing their homes. Families leaving everything behind but themselves. Police, ambulance, fire brigade, all on full alert.

Not a bad night’s work really.

Teesdale. Of a passion for beauty I knew no other. For this was my home, my realm, my Babylon. From far flung wilderness, of the upper valley, there are few comparisons.

But, hold. This land of benign sorcery, where the fairies and goblins live, hand in hand with Massey-Ferguson and Glaxo Wealth, I knew it had to be my home, in the green fields of a Great Britain.

But ho, my friends and dalefolk compadres, together we will defend this land from all-comers. With sword and arrow and wit, tenacity, courage, but mostly with love.

The sun was rising gliding slowly, sailing into the sky, lighting up the landscape with golden showers through the early morning autuminal mist. Scotland was beautiful at this time of year and the Highlands like a jewel in the most beautiful crown.

Mary loved her new home away from the dirt and smell of London. She was glad to get away and even though she had only been in her home for a few months she was excelling at school and was making a good number of new friends. Being only fourteen years of age she did not know how sick her father really was and the pressure on her mother Tamsin and her elder sister Gemma. Mary’s father had cancer of the liver and was presently being treated in Glasgow. Its laser therapy department was a world leader and he was making good progress.

As she dressed for school Mary whistled softly to herself. She wasn’t particularly tuneful but she didn’t care. She was happy. She was also exquisite in her features. She was of medium height with a long mane of chestnut brown hair and soft hazel eyes. Her face was flawless. A tiny beauty spot mole barely half an inch from her mouth. As she dressed, the early morning sunlight streamed through the window like a golden river. Sun beams on which danced a myriad of tiny dust particles.

She combed her hair with a long ivory comb given to her as an heirloom originally belonging to her mother’s grandmother. (IFAW and Greenpeace weren’t around in those days). It was made unusually of Walrus tusk rather than the more common elephant ivory and had been bought by Mr. Penleven who was with the Scott expedition to Antarctic.

Mary

Yes mum?

Time for breakfast

Be down in two ticks

Well hurry up, your breakfast’s getting cold.

Before going downstairs for breakfast, she pondered at the picture on the wall. It was centuries old and was of the wife of the third Laird of Ballygilly. She died of a stab wound inflicted by her husband when he found her in the stables with one of the servants. One does not need a particularly active imagination to ascertain what they may have been doing. But it was not as simple a case of lust as it might first appear. Beautiful though she was her husband had married her for three simple reasons, wealth, land and power. She suffered years of neglect and violence at the hands of her husband.

As George Argyll had told young Mary when she asked about the beautiful lady in her room,‘twas a sad story and a sad fate that women suffered born out of jealousy and hatred. When the Lady Mary was caught out it was to be a black day indeed for the household.

The master was beginning to change. Though he neglected his wife sorely she had begun to change him. Without a thought of it her beauty and gentle ways began to soothe his anger. But ‘twould not on that fateful day. His anger was unsurpassed his rage could be felt on every mountain and in every glen in Scotland. She tried to explain that she tried to make him jealous so he would notice her. She loved him very much. But he hit her and she reeled back. Then he hit her again. He pulled out his hunting knife.

No. No Hamish please try to understand.

But he could not help himself. He slashed her to ribbons. She tried to shield herself but he was too strong. Finally, she staggered upstairs to the bedroom. She died from a stab wound to the heart.

When the Laird Hamish McCloud realised what he had done in his anger he was grief stricken. He could not be consoled. No-one could say anything. He became very ill. He died on St. Valentines Day, exactly eight weeks after killing his wife. And that was the story of the long gone inhabitants of her home. The Laird and his wife died in the same room the very room where Mary slept.

Mary was struck by the similarity between the picture of the Laird’s wife and her own reflection. Nor was the fact lost on friends and relatives.

That grim legend had been told and retold down the ages to keep tradition alive and to stop naughty little boys from being wicked. If they didn’t, the old Laird would come and haunt them in their beds. It did the trick with the younger children of the village but the older ones knew better. Or so they thought!

Mary had a quiet day at school. Nothing exciting ever happened at that school. Never mind though, she lived in a haunted castle. It was a big joke at school and Mary went along with it to stifle the aggravation. But secretly she believed, as did George the gardener, that something lurked in that room mysterious room.

A year later it was nearing Halloween. Mary and George were cleaning up the garden for the following spring.

George

Yes dearey?

What is the legend that goes with this place. Some, especially incomers, scoff at it, yet the locals seem to believe every word.

Och young lassie. ‘Tis true what they say. On his deathbed he vowed to return to claim his wife if she would forgive his terrible act.

So?

So.. he will be back. He might have seemed brutish and greedy at first but with a little time and effort she could have changed him. Alas when he realised it was too late. The legend tells that he will come again to reclaim his wife. That night would be all hallows eve.

Some nights later, Mary set her alarm for two am. She’d read about it in some ghost story and decided it would be a suitable time. After all, who in the house would be up at that time of night, except perhaps THEM.

So it was that at two am on the dot the small clock jumped into life. So did Mary. She looked around the room; it was deathly still. The only things she could see or rather hear were the trees on the hills around the castle. The silence however was broken by other noises. Cars in the village below. What on earth were they doing at this time? Never mind, it was of little consequence to her. The room seemed oppressively hot despite the temperature.

Suddenly a noise. She sat bolt upright. Mary had it planned even to tape recorder and camera. I’ll prove them wrong. It never occurred to her that she would be too frightened to move. So she sat there bolt upright. What happened next was erm… an unusual type of occurrence.

First she was held down to the bed by a great force. Mary! came a booming great voice from outside the door. Mary! I’m coming for you, please forgive me. Mary, I did not know how you felt. Honestly. But I am changed man.

Sir she stammered as she lay fast on the bed

Don’t kid me my sweet. We’re going to be together and we will never be separated.

As he strode through the door, Mary was presented with an awesome sight. He must have been six foot eight inches tall with huge bulging muscles and a crop of wiry red hair that hung behind him in a Highland pony tail. He looked at the picture on the wall of his dearest wife. Then he turned to Mary and with a tear in his ghostly eye, he begged her for forgiveness. Mary didn’t know what to do. She could hardly incur his wrath, yet she could not possibly be taken to the Other Side.

Wait! A voice from nowhere, like the proverbial knight on a white horse. You can’t take this girl away from the mortal plane. Leave her be and I’ll go with you.

He turned and there stood a figure dressed in white with an unearthly ethereal glow. It was his wife. The Laird collapsed to his knees.

I’ve waited a long time, he said.

I know, came the gentle reply. Too long. Now we must go and leave this young girl in peace.

Then you forgive me.

Sir, it is you who should forgive me if you see fit.

I do.

Then he walked over to her, kissed her tenderly, and then they disappeared, the legend being fulfilled.

Like the mind of someone all twisted

Bent and tormented

Waiting patiently to be dusted

Handled with care

How long have I to stay?

What could you do for me?

Brighten my day

The nice yellow colour

Peaceful and calm.

Today I am going to visit an aunt who is bedridden, she has a muscle wasting disease. She has been ill for a few years.

Starting to go up the stairs there’s a beautiful velvet paper on the wall as you go upstairs, in gold and red colour. The stair rail is made in brass, shining well. The carpet is a cream colour with flowers of mauve and purple colours.

Along the landing you can smell a faint smell of lavender perfume in the air. I go on to the bedroom to see my aunt, propped up in bed with pillows surrounding her and she is covered with a quilt of flowers and lace pattern.

My life now I live in the country is much better, as I can catch mice and take them home, if I am allowed, through the front door, as my owner thinks I’m cruel, as fair enough she does give me plenty tinned meat and biscuits. But I can’t tell her I get fed up with the same kind of food so I want to bring her the gut’s back, to sidle up to her for a food change; she just doesn’t appreciate it.

Sometimes to retaliate I stay out dead late because I know she wont go to bed without me being in on a night. She’s dead fussy. When I am out all day cos’ she’s out I go next door with their Ginger Tom (TOFFEE) and share his biscuits.

Yet when my owners about, I play on that I’m frightened of him; I love playing up. But at the end of the day I love cuddling down on her bed as she gives me her hot water bottle to lie on.

On our estate there are some funny new neighbours at either side of me. They are very quiet during the day. I went to offer some tea to drink; as they had no electricity, they invited me in, I felt really uncomfortable as they sat in a circle by the coal fire. They were chanting so they were witches. I hoped they never put a spell on me, I was frightened, the older one wanted me to join; I said no. They were all cackling with laughter.

One was putting powder on her face. She felt uncomfortable because her wart on her nose was BIG, so she put powder on to try and disguise it a little. I went back home, I’m going to try to avoid next door if I can, as long as they don’t try to rope me in, as it’s scary. Some of the young boys on the estate were curious and wanted to know who the new people were.

So after tea about four boys went to see; they were invited in by the young girl. Next thing we knew they all came out and went to the churchyard, so I followed them, as I wanted to know what was happening to the young boys. They stood in the middle of the circle being enrolled to become witches.

I wasn’t too happy with them so I got the police, and they were arrested. Out of badness they turned me into a toad.

The picture reminds me of someone hiding their feelings.

He feels he has to be shunned, as perhaps he is different in some way, such as disfigured or disabled.

I feel the boxes are windows, where he feels people are looking and sneering at him.

The teardrops falling from the picture are perhaps him hoping; others, tears who pity him.

The white bandage around his face, to me feels, he thinks no-one can see him; the bandages are a sort of mask.

The yellow in the boxes is maybe future happiness or hopefulness.

The striped curtains are mixed moods and feelings.

The red hair symbolises pent-up anger that he is frightened to show.

I love the freedom on the water when there’s no-one around.

I’m the father to 10 ducklings; as you can see I am now long in the tooth (or rather long in the beak), and I am trying to grow old gracefully and quietly. You can see bits gnawed off by beak when my grandducklings come to see me.

I enjoy weekends when the children come for a walk around the duck pond and feed my family and me on breadcrumbs.

I had an accident one day; I swam into the side of a boat and cracked my beak, now I have a broken beak.

The ring under my chest is for when I am really old. My family will then take me for swims as my eyesight is already starting to fade slowly.

My wife ran off with an ugly duckling who was my cousin a few years ago; he never grew up I guess.

Our journey starts at the top of Honister Pass near Buttermere at an old underground slate quarry. We parked the car at the youth hostel car park, which is at the top of the pass, and sorted out our gear, ropes, lights, etc and put them in our rucksacks.

Our team consisted of Chris, David and myself. As we set off we walked past numerous stacked slates from the old mine. The walk was quite a stiff uphill but only took us about twenty minutes. At the entrance we donned helmets and lights ready to go into the darkness of the immense green hole in the side of Fleetwith Pike.

Once inside, the amount of work that had gone on in this place was the first apparent thing, also the ragged sculptured shape of the tunnels. After a few twists and turns, we ended up at a great chamber, which, in turn, led to a forty-five degree tunnel through the heart of the mountain. It was used for moving the slate from the various side tunnels by way of a pulley and winch system. Some of the tubs were still there and tracks and woodwork were in good condition.

There were numerous side tunnels that led to the outside and one of these was near the bottom of the slope. Chris decided to take this tunnel and walk up the mountain on the outside to meet us at the top. As in the last part of our route there was a shaft with some difficult climbing. I watched as Chris’s light disappeared down the tunnel.

David said, "Right time to get on with it." It seemed strange, walking up a forty-five degree slope inside the mountain as opposed to the outside, the wooden part of the tracks made a sort of stairway which helped our progress over the slippery slate strewn floor.

At the top we could see our way out, about thirty feet above us, so we put on our harnesses and while David belayed, I proceeded to climb the wall to the hole in the roof above. When I had succeeded and found a safe place I brought David up to me.

"What time is it?" I asked David.

"Oh about four-thirty," he said.

"It’s going to be dark outside, I wonder how Chris is doing?"

"He’ll be ok," said Dave.

As I gained more height I could see light, then I thought of Chris, he must be shining his light down the shaft, but as we emerged the light was coming from a space ship twenty feet above the ground. Just then the light from the space ship became more intense and we found ourselves in some sort of room, it was white and kind of luminous.

Then a door slid open and two people came in, they said, "Don’t be afraid we are a peaceful people." They looked quite normal apart from their strange skin-tight suits. They said that they only wanted to do some simple tests on us and that they would cause us no harm. The tests were something to do with our immune systems as their people were dying from the slightest illness. We would be returned after the tests to the same place as we were picked up.

We seemed to have little choice but to agree to have the tests done and as they seemed pleasant enough we both agreed. They took us into a room, which looked very much like an operating theatre.

I whispered to David, "this is weird." After lying us down they said that we would be put to sleep so as we were totally relaxed, we both drifted off into a deep sleep.

"David, Andrew," shouted Chris, we both jumped up with a start wondering what was going on.

"How long have we been here?" I asked Chris, He said that he had only just arrived and found us lying there.

I said that we had arrived two hours ago, but Chris said that was impossible as that is the time I left along the side tunnel to come up the outside of the mountain. I looked at my watch to find that it said four-forty only five minutes since we had gained the top of the shaft and had been looking at the strange object in the sky.

David said, "But we were with them two hours."

"Who?" said Chris.

"Ets, I think," said David.

Chris laughed. I said we are not joking you know, they did some tests on us.

Chris said, "Who brought up the beer?"

"Neither of us," I said.

David said, "I can’t believe that we have lost two hours, they must have put us back to the same time and place from where they took us."

Chris was not easily convinced as we argued with him down the mountain and back to the car, so in fact we had a double journey and a very thoughtful ride home.

Here we are in a time where the earth’s transport problem has been solved by a system of microwave teleporters, and the air is clean to breathe, even in the biggest cities.

The wildlife has been given one of the top priorities and the people of the world live in harmony with each other. Problems are shared globally, and each country does its part. The seas are cleaner and no polluting substances are poured into them, the polar ice caps have stopped shrinking, as have the major mountain glaciers.

Power is gained from the sun and the sea and used to power robotic machines that have taken over the everyday mundane jobs, to leave us free to enjoy our leisure. People spend more time in family groups travelling anywhere they want, as passports and the like are no longer needed.

Great domed areas have been set aside for leisure when the weather is not so good; the forests in these have an abundance of wildlife and plants of all kinds. Cycles are the only recognisable things but have been modified quite a lot, exercise is regarded as a must, so there are plenty of activities that focus on health and fitness. Most of the roads that are left are quiet and safe to ride on. And all the people are treated as equal, no matter what they do.

Like lines of soldiers marching wave after wave since the beginning of time, I wonder what stories you could tell, the scores of people and boats you have seen.

Each of you taking a little piece of land at a time, with your swirling crashing progress. In your wisdom the things you could learn and show me or perhaps the places you have been. No one will ever stop your progress and I know you will go on till the end of time.

His fist swung round as if in slow motion. How I hated that fist, it’s white knuckles tensed, its dark hairiness, each hair standing to attention like angry little soldiers. It gained momentum by the second, intent upon hitting its target.

I remember the last time the fist became angry, but its target was a different one, it was my brother, not my Mam. He had been cheeky, or so Dad said, and he was going to get a hiding. I did not know which was worse, seeing it happen or running out and having to listen to it.

His face paled as he swung it harder, his eyes shining like black shiny beads. Muscles in his forearm stood out like mounds in order to get more weight behind the punch.

The dinner plate was slowly sliding down the wall, food oozing out from every angle, gravy dripping onto the floor. Everybody sat there not daring to speak. Tears pricked our eyes but we dare not allow ourselves the luxury of letting them escape because the fist might get angry with us too.

It was coming fast now, too fast for anyone to do anything about it. As it almost reached its target, my Mam tried to side step it, but it was too late.

I could feel the water trickle down my leg, it was somehow warm and comforting.

Her head jerked heavily to one side, the fist continued its journey, but slower this time. The hairs on its ugly back began to settle colour flowed back into those knuckles as it did into Mam’s face.

But the colour of her skin was blue.

against my cheek

Just for a second I thought I felt your warmth

against my skin

Everything normal, everything fine

As long as my eyes stay closed

I can imagine you lying there beside me

My life seemingly unchanged

Just for a second

I open my eyes, I’m all alone

Reality begins to dawn

Feel sick to the stomach

I can’t go on the pain too much to bear

I shut my eyes again and try to recapture

That feeling of you being there, beside me,

just for a second

Half night, half day

A perfect balance

It’s quite insidious really

Its arrival and departure

Winter to Summer

Summer to Winter

People don’t notice

They let it come and go

Just like migrating birds

Folk take it for granted

The balance I mean

They are lucky

My equinox is uncertain

Not taken for granted

It is to be cherished

Time to make plans

Time to use my senses again

They become dulled you see

By the night

Time to take stock

But people don’t, carry on blindly

It’s only the selected few

That can appreciate its wonder

A time when love is in the air

Romance around the corner

New starts, new beginnings

More light, jobs to be done

Spring clean our homes, our minds, our souls

My days are usually shorter than my nights

And sometimes my nights last for days

I can’t wake up from this drug-induced sleep

It’s dulled my senses, numbed my brain

Made me blind again

Daren’t look them in the eye or order my tea

Why again is this happening to me?

I came out here with such intent

Now I wonder where it all went

Afraid to walk the streets

Not entitled to take up space

I wonder what they see when they look at this face

I drink the tea quickly in order to leave

They may need the table for someone else to please

There are lots of empty chairs waiting to be filled

But I must go, I’m not entitled, I’m not willed

Always someone ready to take my chair

How come I don’t feel I can breathe the same air?

Of course it had to be January didn’t it? One of the most depressing months of the year. The cold and rain worked hard against the metal on those signs. The funny thing is, it only happens in January.

It was dark and cold as I kicked harder against the corroded metal. The fog appeared and I could feel him holding me down, trying to force me to the ground. The droplets of rain were beating my hair and face to a frenzy, or so I thought, but it was not the rain, it was droplets from his breath.

It was penetratingly cold and, as the minutes ticked by, I began to lose my battle. As the fog thickened and increased his hold, the signs grew further away. I was losing my battle in this January air. I’ll perhaps have to try again in February. Who knows, I may not want to go through the signs then. They might be all new and painted, just like me.

I have had to come upstairs in order to get some privacy to write about it, the fog that is. If anyone catches me writing about him, or indeed thinking about him, I’m in big trouble. You see people can read my mind when I’m thinking about the fog and if they do, he’ll come back and I can’t take that chance.

He’s been with me on and off for most of my life, but as I get older he seems to visit more and more often. He’s been back for more than a week now but he disappeared again this morning. I could feel his darkness leaving my body, he didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to, I just knew. Within a matter of minutes he was gone. He doesn’t usually go as quickly as that, but I’m glad he did.

All of a sudden I can move around again, my face even smiles with no great effort, I can make myself look and feel nice. He also gives me a different face when he’s here, it’s certainly not the face I see in the mirror when he’s gone.

When he’s not there, my face is light, fresh, unwrinkled (maybe that’s just wishful thinking). My eyes are bright with a little bit of wickedness dancing around within them, but when he’s here, all I see is the face of an old woman, grey, wrinkled, despairing, with eyes that look so dull you would swear they had been taken out, sandpapered, then put back in again.

Not an ounce of sparkle to be seen in them. They look back at me and I cannot speak, see, hear or feel. I am devoid of all senses. My body is so heavy, I have to drag it around, but the effort becomes too much. So I eventually just hang around like a bad smell all day because that’s all I’m good for, or so he tells me.

When he’s gone, it’s quite amazing. I can actually see, not just see, I mean REALLY see. When I go out, I can see the beauty that is surrounding me, the vibrancy of the colours, the smells, my God, I can smell again. It is wonderful.

Life is wonderful. There is a lightness in my step, I don’t avoid people, which he makes me do.

Life is so beautiful, it is almost painful. I can stare out without the greyness, because you see, it isn’t really there. I just imagine it. I look at all the other people mingling about and he doesn’t go to them, or does he?

He can’t do, because they can look nice every day, go shopping every day and go to work. If he did visit them occasionally they would not be able to do those things. But just now and again I can spot the ones with sandpapered eyes, for they are dull, unseeing, unfeeling. In them I have a soul mate but the fog is making them avoid me, ‘pass her quickly’ he says. I know because I can read their minds, just as they can read mine.

He won’t allow me to play my music. He hides all my tapes and CDs inside his cloak and I love my music. So it is now a sort of unwritten rule we have that when he arrives, I don’t play them. But when I feel the lightness coming back and hear Hot Chocolate blaring from the speakers, I know he’s going on holiday again. I’ve tried playing an odd CD that he’s dropped from beneath his cloak when he’s still lurking around, but I am deaf, I cannot hear it.

I will have to find a way to befriend him so that his shadowy greyness becomes more transparent and less scary, more manageable. Perhaps he could even make friends with his other side and therefore make my life a little more tolerable.

I have to make the best of things whilst he’s gone. I catch up on jobs left undone, renew friendships. Friends you see, albeit well meaning, don’t see the fog encircling me, or if they do, they pretend they can’t see because they’re afraid of him. Afraid he’s going to encircle them too, so they keep their distance while he’s here and their only real clue to his presence are my dull, lifeless, sandpapered eyes.

Some did, some didn’t

March away that is

Others stayed forever in its evil grasp

At war, in limbo, living in the past

Unable to move forward

Unable to retreat

Minds full of shell shock, horror and death.

Sergeant Major he was, all tough and strong

This handsome man hiding tormented mind

He was one who couldn’t march away

Couldn’t move on

War left its mark, not only on him

But on his children too.

Standing like soldiers all six of us

From littlest to biggest along the kitchen floor

Terrified and trembling, unable to move

No one would admit they had bitten the cheese.

‘Open your mouths’ he shouted ‘and bare your teeth,

I’ll find the culprit of this terrible crime.’

We bared our teeth, not in a smile

But in a grimace of terror

Teeth chattered loudly, singing our fear

One by one he placed the cheese to quaking teeth

Whose teeth will fit the grooves?

It was I that did it, this awful sin

Too scared to own up for fear of him

She was chosen, the youngest child

Punished duly and set aside.

I lay in the bottom of the trap. There was no way of getting out. These traps were laid by the monks of Rievaulx, who were allowed to do this, in the Balliol’s private forest - Forest in Teesdale. If a monk came and got me I would end up as wolf meat to sell to the peasants. The monks would not eat it or the lay brothers who looked after the grange at Ettersgill.

I was finished and yet somehow 1 knew there was still hope.

Suddenly I heard footsteps coming through the woods, then faster and faster. A man was being chased; perhaps by the foresters, the gamekeepers. Headlong he fell, through the branches, into the trap.

He was wearing a sheep skin coat and long trailing cloak. The drop into the trap did not make him swear or even lose his coolness. He looked around himself in the darkness and then his eyes turned to me. There was a little anxiety but no panic.

"Come here, Lupus, I feel at one with animals. Let me stroke you and acknowledge you as Lord of the Forest Beasts."

I was not afraid of him somehow. I felt I could trust him.

"We’ll get out of this trap. Let me put this rope around your body."

He tied the rope around my body with such care and such presence of mind. It was as if, like me, he worked on instinct as well as his own reason, an instinct that filled each movement he made with a pattern.

He climbed onto my back slowly and then climbed out of the trap. He cleared the branches and bushes away and then gently pulled me out of the trap.

I rubbed up to him feeling the friendship of shared danger. But our rest was not long. Suddenly there were shouts and in the confusion, a crossbow, not usually used for hunting, released its bolt, penetrating my side.

I lay half-dead, wondering on this life, this death.

In my dying I heard him say, "Fenrir Wolf

God. I will see you in paradise," as he was led away in chains.

Aukside in Winter is cold and a fresh wind blows,

at a height of a thousand feet.

Here I used to walk the dog in my lunch hour

Looking down the field called The Plains

After which our home is also named.

Trixie now has emphysema.

So a walk in winter is inadvisable.

She can no longer climb the stairs,

But she is the best dog I have ever known;

I haven’t known any others.

Aukside in Winter, cold and unwelcoming,

The road blocked with snow.

Aukside in winter is usually cold with a confused wind blowing about the place. But look at the turquoise needles of the Scots pines in the wood as I walk up the field for my lunch time walk. Now, who is with me? Trixie. The day is warm enough. But Trixie finds it hard to get up to the top of The Plains. Then she can’t get through the cattle grid and I have to open the grid to let her through. I walk a while along the ridge, which contains the road that leaves Middleton and surrounds the Hudeshope Beck for over seven miles then returns to Middleton.

Whatever we can say, the surroundings are wild. The moors are enclosed by walls running straight, representing the 19th Century enclosures. The grass at these high extremities is browsed only by sheep with no walls but there are also farms below created at the time of enclosure.

Trixie walks gently on the road. This is the only time her claws get worn down, otherwise they have to be clipped like the laming of a dog in Medieval times, which was to prevent it hunting. Trixie doesn’t like having her claws clipped but otherwise they get too long for her comfort.

A vehicle passes on the road. I draw Trixie to the side. Although Trixie loves to be in cars, and when younger enjoyed looking out of the front window, climbing up to do co when asked she is wary of passing vehicles. It appears that she is likely to run into the road to complain that the car is taking her walking space and that would never do. Trixie like most dogs doesn’t mind a lead, although sometimes she does like the freedom to go wandering around to sniff out every available patch.

There is nothing particularly remarkable about the surroundings at Aukside, they are all in with Teesdale. But it is as if one senses a daus loci, a god of place here. God is available to all and sundry, and is probably found equally in every spot. Yet there remain places that we call home, because we sense that here is more than trees and a house – but a home. Trixie’s home and ours.

Many suns ago there lived around the Yellow River in China, four men. There was Chang Yen who was a producer of silk, a Chinese invention. He kept a large number of silk worms on mulberry bushes and when it came time for gathering in the silk, his workforce would sing ‘Here we go round the mulberry bush’.

Then there was Ching Clang whose printing works made a loud noise when operating, even though they were of course, worked by hand. There were then no books in Europe. There was Tsu Wing who was an engineer and made marvellous iron bridges that crossed the beautiful rivers and canals of China, long before the Industrial Revolution in Europe.

Then finally there was the youngest Ping Pong, who was responsible for the invention of a famous game – You guessed it, Chinese Chequers, the game not the Chinese Prime Minister’s home.

They gathered in the town square over a pot of China tea or was it Yorkshire tea and told ‘Great Wall’ stories to each other.

Chin Clang began ‘When Shuh Huang Ti built the Great Wall, thousands of men worked on it and many of them died’.

Ping Pong continued. ‘Many of the bends of it were the result of men being buried beneath it’.

‘Moderation’ cried Tsu Wing, ‘Thousands were buried after working twenty four hours a day on’d Wall, and had to carry their spades and picks back home’.

‘Luxury and ease’, said Chang Yen. ‘Sometimes they had to burn fifty history books, then eat them, work forty five hours a day on’d Wall, live in cracks on the Wall, be brutally killed and buried beneath the Wall, then raise up enough energy to start work again’.

‘Things were hard in those days. Young ones don’t know anything today with all the modern inventions.’

‘Well we’re making money out of them,’ said Ping- Pong.

‘Don’t be impertinent’. Said Chang Yen. ‘Do you think people will remember us like they remembered people who built the Wall’.

‘I know’, said Ping Pong, ‘Why don’t we leave a cylinder at the crossroads reminding people to commemorate their ancestors by thinking of those who suffered so much in the past. But also to give them guidance of what to do in the future’.

Centuries later, a Buddhist monk, rich in the ways not only of Buddhism, but also the Taoist way, and Chinese philosophies, happened to see the cylinder sticking out of the base of the signpost.

‘This must be a sign indeed’, he said and read the Chinese script with much fervour. ‘If you would journey to the Great Wall you will find wisdom enough’.

It was a long way to the Wall, and he could not think of any new Chinese inventions that would help him. ‘Perhaps I could levitate as on so many views of Chinese mystics crossing the mountains’. He did not know whether he had actually been to the Wall in spirit or reality. But he knew that the Wall had caused much suffering, and that its aim to protect those inside its walls, was also the work of a tyrant. ‘Nothing here’, said the monk, ‘only tyranny, corrupt politics, evil and the world of demons’. As he sat there he suddenly realised that he was at the crossroads again in the peace.

A carnival celebrating the Chinese New Year was passing by with colourful dragons.

‘This is more important than the Great Wall’, he said. ‘There is truth, freedom, justice, peace, moderation, religion and above all fun.’

George has just left this earth. His soul, in the form of a disembodied representation, hovers over his bed.

His new body suddenly becomes erect and he sees a spiral staircase stretching up into the heavens.

‘Not more bleedin’ stairs!’

At the top of the stairs he finds the remains of some iron gates, the rest having been removed in World War Two.

‘Hitler was a problem,’ confided St. Peter, ‘but we do at least have some pearls in the gates as described in the Book of Revelation. You are free to enter. Avoid those who have just come as ‘site seers’ who do not want to permanently reside here.’

‘I have some questions and I want some answers before I enter,’ said George, reversing the usual role. ‘If God is all powerful, he can stop evil. And if God is all loving he would not wish evil. Therefore a God who is all-powerful and all loving would not only wish evil but would stop all evil.

Suddenly a young man appeared in medieval dress, in fact twelfth century:

‘My name is Anselm and I am master of logic in the twelfth century schools. Now this statement you have made, it doesn’t hold up.’

‘That’s what you say,’ cried George.

‘Who is to say that all loving and all powerful natures are compatible? The gospels are based on love, hardly on power.’

‘Thanks for the hints, ‘ said George.

St. Peter reappeared.

‘But what about the environment? It is not the animals and plants fault. We exploit them,’ continued George.

Suddenly Anselm was gone and only St. Peter remained.

‘Look,’ said St. Peter, ‘do we need to stand out here in the cold?’ Come in where it is warm.’

‘I thought it was hell that was warm,’ said George. ‘If we want warmth, we might as well go to the Other Place.’

‘Is that a theatre in Stratford or London?’ said St Peter.

George looked quizzically. ‘I want some questions answered. Now. Animals, so the Bible says, have no soul and therefore are not responsible for evil in the world. Why, therefore, do they take part in its suffering?’

Immediately a huge throne emerged in the central skyline and George wondered if he had summoned up God. But here were animals mythical and historical on either side of the quiet friar St. Francis out dressed in his robes.

‘Well,’ said George, ‘have you a reply to my questions?’

‘I am not a great scholar,’ said St. Francis, ‘but it is clear to me that animals have a soul and we can even talk of Brother Sun and Sister Moon. Of course if we look at the sun we will damage our eyes, if we bait wild animals they will kill us, but we have here a responsibility to them, to ourselves, and to God, to protect their beautiful world.’

‘But they are not helpless,’ said George. ‘They often know what they are doing better than we.’

‘Indeed,’ said St. Francis, ‘and that is why life is a partnership between men and all other creatures.’

‘But will I find beasts of the field here in Heaven?’ George asked.

‘Ofcourse,’ said St Francis. ‘Which you might gather if you would come in.’

George said, ‘One last question before I come in. Please tell me, why has everything got to be as it is? Why do we live for a few years and then ignominiously die. Heaven doesn’t account for all that.’

St. Peter disappeared again and a ship appeared surrounded by giant tortoises. A young man stood on the shore, and George recognised him as Charles Darwin.

‘They can’t let you in here, ‘said George.

‘Ah, well, I only became an unbeliever in my later years,’ said Charles.

‘Then why do we die?’

‘Although spirituality has its place,’ said Charles, ‘we die because we are human not because we are sinful.’

Molly sat in the quiet farm kitchen, thoughtfully staring at the Aga. She was thinking of life - her life to be precise. She’d lived and worked on this farm for 30 years or more. Molly had been a townie, and had to adjust to c