Hello, and I can’t believe it’s almost the end of January already. It’s too late in the Year to say Happy New Year (actually, what is the unwritten etiquette for when we stop saying ‘Happy New Year’ to people?) but I hope you all had a great time.

I was at a gathering the other evening and there was a group of us men standing around, beer in hand, generally moaning about the various aches, pains, illnesses and injuries that we had all accumulated during 2024. It wasn’t quite one-up-manship, but it was beginning to get to the stage where one of the younger ones (in his early 30s) would lift his top and show a childhood scar from falling off a skateboard and say ‘This is still giving me gyp after all these years.’ One of the other guys would scoff and say ‘That’s nothing! Look at this.,’ lifting his shirt and turning his back to show an angry-looking scar. ‘Coral reef. Philippines.’ Said with a certain amount of smugness.

Another guy snorted. ‘Just wait until you’re my age. 40 is when it all starts to go downhill. You start to fall apart.’

At this point, I interjected with the old adage, ‘Age is just a number. But my knees hurt.’

Being the oldest of the group at 62, I felt that age was in fact, a whole lot more than just a number. It was the sum total of who I am, having managed to have orbited around the sun 62 times and still be here.

Scientifically speaking, after 60 years, we begin our senescent phase, the part of our life where the degeneration of our body begins, and perhaps subconsciously I’ll be fighting it all the way.

My age is a reflection of my experience gained over time, experiences gained through failure, idiocy and the occasional triumph. Ageing is an unavoidable process and how we choose to handle our ageing is a defining part of our identity and character…and health.

The biggest thing I have learned through these years is that age doesn't define potential, that age doesn't define what a person has achieved or what they can still accomplish. People can achieve anything at any age. Ok, I can’t do backflips or skateboard easily like I used to, but I know that if I trained for 3 or 4 weeks I’d be back to doing them with ease - or end up in hospital.

A friend of mine (I’ll call him J) who is 91, still plays tennis regularly. No, he can’t sprint for the ball like he used to but this doesn’t stop him from having a go. He can still move around the court like someone much younger. He also travels abroad every year on holiday alone. Everyone and their dog has asked him what his secret is, myself included, and he always says that it’s happiness and that he knows his limits and he gets up every day and moves. He said that the day you stop moving is the day when age will catch you and it’s all over. He also has a very active social life.

I like to think that I engage in positive ageing, where I acknowledge that I’m getting older; but I don’t stress about it. To be frank, my biggest worry about getting older is that I would end up being a burden to my partner or family. To this end, I try to maintain a healthy lifestyle without being a zealot and I have a busy social life and do lots of walking with my hounds every day. I also try and put my socks on every day, balanced on one leg while standing up.

But most of all, I fill my life with doing what I love.

New Year’s Resolutions - Just Say No!

I have never made any New Year’s resolutions, but this year, I have resolved to put my foot down and say ‘No’, when people ask me to do them a favour. It can’t be that hard. Don’t get me wrong, I like to help people out, but it has started to get very busy where I end up having less time for myself.

It hasn’t worked.

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Until the next post, stay energetic and be happy.

Best wishes

Simon JJ Green

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Has Christmas Lost It’s Way?

As we head towards Christmas (8 days to go at the time of writing) I thought I would pop down to our local shopping centre of about 12 shops and buy a couple of cuddly toys for Christmas day.

I need to have my head examined. What was I thinking?! The journey from home to the shopping centre should only take 10 minutes by car. After 25 minutes I hadn’t even reached halfway. On a Wednesday. At 11am.

Kids were still in school, people were still at work and it wasn’t lunchtime yet. Very British problems. I would have turned around and gone home but this was the only chance I had to get the blasted toys before we went away for the holidays. I gritted my teeth and turned on the radio because it was imperative that I listened to Mariah Carey for the 10,000^th time in 2 days (someone calculated she gets $3M every year from that one bloody song) and endured the slow crawl through the stalled traffic

When I finally saw the shops in the distance I discovered that the monumental car-mageddon in the whole area was caused by 2 teenagers who had been tasked by the shopping centre management to stand at the entrance and exit of the car park and guide the cars in and out so the traffic would flow smoothly. The poor buggers just stood there waving their arms around like those inflatable dancing figures outside malls in the States, ineffectually pointing at imaginary car parking spaces in the distance while angry drivers wound down their windows and told the teens to go home.

My 10-minute journey took just over an hour. As I finally found a parking space – ironically, as far from the shop I wanted as possible, I sat in the car for a minute and looked at all the people getting their Christmas shopping. Some looked very happy, arms laden with festive shopping, others looked stressed and I wondered about this cost of living crisis that everyone was worried about. Obviously, it hadn’t hit this corner of Essex yet. I personally find Christmas in the UK to be a glorification of opulent spending dedicated to the almighty Pound. There appears to be less and less connection to why we have Christmas in the first place. I have now changed my normal greeting of Merry Christmas to Happy Birthday Jesus!

Anyway, as I walked out of the pet shop with the 2 cuddly toys for my dogs I surveyed the grid-locked car park that I would have to navigate out of and thought. ‘Those bloody dogs better be grateful on Christmas Day!’

Bah Humbug

I don’t think of myself as a killjoy but someone got me a Christmas card the other day and I said, ’Thanks, but I haven’t got you one, they’re bad for the environment.’ My friend looked mystified.

I haven’t sent anyone a physical Christmas card for about 8 years. Not since I discovered that in the UK alone, approximately 1 billion Christmas cards are thrown away every year. It would take the equivalent of 33 million trees to make that amount of cards. One tree makes 3,000 Christmas cards, meaning a single tree is enough for only 176 people to send cards, plus consumers in the UK use about 300,000 tons of card and paper packaging every Christmas. Globally, it is estimated that 120 million trees are cut down during this period. On top of that, many Christmas cards that are thrown away can't be recycled because of glitter, foil, or other decorative features and end up in landfill. Next time, you can make a difference by either sending a personalised e-card or reusing and recycling old cards and cutting them up to make your own new ones, or making your own from scratch at home. As a last resort, you can buy cards printed on recycled or FSC-certified card. Better still, call the person and say ‘Instead of a card, here’s me!’

A Final Plea

I would like us all to spare a thought for those who are going through crap this Christmas and those that are alone. I was with an old friend for dinner last night and we both pondered the absolute shit-show that this planet is in at the moment. In my 61 years, I have never seen it as dire as it is now. No matter what your religion, ideology or politics, let us mentally join hands around the world and look for peace this 2025. Peace comes through tolerance and acknowledgement of differences. We have to look for a common ground that will enable our children to know a world without bombs, tanks and guns.

I hope that you all have a peaceful and enjoyable holiday season as much as you can, wherever you are.

Best wishes, Simon

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The Long Weekend

My partner surprised me with a long weekend in Prague. I’ve a done a few cities in my time, mostly when I was in my 20s and backpacking but I had never been to the Czech Republic. I’ve not really wanted to visit any cities in my later years as I prefer holidays and breaks where I’m doing something active. My partner knows this so she had prepared a couple of surprises for the trip.

We took a Ryan Air flight from Stanstead Airport on a Friday night, directly from work, arriving in Prague at about 10pm their time. A quick taxi ride took us to our business-class hotel and we crashed for the night. I am one of the blessed few on the planet who can fall asleep at the drop of a hat anywhere. My partner is the complete opposite and will wake me up to see if I’m asleep.

“Psst, are you asleep?” I ignore her. I then get nudged, so answer back.

“Yes.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

We then end up having a cup of tea at 2am and chatting about what we’re going to be doing later that morning.

Prague is a stunningly beautiful city with an enviable public transport system that is cheap and easy to use. One of the activities that my partner had planned for Day 1 was to have a tour guide take us around the city - on electric Harley Davidson style trikes. The trikes were a brilliant way to get around the city and only took a few minutes to master. The young university student who was our guide was witty, very knowledgeable and very patient with me trying to speak Czech (I’d managed to memorize about 5 words on the plane) and with all our questions. He also worked in IT. During our short stay we discovered that everyone spoke English and every Prague local we spoke to had at least three jobs. One of our waiters in a snug bistro was also a university lecturer.

We walked miles every day marvelling at the old Gothic churches, the castle, the John Lennon wall, and the astronomical clock and trying all the different foods and large array of beers. We had a guided tour of an old communist-era nuclear bunker (fascinating), an evening ghost walk (very tongue in cheek) and a boat trip on the famous Vltava River.

We found out that about 75% of the population is atheist so many of the churches are used as galleries, tourist spots or host concerts. We stopped in St Clements church for a Vivaldi classical concert which was superb.

The other surprise that my partner had arranged was a wine spa. Yes, that’s correct - a wine spa. They also do a beer spa. You are handed a large glass of wine when you arrive. You then change into your swimwear and are led to a room with giant baths in them. The baths are full of a warm wine extract infused with herbs and essential oils. You are then given another glass of wine while you have a pleasant soak for about 40 minutes. Our baths were a couple of feet away from each other so conversation was easy. After this you are led to what they call the salt cave where you sit in a deck chair in a warm room and given more wine before you finish your session.

The beer spa option is more for groups where you sit in a large vat of beer with your mates and drink lots more beer. In the salt cave, we were joined by a group of ten young Frenchmen, all drunk and singing. It was truly different. It also makes you realise that there is no way that this sort of business could operate in the UK. Next on the list will be Krakow.

Art for Arts Sake, Writing for my Sake

A rotting banana that goes for $5.2 million dollars at auction and is billed as ‘art’. This tells me a couple of things about the people involved. The artist, Maurizio Cattelan, is a genius. He bought the fruit for a few cents in 2019 and duct-taped it to a wall. Since then, the fruit is regularly replaced as it rots. And people keep taking it off the wall and eating it. It travels around the world to various galleries to be exhibited. Now it has been sold for an eye-wateringly large sum of money. But there are 3 editions of this ‘art’. The buyer at Sotheby’s, crypto entrepreneur Justin Sun, has paid all that money for just one of the conceptual art pieces, which means there are still 2 more bananas duct-taped taped to walls else where in the art world. Granted, art is meant to be provocative and promote discussion but no one in their right mind is going to point at a rotting banana stuck to a wall and say, “Wow, that’s worth over $5 million!”

This also tells me that Justin Sun is an idiot. Or, genuinely believes he has got a bargain. Then again, he has been quoted as saying he’s going to eat the banana.

I have often wondered if writing can be viewed as art. Some classical pieces may be seen as works of art. Writing is a form of self-expression so really it should be seen as form of art. Am I then an artist? Could I sell a ‘conceptual’ written piece about a banana stuck to a wall for a huge sum of money? No.

So this leaves me battling with the thousands of story ideas rattling around in my head, jockeying for position, to be the one that I will pick and start crafting the story around. They will join the (at the last count) 7 stories I’m simultaneously working on at the moment. There is a method to my madness. I don’t get writers block as each of the stories clamours for my attention and I daren’t leave any one of them too long lest I forget some crucial element or plot point that was essential to the story (thank heavens for phones with a notepad).

I had stopped worrying about deadlines and having to email endless publishers and agents with manuscripts when I decided that self-publishing was the way forward.

This hasn’t worked.

As any writer will tell you, procrastination is the thief of time. No pressure to write means an immense slacking off on my part, which means a lot less writing gets done. So, once again I’ve switched my focus and have set myself the deadline of 1st March 2025 to have self-published the YA novel that I’m editing for the 20th time.

While I’m doing that I have also set myself the task of completing 3 short stories, also by 1st March. Hopefully, this will be the kick up the butt I need!

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That’s it for this edition of the newsletter, thank you for reading and have a great week!

Simon JJ Green

I didn’t manage a Substack post last week as planned because BAM! I was hit with a mystery virus. There I was, at a friend’s 60th birthday party on the Saturday, dancing away and making all the teenagers cringe as I got down with my funky self - albeit to house music when suddenly at midnight, I felt a bit strange. I hadn’t been drinking as I was driving home.

When I got home I told my partner I was feeling a bit weird and went to bed. I had something similar about 3 years ago, a strong fever that turned out to be some type of pneumonia that knocked me out for 6 days. Obviously, being a man I was convinced that I had something akin to the bubonic plague and was waiting for someone to start chanting ‘bring out your dead’. Look, if I want to be dramatic, I’ll be dramatic, alright? One thing to note is that my partner is not a ‘nurse’ type of person. Her bedside manner can only be described as brutal, as in ‘How dare you be sick!’. To be honest though, sometimes that’s what I need. I’m pathetic when I’m ill.

My partner is a Nutritionist and what I would describe as a closet witch. Her remedy was to chop up a red onion, wrap it in a tea towel and heat it up in the microwave. The poultice was then plonked on my chest like a hot water bottle, which I duly clung on to all night. The smell was pretty unbearable but by this stage, I didn’t care. I’ve had this remedy once before and I was very sceptical about it working. But work it did. It worked this time too. The fever peaked and by the morning I’d stopped the shivering and the hot sweats and just felt weak as a kitten. I then spent the rest of the week recovering.

Since I had cancer about 7 years ago my immune system has been compromised and I spend a lot of time trying to be healthy. Between my nutritionist partner and my Vietnamese friend Chi, I am constantly trying out weird and wonderful concoctions purporting to be good for you. Chi loves to give me soups made with liver, ginseng, tarot root and brandy. Real ‘kill or cure’ stuff. My partner on the other hand will juice 6 different fruits and vegetables and watch me drink it while taking various vitamins and mineral supplements.

While living in Hong Kong as a youngster, my Chinese girlfriend would take me to the market to have snake soup when I was feeling rough and also to have various unidentified potions during the winter. They all seemed to work, so now I never pooh-pooh anything suggested. You never know!

Naming Your Children

Personally, I think that as a parent you have the right to name your child whatever you want, so long as you think it through and it’s not a name that your child is going to be bullied for or made fun of growing up. This includes names where the initials spell out something stupid or offensive. A case in point was a guy at secondary school with the ordinary name of Philip Gosling. Unfortunately, his middle name was Ian and he wasn’t a slim fella. His life was made a misery.

Over the years I have come across some people with strange/cool/weird names. Some were born with those names and some people gave themselves the name when they were older. I have met quite a few Rainbow’s (male and female), a Zoomer, Othello (seriously), Bran-Dee, Pumpkin and my all time favourite was Hitler. I shit you not. He was a guy I knew in Hong Kong called Steven Chan and he changed his name. I asked him why he chose Hitler. He said he chose Hitler because he was very famous in history. Everyone knew him. I asked him if he knew that Hitler was responsible for killing 6 million Jews. Steven said no, but he thought that was okay because it meant Hitler was powerful as well as famous. I eventually persuaded him to change it to Alexander after Alexander the Great. He was happy with that.

The reason I mention this is that when my ex-wife and I were naming our children, a boy and a girl (who are now in their late 20’s) we named the boy Joshua. A good, solid name. A couple of years later my daughter was born and I wanted to call her Raveon. I thought it was a cool name and I still do. I had just left the music industry and rave’s were still a thing. My ex-wife said absolutely no way was our daughter going to be called Raveon. I put my foot down. Anyway, she’s called Jessica. I couldn’t even sneak Raveon in as a middle name.

I was looking at all the stupid names that celebrities call their kids. Elon Musk takes the biscuit with X Æ A-Xii, closely followed by pop star couple Ashlee Simpson and Pete Wentz calling their kid Bronx Mowgli. Having said that, every pregnant couple I meet that are having a baby girl, I do ask if they’ve thought about the name Raveon? Strangely, it doesn’t seem to have caught on yet.

Cheese On Toast

Everyone has their own recipe and way of making cheese on toast, a true British classic snack, and I’m no exception. We have a young lad from Trinidad staying with us and I was in the kitchen making my version of cheese on toast. He was stunned. I asked him how he made his. He said he got a piece of toast, scraped some butter on it, put a couple of slices of cheddar on the toast and grilled it for a minute or two. Job done. I said that it was an appallingly amateur attempt. Stand back and watch a master. I hasten to add that Cheese On Toast in Britain is not to be confused with a Grilled Cheese in the States that appears to be simply a cheese sandwich which is then fried in a pan.

I showed the young whipper-snapper how it’s done. Firstly, you have to choose the right bread. I like wholemeal bread and I make my own which means that I can slice it quite thickly. Then comes the cheese. A good blend of grated mature cheddar and Red Leicester. Put in a bowl and add some ground black pepper, a teaspoon of chopped spring onions, add a dollop of mayonnaise and a teaspoon of Dijon mustard and mix well. Butter your toasted bread, spread the cheese mixture on it and add a splash of Worcestershire sauce and put under a hot grill for 2 minutes. It is perfection. My Trini friend tried mine and declared that it was the best he’d ever had. If you have a better recipe please put it in the comments. I am willing to try anyone’s cheese-on-toast masterpiece.

That’s it for this time, thanks for reading and hopefully the next time I post on Substack I’ll be back to writing and podcasting. Until then, stay happy and healthy.

Simon JJ Green

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As some of you may know I am furiously trying to get a podcast show off the ground. After watching all the hundreds of YouTube videos on the subject and reading countless articles telling me that it was very simple - you only had to spend pennies and all you needed was a microphone and a laptop and you could be podcasting in minutes. I‘m here to tell you that it is a load of tosh. My experience so far is that you need to spend a fair bit on the tech, especially the microphone so you don’t sound like a tinny robot talking underwater and then there is the cost of the podcast hosting – depending on what level of support and online creativity you want. Oh, and don’t forget that you are meant to have a website.

I am not deluded enough to think that as a solo podcaster my podcast will sky-rocket me into online stardom - but I would like to give it the best chance it has.

But what if I didn’t actually have to talk? What if I could just write a script and have an AI program read it out as a podcast?  Well, I can. That doesn’t mean I should, but the technology is already here, and it’s scary how good it actually is. NotebookLM is an AI-powered research and writing assistant from Google that helps users study and conduct research, but crucially, it can generate audio overviews that sound like podcasts. There are 2 hosts, a male and a female that have a back-and-forth banter, and sometimes, even a little humour.

My worry is that genuine podcasters will be lost in all the snow of AI generated podcasts  flooding the internet (specifically podcast hosting platforms). There are already sensationalist YouTube videos showing you how to make money from this new trend.

This is the article from arstechnica.com that I read. Kyle Orland wrote a 30,000 word book about the legendary computer game Mine Sweeper. The AI rendered it into a 12 ½ minute podcast using a chatbot. Check it out in the link below.

https://arstechnica.com/ai/2024/09/fake-ai-podcasters-are-reviewing-my-book-and-its-freaking-me-out/

Watch this space!

Bored with the gym? Try Calisthenics – is this the way forward for exercise?

I have spent £500 on 2 gym memberships in a year and I’ve been 6 times. I thought that spending that much money that I couldn’t really afford would spur me to go. I don’t normally use a gym and go running instead through our beautiful forest here on the edge of London. However, I’ve had an Achilles tendon injury for the last 10 months that has stopped me from running so I thought I would replace the run by working out in a gym.

The thing is, I get bored in a gym. I hate having to wait for someone to finish on a piece of equipment and then having to wipe their sweat off of it. So, for the last few months, I’ve turned to isometric exercises, specifically Calisthenics. No equipment is needed and all you do is a mixture of body weight exercises and stretches. Think sit-ups, push-ups, squats, etc. This has been a game changer for me as I can do all the exercises in the comfort of my home whenever I have time, and best of all it’s free! It also appears to be having some positive effect on the Achilles injury too.

There is a young chap called Hampton who has a YT channel called Hybrid Calisthenics, his approach is brilliant as it caters for everyone's ability regardless of age.

All I have to do now is try not to throw my back out while attempting to touch my toes!

National Fungi Day: A Spore-tacular Celebration!

Fungi are one of our most ancient species. In the UK the annual Fungi Day is around the 5^th October, so let’s talk some facts about this amazing and essential organism.

Firstly, fungi are not plants or animals. They are a distinct taxonomic group.

Fungi are nature’s original recyclers. If it weren’t for them, we’d all be buried under a mountain of rotting leaves and pizza leftovers!

Mushrooms, people love ‘shrooms. Whether they’re sauteed in butter and eaten on toast or pan-fried in garlic like a Portobello mushroom steak, they are a versatile and nutritious food group, rich in potassium. Mushrooms were referred to as the “food of the gods” by early Romans.

There are estimated to be around 10,000 types of mushrooms alone but Scientists believe there could be anywhere from 2.2 million to 3.8 million species of fungi, including moulds, yeasts, and mushrooms.

There are several medicinal mushrooms known for their health benefits. These are some of the notable ones:

1.    Reishi (Ganoderma lucidum): Often called the "mushroom of immortality," reishi is used for its immune-boosting properties and potential stress relief.

2.    Chaga (Inonotus obliquus): Known for its high antioxidant content, chaga may help with inflammation and support overall health.

3.    Lion’s Mane (Hericium erinaceus): This unique mushroom is linked to cognitive health, with studies suggesting it may support brain function and nerve regeneration.

4.    Cordyceps (Cordyceps sinensis): Often used to enhance energy and athletic performance, cordyceps may also improve stamina and recovery.

5.    Turkey Tail (Trametes versicolor): Rich in polysaccharides, this mushroom is often used to support immune health and is researched for its potential in cancer treatments.

6.    Shiitake (Lentinula edodes): Besides being delicious, shiitake mushrooms may help lower cholesterol and support heart health.

These mushrooms have been used in traditional medicine for centuries and are gaining popularity in modern wellness practices, but always consult with a healthcare professional before starting any new supplements.

Some mushrooms are also used for their psychoactive properties like Psilocybin mushrooms. These hallucinogenic mushrooms, such as the Liberty Cap have been used for thousands of years and many people enjoy the sensory effects including visual and auditory hallucinations and altered perception of time and space. Psilocybin mushrooms have not been known to cause physical or psychological addiction.

So, on this glorious National Fungi Day, let’s raise a glass of mushroom-infused kombucha (because why not?) and celebrate our spore-tastic friends.

That’s it for this newsletter. As always, take care and enjoy life!

Simon JJ Green

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Is it me or has Banksy’s work lost its meaning?

As the saying goes, in regards to art – I know what I like. My taste in art is quite simple.  I admire the old masters like Caravaggio, Vermeer, Rembrandt etc. I love all the Renaissance masters, like Titian, Botticelli, Michelangelo etc I am also partial to science fiction art.

Having lived and worked in London for some time I also enjoy street art, as opposed to graffiti which I think of as kids just tagging their street name on a bus shelter. Graffiti, by its very nature, is designed to be temporary, designed to be removed or washed off by Councils across Great Britain. When the artwork is removed and put away for safekeeping it no longer is street art but rather, just ‘art’.

My opinion on Banksy is divided. One or two of his pieces are okay, but the rest I just see as simplistic stencilled graphics, guerrilla art. The use of public spaces to send a message of social commentary, politics or cultural issues is in itself a cock-a-snook at the ‘establishment’. Rather than being outraged and having the artwork erased, cash-strapped Councils dance with joy thinking about the money that could be made. The only thing I can grudgingly agree on is that it provokes discussion.

I believe that the continued hype around Banksy and his street art means that he has diluted his original purpose of being this elusive folk hero, a man of the people. Now he is a global brand and has sold out to the God of money. It is estimated that he’s worth around $50 million.

The attraction for people to steal his images directly from whatever surface he has painted on surely has to be just for the kudos of owning a picture made by Banksy who is flavour of the month. Stealing the art (recently a print of Girl with Balloon was stolen from Grove Gallery in London and valued at £270,000) renders it almost worthless. Stolen artwork would be very difficult to sell for a decent price. One day you will have a gallery just for Banksy’s work. You heard it here first.

People whose property has been painted on by Banksy, own the artwork. People and Councils then scrabble to try and ‘preserve’ the artwork in the hope they can take it to auction and cash in on the hype, but surely street art is designed to be publicly enjoyed, not sold?

Unpopular opinion - I’ve seen much better street art. This artwork by Carleen De Sozer titled ‘Hip Hop Raised Me’ was around the corner from my office back in late 2016. To me this is ‘art’ and it carries a powerful message about the importance of music in our lives.

More about this particular piece of work can be found on Carleen’s website here: Hip Hop Raised Me - Carleen De Sozer

Superstitions - irrational belief or good luck?

This week it was Friday 13th. I have never really bought into the idea of superstitions. I’ve walked under plenty of ladders in my time, both obliviously and on purpose. I’ve broken many mirrors and had my path crossed by many a black cat (I also own two black cats) and even walked on thousands of cracks in the pavement. All of this may be why I have never won the lottery - but when I think about it, as a youngster living in Hong Kong I was influenced heavily by the local culture and, of all people, my Catholic Burmese grandmother. Hong Kongers are a superstitious bunch. Colours and numbers play a large part in daily life as well as Feng Shui, the mystical power that rules nearly all aspects of Hong Kong and Chinese life. Feng Shui translates as ‘Wind-Water’. It is the flow of energy and harmony in a space and it is believed that the correct Feng Shui can have a positive effect on business, life and general happiness.

My first inkling of the power of Feng Shui was when I was about 14 and I got a slap around the back of the head from my Hong Kong girlfriend when I unthinkingly stuck my chopsticks vertically in a bowl of rice. This is considered bad luck as it resembles joss sticks (incense) that are commonly lit at graves and when someone dies. We were at a market stall and the cook shouted something to my girlfriend who then saw what I had done and showed me the error of my ways.

Hong Kongers are superstitious about the number 4 as phonetically, it sounds like the word death/die. Even to this day I don’t get off on the 4th floor when I take a lift, I’ll walk back up or back down to that floor and only if I have to. But I often don’t realise that I’m doing it. On the other side of the number coin is the very lucky number 8, which also sounds like the word for wealth. I’m loathe to admit it but I incorporate the number 8 into many of my everyday things. Even my ancient email address has 3 number eights in it.

Red is seen as a lucky colour and is prominent at all festivals, weddings, party’s etc. At Chinese New Year it is customary for married couples to give out ‘Lai See’, lucky red packets/envelopes containing money, to relatives and young children. When my son and daughter were young we had gone across the border to Shenzen while I was doing some business there. My daughter, who was 6 at the time, had inherited my red hair and had long curly locks. The local Chinese people couldn’t stop touching her hair and asking to have their photograph taken with her. After a while this was really annoying her so I taught her to say “One dollar for one photograph” in Cantonese. The local people were delighted that she could speak some Cantonese and was a businesswoman to boot. By the end of the day she had made HK$51. I will do an entire article on Hong Kong superstition in another newsletter as it is quite fascinating. I’ll tell you about the problems I had after I accidentally broke a burial pot that had someone’s bones in it and the story of the poor taxi driver whose fare died in the back of his cab.

My grandmother came from what was Rangoon in Burma, now called Yangon in Myanmar but was raised a strict Catholic, as was my mother. She was a tiny, wizened old lady who wore a Sari and counted her Rosary beads incessantly. However, my grandmother (who only had basic English, while I had no Burmese) was heavily influenced by her Burmese culture (which has many similarities to Thailand and India) and this over-rode her Catholic religion. She would shout at me if I whistled in the house as apparently, this annoyed the house spirit that guarded the house. I wasn’t allowed to cut my nails at night as we would become poor. As I write this, I actually can’t remember the last time I cut my nails at night.

But the one superstition that has stuck with me to this day is about food. My grandmother was a phenomenal cook (aren’t they all) and as a teenager I had a voracious appetite that my grandmother loved to feed. I would wolf down the curries, the noodles and the rice dishes as fast as I could and ask for more. But, she would not give me anymore unless I left a bit of food on the plate because, according to superstition, only poor people cleaned their plates before asking for more. I used to tease her that we were poor. May God rest her soul.

I was talking to my friend the other week about superstitions and I discovered that he actually takes the day off and stays at home on every Friday 13th and he also throws salt over his left shoulder. I asked him why he did that and why the left shoulder. All he knows is that his grandmother told him that if you spill some salt you, you threw it over your left shoulder. He throws salt over his left shoulder every time he hears bad news. I looked it up. Apparently, in Roman times salt was incredibly valuable (the word salary comes from the Latin for salt) and it was considered sacrilegious if you spilt some salt. Folklore says that the devil sits on your left shoulder, so people throw salt to blind him so he doesn’t see what misfortune has befallen the person. Now you know.

I would be fascinated to hear about any of your superstitions (how many people turn the light switch on and off a couple of times?) in the comments below.

Hate the wife? - rob a bank!

A true story that I came across that made me chuckle. In 2016 a man in his 70’s from Kansas had an argument with his wife. He said that he couldn’t stand to be with her for another minute and told her that he would rob a bank, wait to get arrested and spend some time in jail - just to get away from her. True to his word, he went into town, walked into the bank and told the teller that it was a stick-up. The teller put some money into his bag. The old man then went and sat in the lobby and waited to be arrested. He went before the judge and the judge handed out his sentence. Home confinement. Hah!

Until next time, I hope you all have a lovely week as we head into autumn. Conkers, anyone?

Simon JJ Green

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Hello everyone and welcome to my latest newsletter.

It is a week since my partner and her 2 grown children went off on holiday to Tanzania for an African safari. It was to celebrate the youngest’s 21st birthday. She asked me if I wanted to go along but I declined as I am anti-safaris and we needed someone to look after the hounds. When I mentioned to people that I stayed behind they looked baffled as some of them have been on Safari and really enjoyed it. For me, it is very simple. We should just leave the animals alone and let them live their lives. I have thought about the possible benefits and negatives to safaris. I think that the main trigger for me not wanting to go on one (though apparently, I was on one when I was a toddler with my parents when I used to live in Mombasa, Kenya) was an article I read about Sudan, the last Northern White rhino who was guarded 24 hours a day by rangers. He was matched with the last 2 female Northern White rhino but they were unable to become pregnant by Sudan, effectively making him and the females functionally extinct. Sudan died at the age of 45 in 2018. This wasn’t directly caused by safaris but by poaching, but the outcome was the same - humans screwed it up.

Why are they extinct in the wild? Illegal poaching, fuelled by the increasing demand for rhino horn in traditional Far East medicinal practices, has devastated the African rhino population. In 1960, there were still 2,360 wild northern white rhinos but by 2008 the subspecies was extinct in the wild.

Sudan: Last male of his kind: The rhino that became a conservation icon

African Safari: A Double-Edged Sword?

African safaris, which offer a glimpse into the continent's stunning wildlife and landscapes, have become increasingly popular among travellers, especially post-pandemic. However, this surge in tourism is raising concerns about its impact on the people, ecology, and economy of countries like Tanzania and Kenya.

Pros of African Safaris

• Economic Benefits: Safaris contribute significantly to local economies, providing jobs in tourism, hospitality, and related industries. Revenues generated from safari activities can fund conservation efforts and improve infrastructure.

• Conservation Awareness: Exposure to wildlife and their habitats can foster a sense of appreciation and inspire individuals to support conservation initiatives.

• Cultural Exchange: Safaris offer opportunities for cultural exchange between visitors and local communities, promoting understanding and tolerance.

Cons of African Safaris

• Environmental Impact: Increased tourism can lead to habitat degradation, pollution, and disturbance of wildlife. Overcrowding and improper waste management can harm ecosystems.

• Ethical Concerns: Some safari operators may prioritize profit over ethical considerations, contributing to animal exploitation and unethical practices.

• Local Displacement: Tourism development can displace local communities from their traditional lands, impacting their livelihoods and cultural heritage.

A Balancing act is needed

Tourism is critical to the African continent, there is no denying that.

But to ensure that African safaris continue to be a sustainable and beneficial experience, it’s important to strike a balance between tourism development and conservation. The Tanzanian and Kenyan governments are aware of the importance of responsible tourism practices, such as minimizing environmental impact, supporting local communities, and promoting ethical wildlife encounters, but they are hard-pressed to enforce these. By working together, governments, tourism operators, and conservation organizations can harness the potential of African safaris while safeguarding the future of the continent's ecosystems and people.

I think it is crucial that if safaris are to continue they should look at the “conservancy” model. Private parcels of land owned by local communities, such as the Masai, are leased to tour companies. They hire community members as guides, camp managers, kitchen staff and housekeepers and follow rules that include caps on the number of lodges and camps and limits on the number of tourist vehicles.

I know that a safari is the highlight of many people’s travels, my partner being no exception, but there has to be a better way to go and gawp at local wildlife. Rant over.

The Perfect Ploughman’s - does it exist?

I met up with 2 old work colleagues this week in the pub, as old men are wont to do and the conversation turned to what would constitute a perfect Ploughman’s Lunch. For those who perhaps have never heard of this, it comes under other names like a Farmer’s Lunch or a labourer’s lunch. At its most basic, it is a quick pub dish of bread, cheese, pickle/chutney and sometimes meat, like cold beef, ham or lamb. A Ploughman’s Lunch is one of my favourite meals that I quite regularly make at home. I have had the good fortune to try variations of this around the world, most notably Switzerland and Germany who do a version that, dare I say, eclipses the British version.

My colleagues both said that the type of bread used was very important. I like to use either a heavy granary loaf or a light and fluffy cottage loaf. One of my colleagues prefers (whisper it) a French baguette, while the other prefers thick chunks torn from a Bloomer.

Next is the cheese. I enjoy a good quality cheddar, preferably from a Farmer’s market that is freshly made and has a nice tang to it, and occasionally a hunk of Double Gloucester or a good Brie. My colleagues are on the same page, though one of them prefers a nice Stilton.

As for pickles or chutney? I enjoy a store-bought brand in the UK called Branston Pickle but when you have the opportunity to visit a Farmer’s market you may come across beer and cider-flavoured ones which can be magnificent. My colleagues each like Piccalilli and spicy tomato chutney as well as pickled onions.

Then comes the meat. My preference is a nice slice of cold roast beef and a slice of cold gammon. My friends opt for cold lamb and sometimes turkey. At home, I would also add a little bit of salad, especially a flavoursome tomato and sometimes a hard-boiled egg, but in the end, you can make it as full-on or as simple as you want.

One thing that we all agreed upon was that you had to drink a beer or a cider with it. This conversation about a simple British meal went on for over an hour! This got me thinking, I hadn’t had a decent Ploughman’s in a pub for a couple of years. The best I’ve ever had in Britain was in a small pub in St Albans called the Ye Olde Fighting Cocks in the 90’s. I used to go there twice a week for their Ploughman’s. It was hearty and cheap, but I believe that they no longer do them. I had a quick check and found that there are around 40+ pubs in the near vicinity of where I live and only one of them - only one, did a Ploughman’s. And now I’m going to have to go there and try it out next week. I’ll give you my verdict.

If you enjoy a good Ploughman’s, drop us a comment and let us know what your perfect Ploughman’s is and where it can be found, or if you have a similar dish in your country, let us know what it is and what it’s called.

Free Speech (delayed)

In my last newsletter, I said I would be looking at the UK’s right to Free Speech and the (to me) worrying trend of people being put in prison because they said something that not everyone agrees with. This may have been hate-speech or racism. I don’t condone this sort of behaviour at all, but an automatic prison sentence? After some research, I have now found that I have to be very careful what I say or post in case it is construed as being Far Right or taken completely out of context. I have now decided that I will research a bit more and then write my piece in the next newsletter. Instead, here is a picture of my 2 dogs, Koda and Echo.

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Thank you for reading my newsletter and until next time my friends, stay safe and happy.

Cheers

Simon

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Where Have All The Butterflies Gone?

I am privileged to live on the edge of Epping Forest in the UK. The forest is home to hundreds of thousands of animals, birds and insects that share an uneasy coexistence with the nearly 10 million visitors to this oasis of 8,000 acres every year. This year I have noticed a big drop in the number of butterflies I would normally see in the summer when out walking my dogs every day. Several experts have said that it is because of our very wet spring and a late start to the summer sun, others have said it’s climate change and yet others have said that this is normal as butterfly numbers go up and down every year. What is undeniably evident is that there is a large decline in the general insect population, regardless. 20 years ago my 6.5 hour journey by car to Cornwall would require me to stop and clear the windshield and number plate of insect collisions at least once, now I can drive 4 hours to Devon and there would not be one single bug splat - not one. I believe that the dramatic decline in the insect population and the bee population is down to the combination of farming practices and the use of insecticides.

However, this morning when I was out with the hounds I was gladdened to see a couple of Peacock butterflies dancing around each other through the bracken and then this afternoon I managed to espy a few Small Whites. What was even better were just how many dragonflies were zooming about. The long hot spell was been broken recently by a couple of showers, just wet enough to bring out the flying ants, the insect equivalent of a buffet for our majestic dragonflies. Our kid’s holiday club at the new school has a very sizeable piece of green land that is chock-full of blackberries and more importantly - ladybirds. The children have been finding them, counting the spots and colours and then putting them gently back into the brambles. They have also stuffed their faces with blackberries and gone home covered in purple juice - which is a bugger to get out of clothes. We can all do our bit to help our insect population (you never know, they may one day be our overlords) by encouraging our local authorities to set aside green areas in the community to be planted with insect-loving wild plants and meadow flowers, and for those of us lucky to have a garden, to let it go wild. I have no problem with that as I’m a rubbish gardener and my garden already looks suspiciously like the Amazon forest.

The Lurgy

Last week, as is the norm for any man who decides to take it easy for a few days, I got The Lurgy. Not just any old Lurgy but the ‘I’m going to die and I haven’t finished watching the Great British Bake Off yet’, type of Lurgy. It only lasted for 4 days and I endured my partner’s well-meaning concoctions (grass and mint blitzed in a blender anyone?) but for 4 days I could not sleep and had a racking cough that would double me over in a paroxysm. This wasn’t helped at all by my supposed friend, Michael calling me on the phone to enquire about my health and then telling me lots of crap jokes. My partner had to sleep in another room as I sounded like a tranquilised rhinoceros. Stuck in bed I tried to read and came across a recent BBC article about a tribe in the Amazon jungle called the Tsimanes (pronounced “chee-may-nay") who apparently have the healthiest arteries ever studied. This is down to their hunter-gatherer way of life and the fact that they have very little fat in their diet and don’t have a particularly sedentary lifestyle.

Deep in the Amazon rainforest lives a community whose hearts age more slowly

What I thought was interesting was the sentence, “We found zero cases of Alzheimer's among the entire adult population - it is remarkable,”  and then I continued reading to find out that actually, not many of them reach old age because of infections etc. It is worth a read, just out of interest but it is also bleak in that continued contact with the outside world will irrevocably change their health forever. Some of the tribe have already started to show signs of diabetes.

More rejections

Since I last mentioned it I have managed to receive another 2 rejection slips for my children’s picture book text. I’m not discouraged at all as I know it’s a good story. It doesn’t have any of the tropes that kidlit publishers want right now, just good old-fashioned fun and adventure, but at least I have another few agents on the list that haven’t replied. Who knows? It could be me next!

Where’s The Bloody Stapler?!

Finally, I am having a complete rebuild of my home office. This was inspired by the fact that I could not find my stapler. It was on my desk, under a pile of papers and post-it notes, biscuit wrappers, textbooks and a Jammy Dodger. And then it wasn’t. I turned the place upside down. In the sixty years of being on this planet, being in a relationship forever, 5 grown-up children between us and living at the same address since Jesus was a babe, I cannot believe that we only have one stapler. One. It’s madness. The partner swore blind she hadn’t moved it. I thought that’s it, I can’t work like this anymore. I’m going to remodel my office and have a more streamlined workflow. A place for everything and everything in its place. Oh, how my partner laughed. Well, I have made a start and ordered a new, larger work table, some new wall hangings and a fancy new office chair for my fat backside. Ok, they’re all from Ebay but you get the idea. I’m too ashamed to post a picture of my current office, but I’d be delighted if you wanted to share a pic of your work/writing space/office so I can get inspiration and be envious.

That’s it for this newsletter my friends, in the next newsletter I’ll be taking a close look at the gagging of free speech in the UK and what this means for writers. The end?

In the meantime, enjoy life, send me your home-office pics and be back in 2 weeks.

Cheers, Simon JJ Green

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The 2024 Olympic Opening Ceremony – a shambles or cultural masterpiece?

Well, — where do I even start? Was it a boring disaster as everyone says, or was it an all–inclusive spectacle highlighting France’s multicultural heritage? I mean, the arson attacks on the high-speed train lines didn't help, and neither did the rain, nor the athletes being robbed in their training grounds, or the Olympic flag being opened upside down or the food shortages for the athletes etc etc.

Lady Gaga serenading us on the banks of the Seine was probably the least French thing they could have done. No Jean-Michel Jarre, no Daft Punk. Instead, they went for that renowned French—oh wait, Canadian—songstress, Celine Dion. She was fantastic, but come on, France, don’t you have any home-grown talent left? And Snoop Dogg – wtf? What part of him is French?

The mastermind behind this production, Thomas Jolly from Normandy, managed to make it a litany of cringe-worthy moments. Honestly, I dozed off after about the 20th boat drifted down the Seine and had to catch the highlights later, though I didn’t miss the irony of seeing a bunch of Refugee athletes being shipped down the Seine by boat.

And let's talk about the press coverage. The Daily Mail, always the epitome of subtlety, proclaimed it the 'Worst opening ceremony ever!' worse even than the Seoul 1988 opening ceremony and the roasted doves. The Daily Mail labelled it ‘La Farce!’ The BBC was bit more diplomatic, calling it ‘disjointed’ but the New York Times didn’t hold back and called it a 'bloated made-for-TV spectacle'.

Meanwhile, the appalling Last Supper scene was too much and others called it a 'woke parody', but it also casts the Olympic Committee as hypocrites as it clearly states in Rule 50 of the IOC charter: “No kind of demonstration or political, religious or racial propaganda is permitted in any Olympic sites, venues or other areas.”

Regardless, Celine Dion and Gojira managed to save some face as far as I was concerned and I'm eagerly awaiting the closing ceremony—surely, it can’t be worse? Go sports!"

Summer Holidays – Yay!

I am slightly envious of my friends who are holidaying in various parts of the world while I am back here in Blighty working. That’s the problem when you provide holiday clubs for kids – you work when everyone else is off. But I wouldn’t change it for the world. We are using a new school and they have 2 things going for it that are awesome. Firstly they have a superb Forest school area and secondly, they have homing pigeons! Apologies for the vertical format and the annoying ‘return to home’ whistle.

The kids love watching the birds being released for a fly-around and then being called back by a whistle. Even the weather has been kind to us, unlike in Paris. Ooh, schadenfreude!

Podcasting!

I have finally settled on a name and a format for the podcast that I shall start recording in a few weeks. I have even started putting together content for the show. You lucky people are going to be the first to see the logo and name. The final stage for me is learning about how to have the show hosted, either on Substack or else where; it’s a bit of a head-spinner!

Apologies for today’s substack being so short but I am very busy and will be taking a shot break, but will be back in 3 weeks with my latest newsletter.

Have a great summer everyone!

Simon

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Camping Is In Tents

Apologies for this rather short newsletter but I have just returned from my weekend camping trip with my Scouts and I am exhausted - but happy. There is nothing that gladdens my heart more than to go camping with young people and see the astonishing good that it does them. Every year our Scout group organises a Family camp where our Beavers, Scouts and Explorers can bring their parents along for a weekend of camping. This year we had around 60 young people come along and about 30 parents came along too. Our theme this year was The Olympics so we organised some mini-Olympic style events throughout the weekend.

We were delighted with the positive response from parents and the youngsters. I have been a scout leader for over 20 years and have witnessed first-hand the positive impact Scouting has on young people.

Scouting has a huge effect on Personal Development, Social Skills, Physical and Mental Well-being and community engagement and I have had the pleasure of watching many of my young scouts become well-adjusted adults and return to Scouting to become young leader’s themselves.

A Funny Thing Almost Happened To Me At The Forum

James Acaster is a British comedian of stage, TV and podcasts. My partner had bought us tickets to go and see him live at the O2 Forum in Kentish Town. I have only seen him a couple of times on TV prior to the show so I had an open mind.

It turns out that we were an audience of guinea pigs to test his new format of the audience sitting there for close to two and half hours without an interval while he rambled on, lost his thread of thought and tried to involve the audience. The show was titled ‘Hecklers Welcome’ and as he told us, it was because he’s been heckled a lot in previous shows. There were a couple of half-hearted heckles but nothing that Acaster took real advantage of. His party trick, when the audience wasn’t laughing, was to bring out someone in a giant party-gator suit, throw plastic balls around, and then run off stage. His show wasn’t helped by poor audio that was not very clear where he spent a lot of time mumbling into the microphone. The seating was bench-style with no seat backs and unbelievably uncomfortable. I know that on TV he can be genuinely funny – but the live performance has a lot to be desired. On the other hand, there were plenty of younger audience members who thought he was hilarious. I won’t be going again.

Julia Donaldson

I have started an online BBC course on how to write children’s picture books by the UK’s Children’s Laureate, Julia Donaldson. Ms Donaldson has sold over 100 million books and may have a thing or two to teach about the craft. I am on lesson 2 of 26. I am hoping that the lessons will enable me to look at writing children’s picture books from a different angle.

Starmer-Trump

The new British Prime Minister, Keir Starmer has now taken up residence at No10. Time will tell if he can make a difference. I won’t hold my breath. I’m of an age now where I have been able to witness that all politicians on all sides are the same. Many promises are made but virtually none are delivered. People have been voting for empty promises for decades and now we will watch and see what Starmer can bring to the table. Meanwhile in the US, Trump has been shot at. Tragically someone died because they missed Trump, only nicking his ear. Apparently, according to Trump, “God has chosen him to lead the American people.”

Canine Psychic

As promised, here is a brief rundown of how our hired canine psychic tried to calm our anxious and highly-strung dog, Koda from a remote location. Koda is nervous about loud noises, especially fireworks, motorbikes and loud cars and my partner, C thought it was worth a try. It was a Zoom call. The psychic asked a few questions about the dog (meanwhile Koda was in the room with us and her sister, Echo)

She explained that she was going to be a proxy to release fear and trapped emotions of anxiety, fear and love un-received. She also included a list of other emotions that included; abandonment at a young age which was being taken from their mother, loss, sadness, grief and panic. Insecurity at 8 or 9 months, feeling overwhelmed at 27 months. Koda has feelings of being forlorn, helplessness, confusion and heartache. All these emotions were trapped in her internal organs. During the call, the psychic had a magnet that she swung over the top of her head from the front to the back. This was to release the trapped emotions. There was a reset alignment and communication of energy, physical presence, spirit, brain and body. She realigned Koda’s chakra and governing meridian and reset her aura. She said it would take about 9 days to process and if it didn’t work we could contact her and pay for her to try again at £82 (for 2 dogs, even though the other one is fine)

We are Day 4 into the 9 days and not much has changed. Here are some pictures of the anxious dogs during the Zoom call.

As always my friends, stay safe and stay happy. Until next time, Ciao!

Simon JJ Green

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Hello everyone!

Thank you for opening your email/substack app and reading my latest newsletter. I must admit, I do enjoy writing these little notes every couple of weeks. If anything, it helps me to focus on the things that are important to me and to remind myself that I want to be a writer - good or bad. I just want to write, and the newsletter is a good way of practising and honing that craft.

So, in that vein, I have just finished submitting two full, picture book manuscripts to 3 agents. Different agents from the previous agents I had targeted for my YA novel. The number of agents I could submit to this time around was limited as many agents were no longer accepting submissions. It turns out they are swamped with people sending in their masterpieces and need time to process them. Many of the literary agents have a small window of submission dates (usually one or two months of the year) and ask that you sign up to their Facebook page for updates or check back regularly to their website.

Fair do’s. As writing is only a side hobby for me at the moment, not even a main hobby, and I don’t have to fret about making a living from it, I’m not too worried. But for other writers and authors that do – take heart. After looking at hundreds of publishers' and agents' websites it is encouraging to see so many writers actually being picked up and supported by these institutions, so there is hope. We just have to keep improving our craft and one day, you never know! What I have found to be a bit of a stumbling block is the reluctance of a British agent to accept submissions from writers based in the United States – and vice versa. It seems that it is difficult for a British literary agent to accurately represent a writer in another country like the States.

The Debate: UK and USA

I like to think that I give each side of a political party the benefit of the doubt. I like to listen to both sides to make a judgement. Being in the UK at the moment we have the delightful option of either Keir Starmer or Rishi Sunak to run the country. For me, their recent televised debate highlighted what a monumental waste of air time it was. With a week to go before the polls, your average British voter has already made their choice. I don’t think Sunak will win, mainly because he’s been ineffective as a leader and is genuinely out of touch with the common person. Starmer is probably going to be voted in as the lesser of two evils.

Across the pond, I watched in embarrassment and horror as Joe Biden tried to string a few words together in his debate with that preening peacock, Trump. I felt nothing but sorrow for this poor man. He should have stepped down a year ago and retired gracefully instead of going on TV and cementing what everyone was thinking, that he’s lost the ability to run his country other than by proxy. As someone who is not normally motivated by politics, I can’t but feel immense sadness for the people, especially for the young people of both countries as we are about to enter a new era of AI chaos, war and terrorism and they will not have competent leaders that will put their people first.

Can You Touch Your Toes - well, can you?

I walk a lot. I take my dogs out every single day and walk them for 2 hours in the morning and 1.5 hours in the evening, rain or shine. It’s not for the dog’s benefit, it’s for mine. I’m blessed with living on the edge of a forest and this time spent in the forest is not only good for my physical health but also for my mental health. I shall write another post about this soon. I did try going for a run with my dogs last year. It’s a shame it wasn’t recorded for YouTube, it would have had millions of views. I bought a belt that goes around my waist and you attach an elasticated leash from it to the dog. It’s designed to let you run hands-free.

Mistake number one, the belt was only designed to attach one dog. I attached two. Both my dogs weigh about 30 kg each. I weigh 70 kg. Mistake number two was to assume that the dogs would be as focused as I was on the run and mistake number three was to have elasticated leashes. All was fine for the first 20 minutes. I had both dogs attached, running out in front of me quite happily. I’m not a fast runner but fast enough for the dogs to be trotting along. Suddenly - squirrel!

It is not an understatement to say, they caught me by surprise. Echo darted into the depths of the forest after the squirrel at the full extent of the elastic leash. Koda was right behind her but from behind me. They spun me around like a top. I went down like I’d been poleaxed. To add insult to injury, they then proceeded to drag me into the bushes after the errant squirrel. When the dust settled, all that could be seen from the path were my feet sticking out from the bushes, minus one shoe and a querulous, but well-meaning old lady asking if I was alright.

I relate this story to friends of mine who are both fit and have dogs. According to them, being yanked suddenly into the triffids could have been avoided if I’d worked on my inner core and thus provided a more stable base where I could resist the dog’s sudden pulls. I investigated this and it turns out that I have an inner core like custard. More investigation pointed out that one of the key factors in staving off age-related illnesses is to do some simple tests and then corrective exercises. Try these yourself and judge how fit you are, male or female, any age.

Can you touch your toes? No? Well, can you touch your knees? If so, then you’re halfway there. Are you able to put your socks or tights on while standing up and not hop all over the place like a loon or feel like you’re going red in the face? Can you get up out of an armchair without using the armrests? Are you able to squat down and then stand up again without assistance or getting dizzy? In men’s health especially, I think of these as the ‘minimum indicators’ to enable a person to remain as independent as possible as they head into old age. I’ll be 61 this September and I’m all too aware how fast time slips by. I discovered this young chap who is a fitness trainer on YouTube and he shows you how to do exercises - but in stages that fit just about anybody’s ability. Check him out, his name is Hampton and he’s here: https://www.youtube.com/@HybridCalisthenics

If you’re over 50 and don’t already, consider lifting weights to help maintain bone density as you get older.

Podcasting - ad nauseum

The last bit of podcast equipment arrived yesterday. I’m no technophobe but as I got all the kit out of the boxes and laid it out I started having doubts about how this is all going to pan out. A friend of mine said that so long as I have engaging content then it should all go well. I have plenty of content, so much so that I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. I feel I am about to break the (apparently set in stone) one cardinal podcasting rule of keeping it simple with one or two topics. and instead have lots of different stuff on the show.

One of the things I’m excited about is being able to interview the primary school children I work with. I’ve spoken to many parents and the children about what I’m up to and they’re just as excited as I am. I went through a list of questions that I would ask them which includes the very important one, ‘What is your favourite type of doughnut?’ If anyone is interested mine is just a plain sugar ring doughnut. I can’t be doing with the Krispy Kremes. Stay tuned for I may be able to show the podcast set up next issue.

Kowloon Walled City

Having had a very misspent youth in Hong Kong I was intrigued to see a trailer for a movie called Twilight of the Warriors: Walled In. It's a HK movie about a young man caught between rival Triad gangs in the 1980s. I haven’t had the opportunity to see it yet, mainly because my local cinema does midnight showings and the movie is over 2 hours long. What intrigued me about the film was that it is set in the famous/infamous Kowloon Walled City. I lived in Hong Kong from 1970 until 1997. The Kowloon Walled City was a (technically) Mainland Chinese enclave in the heart of Kowloon, almost ungovernable and a no-go area for the police. By the time it was demolished in 1993, it contained 35,000 residents in a tiny 26,000 square meters. If you are interested, this site is worth looking at: https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/kowloon-walled-city (Excerpted and adapted from James Crawford’s astounding book, Fallen Glory: The Lives and Deaths of History’s Greatest Buildings)

As a 10-year-old, the Kowloon Walled City was the only place I could go (apart from crossing the Sham Chun River directly into Shenzen) to buy fireworks. They were banned in Hong Kong because of the anti-British riots in 1967. I could buy a large shopping bag full of firecrackers and rockets for about UK 50 pence. As a feral child, it was great fun to let off firecrackers in Tsim Sha Tsui and have the police chase you around the streets. What I remember the most is that the Kowloon Walled City was notorious for manufacturing opium. Yes, they had drugs, especially in the early 1900s leading into the 1930's but after that and the successive police raids the Walled City became more of a distribution centre for heroin.

The Sun Yee On triads had a large grip on the Walled City but in the mid-80s the 14K were having running battles with the Sun Yee On for control of the drugs and prostitution trade. Then the Big Circle Gang (from Mainland China) and the oldest of the HK gangs, the Wo Shing Wo, started to muscle in on the action. If I remember rightly, the Big Circle Gang changed the way the Triads fought and behaved. They were the first gang to use automatic weapons and grenades to rob jewellery stores in the early 90s. Gone were the days of just using meat cleavers to intimidate people or chop rival gang members.

The vast majority of the Walled City residents were just trying to get by. They went to work, they made money any way they could and by and large, they were law-abiding citizens. As I grew up around the corner, my favourite place to go was on the first floor of the south side to a restaurant (really more of a Dai Pai Dong, a cooked food stall) run by an elderly lady I called Aunty Tse. She made the best Pai Gwat (baby spare ribs) and fish balls in a mild curry sauce that I have ever had, before or since. She often gave them to me for free too. I was a white boy with red hair and freckles and I could speak Cantonese so she loved to chat with me. I feel very nostalgic for a time in Hong Kong that will never be again, very much like the Hong Kongers who watch the movie, Twilight of the Warriors - Walled In.

The Kowloon Walled City was bulldozed and turned into a park by 1993. I’ve been a couple of times. But it's not the same – especially as you can no longer buy the fish balls on the street anymore.

That’s the end of this newsletter issue. Drop me a comment if you feel like it and I shall write again soon.

Best wishes

Simon

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Bad luck comes in 3’s – or does it?

I have never given much truck to superstition, I feel that I’m a very pragmatic person and that throwing salt over my shoulder or avoiding walking under ladders (which is just plain sensible really) is not going to alter my life that drastically. But, they say bad luck comes in threes, and I sure seem to have hit the jackpot recently.

I have had an ongoing Achilles Tendonitis injury for the last few months that’s stubbornly refusing to heal. Then the car decided that under no circumstances should the cooling fan turn off. Even after the engine was switched off and the car locked. One dead battery and £250 in repairs later the car is grumpily drivable again. Then we got scammed and the thieves got away with a sum of money from the company that thankfully, the bank says they will replace. Then one of the dogs started limping. I gave her a stern talking to and miraculously she seems fine and to top it all off the brand new shower that we had installed in April has decided that instead of just spraying water out of the showerhead, the showerhead can start to disintegrate and it will spray water all over the bathroom instead. It’s enough to make me reach for the salt! Of course, my bad luck is trivial compared to what some people are going through - but, am I the only one or does this happen to any of you lovely readers too?

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Podcasting – not for beginners

The podcasting adventure continues. On the face of it, podcasting seems simple. Find a microphone, plug it into your computer and babble away. Then you just upload it and people can listen to your crazed chatter. There are endless videos from people telling you how simple it really is. Bunkum. Yes, you need a microphone, but not just any old microphone, apparently a ‘studio’ style microphone is the way forward. Using a smartphone is just not going to cut it. Then there is the streaming platform you choose, the audio interfaces that you need, the audio editor, the cover artwork, the sound effects and royalty-free music. Never mind the content, you need to have intros and outros as well as thinking about videoing the audio podcast so you can use it for trailers and ads. While I may have a face for radio, I don’t have the patience of a saint. Still, another month and I may have managed to cobble something together. You may be asking what it’s all going to be about. I’m glad you asked. I’m not sure myself - but what it won’t be, is any sport, teaching, preaching or politics. Plenty of other people have that covered already.

The Euros 2024. Football – who cares?

Will England Ever Get it Right?

I wrote this little article before the first England game, so I won’t be surprised if they won their first match.

As the summer (not in England, summer has been cancelled) of 2024 dawns, football fans across Europe are once again caught up in the excitement of the UEFA European Championship. Streets are festooned with flags, (not in the UK, that’s against the law) there are impassioned debates in pubs, and the endless speculation about who will lift the coveted trophy have become the order of the day. But for us in England, there's a perennial question that lingers like a stubborn London drizzle: Could this be our year?

But, let's face it: when it comes to the Euros, England has had a less than stellar track record. It's a story of near-misses, heartache and bad luck. (see above)

A Brief Stroll Down Memory Lane

The history of England in the European Championships is like a tragicomedy, filled with moments of brilliance overshadowed by episodes of despair. We’ve had our heroes, like Shearer in '96, whose goal-scoring almost propelled us to glory on home soil. But then, there was the penalty shootout against Germany in the semi-final, which ended in the most English of ways: agonizing defeat.

What about Euro 2004? The golden generation, featuring the likes of Beckham, Gerrard, and Rooney, seemed poised for greatness. Yet, the quarter-final exit, courtesy of another penalty shootout debacle, left us once more contemplating what might have been.

Then there was Euro 2016? Who can forget that? England can't. Iceland, with a population the size of Leicester, kicked us out in Round 16. The collective gasp that reverberated through the nation was only matched by the collective disbelief that followed.

So, will 2024 Be Different?

Here we are, on the cusp of another European adventure, and the question arises: Why should this year be any different? Gareth Southgate's squad is brimming with youthful talent and seasoned professionals. Harry Kane is in the form of his life, Phil Foden's artistry in midfield is dazzling, and the defence, marshalled by the ever-reliable Harry Maguire, looks solid on paper.

Yet history has taught us, paper doesn’t win football matches. There’s a certain alchemy required—a blend of skill, luck, and mental fortitude—that England finds difficult to conjure up. The spectre of past failures may well be their undoing.

The Eternal Optimism of the English Fan

Despite the odds though, there's something charming about the eternal optimism of the English football fan. Each tournament begins with a sense of hopeful naiveté, a belief that this time, it will be different. It’s the same spirit that has us singing "Football's Coming Home" with unwavering enthusiasm, even when logic suggests otherwise.

Perhaps it’s this undying hope that makes the journey worthwhile. The camaraderie, the collective highs and lows, and the shared dreams of triumph create a sense of unity that transcends the game itself. We are England.

The Lighter Side of English Football Fandom

Of course, it's not all doom and gloom. English football fandom is rich with humour and a self-deprecating charm. They don’t call themselves the Barmy Army for nothing. They laugh at their misfortunes, knowing full well that football, like life, is unpredictable. There's a peculiar joy in supporting England—a mix of exasperation and exhilaration that only true fans understand.

So, as the Euros 2024 kicks off, let's embrace the beautiful chaos that is English football. Let’s cheer for the lads with all the gusto we can muster, and realise that whether we exit in a blaze of glory or it’s another familiar heartbreak, one thing is certain: we'll be back again, singing our hearts out, and daring to dream once more.

After all, as any true English fan knows, hopes may be dashed—but hope is what keeps you coming back for more. More than 150 million people watched it minute by minute last year across 200 countries amd 450 million people for the final. I guess some people do care.

Mortality and growing old

Finally, a thought for the day/evening.

We recently had a young 16 year old come for an interview for a summer job working with us and our kids holiday club. We knew the young woman because she used to be one of the little kids who came to our holiday club in the past. I last saw her when she was 8 or 9 years old. The funny thing is that I feel like I’ve stood still as time has rushed past. The young woman even said that she thought I looked exactly the same as she remembered, meanwhile I sometimes forget why I walked into a room. This speeding toward old age sucks. Well, I can’t always be young, but I can be immature forever!

Until next time, remember, inside every old person is a young person wondering what the hell happened!

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Cheers

Simon JJ Green

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Summer has arrived! Not in England, of course. Yesterday I was wearing a jumper in what should have been a balmy 20 degrees but it was down to 13 degrees. But no, we had rain squalls and wind for the last week and then today it is glorious sunshine and 22 degrees. One of my colleagues said that they had heard the summer long-range forecast was 50 days of rain. Sounds about right. It’s imperative to harp on about the weather when you live in the UK.

Short Stories

I have been diligently working away at some short stories for kids. It is very hard to come up with something short, funny and relatable, but I think that if I have 12 to 15 of them I can make about 2 books. So far the titles are:

• The Robot who forgot his name

• Dave, the amazing talking dog

• Help! We’re stuck on a desert island!

• The magic acorn

• Father Christmas and the Reindeer Emergency

• Little dragon lost

• The Last tree

• Annie and the Magic laptop

• Trevor, the naughty gnome

These are the stories I am working on at the moment. If anyone has additional titles or ideas then please drop me a line and I’d be happy to work on it!

Podcasting

The podcasting is coming along – as in mostly research. But of all the things that could be a problem, it’s the actual recording. I have content, I have artwork and I have the equipment to do the recording, but it’s my tower computer that’s the problem. It sounds like one of Boeing’s problematic aircraft taking off. I don’t want to buy a new one as it’s more than up to the task of audio and video editing, but I’m looking at a way of soundproofing it as a cheaper option. I have also started a list of willing victims to interview.

Forest School

The Benefits of Forest School Opportunities for Children

As you may know, I run a small forest school programme based in a Primary School here in the UK. I thought I would briefly explain what forest school is all about and its incredible benefits to young children.

Forest schools are outdoor, nature-based learning that loosely ties in with traditional academic and developmental outcomes. Originating from Scandinavian educational practices, forest schools are becoming increasingly popular worldwide. Forest schools offer a unique and enriching experience that fosters children's physical, emotional, social, and cognitive development in ways that conventional classroom settings find almost impossible to replicate.

One of the main benefits of forest schools is their ability to promote holistic development in children. Forest schools adopt an integrated approach unlike our traditional education systems, which usually group learning into distinct subjects. Kids engage in activities that simultaneously develop their physical abilities, such as climbing and balancing, along with cognitive skills, like problem-solving and critical thinking. The holistic approach supports the growth of well-rounded individuals who are better equipped to navigate complex, real-world situations and better regulate their emotions.

Forest schools also give children plenty of opportunities for physical exercise, which is crucial for children's health and well-being. Forest schools are encouraging active play and exploration in an age where sedentary lifestyles and screen time are on the rise. Activities such as hiking, building shelters, and playing games in natural environments help improve cardiovascular health, muscular strength, and coordination. It has also been proven that exposure to natural light and fresh air enhances mood, reduces stress, and improves sleep patterns, contributing to overall physical and mental health.

In our increasingly urbanized world, many children have limited access to natural, outdoor environments. Forest schools bridge this gap by engrossing children in nature, fostering a deep and lasting connection with the environment. This connection is vital for cultivating environmental stewardship and a sense of responsibility towards protecting the planet. Children who regularly interact with nature are more likely to develop pro-environmental attitudes and behaviours, which are essential for addressing our current global, environmental challenges.

Forest schools emphasize collaborative learning and teamwork, where group activities, such as building a fire or navigating a forest trail, require children to communicate, cooperate, and resolve conflicts. These experiences are invaluable for developing social skills, including empathy, negotiation, and leadership. Children learn to appreciate different perspectives and build strong, supportive relationships with their peers.

Risk can significantly boost children's confidence and resilience. Forest schools encourage children to take calculated risks, such as climbing trees or crossing streams, within a safe and supervised context. Overcoming these challenges instils a sense of accomplishment and self-belief and develops resilience and adaptability, which are crucial for later life success.

Natural settings are rich with stimuli that can ignite children's creativity and imagination. Unlike structured classrooms, forests offer endless possibilities for exploration and discovery. We encourage children to use natural materials like leaves, sticks, and stones to create art, tell stories, and engage in imaginative play. This unstructured, child-led approach nurtures creativity, critical thinking, and problem-solving skills, which are essential for innovation and adaptability.

While forest schools focus on experiential learning, they also complement traditional academic goals. Studies have shown that children who participate in forest school programs often demonstrate improved academic performance. The hands-on, experiential nature of forest schools helps children grasp complex concepts more effectively, particularly in subjects like science, mathematics, and geography. Additionally, the positive impacts on mental health and well-being translate to better concentration, motivation, and overall school attendance.

Finally, Forest schools offer a myriad of benefits that extend beyond the boundaries of conventional education. By providing opportunities for holistic development, fostering a deep connection with nature, and enhancing physical, social, and cognitive skills, forest schools prepare our children for the complexities of modern life. As our global societies grapple with the challenges of urbanization, environmental decimation, and an increase in mental health issues, the forest school model presents a persuasive case for reimagining how we educate and nurture forthcoming generations.

If you are able, it would be awesome if you could spread this message. Having been a Forest school educator for 5 years and a Scout leader for over 20, I have witnessed first-hand the massive positive impact it has had on children from all walks of life.

That’s it for this time around. I hope the weather is better in your part of the world than it is here. Take care.

Simon

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Hello and welcome to my latest newsletter!

At the moment the UK is blessed with 24C temperatures and the first thing I heard this afternoon was a lady saying that it was too hot. Last week I heard someone say it was too wet and a month ago someone else complained it was too cold - British problems.

Speaking of which, I missed two colossal events this weekend, the Aurora Borealis (unheard of in the UK) and the Eurovision song contest. I had not tuned in to the news for a while and so missed out on the Northern Light show. I have seen them before in Norway many moons ago so I was not too disappointed to have missed them but I needn’t have despaired as my messages were choc full of people’s pictures that they had sent me. Cheers.

As for Eurovision, I haven’t followed it for a while, my probable last view was when Terry Wogan was hosting the British end. It’s not my thing, unlike my neighbours who have a Euro party in the vain hopes that England might either be in the top 10 or even win. I got home from an evening out, in time to hear the results over the fence from my neighbour's house. Last year's effort by Mae Muller put England second-last at 25 but 2022 was close when unknown singer (outside of TikTok) Sam Ryder came second.  I have absolutely nothing against this year’s British entrant, Olly Alexander (and this is purely my opinion) but I have heard better amateur singers on YouTube. There, I said it. Olly got zero from the public vote so obviously, other people think the same as I do, unless there was some sort of political shenanigans going on. Surely not? The BBC online even waded into the conversation by asking ‘Eurovision: What does the UK have to do to win?’ Mark Savage, the BBC columnist who wrote the piece, examined things like song writing, performance, the dance and choreography etc. Anyway, my favourite Eurovision song was Finland’s Lordi with Hard Rock Hallelujah, the 2006 Winner. Just for the spectacle.

Sadly, I missed the Brixham Pirate festival this year. By all accounts it was drunken mayhem, my sort of party. I have reserved a place for next year. I am having difficulty coming up with a costume idea for someone like me who wears glasses. Perhaps some sort of stripy t-shirt and a bandana. Less is more, perhaps. I need to get the dogs some costumes too.

I have been messing about with recording some footage for a possible YouTube channel and I am slowly coming to realise that I may only have a face for radio. The footage is just using my phone on selfie mode. I know there are filters out there that can beautify you but I’m worried I’ll look like I’ve decided to become trans. I’m not giving up on it just yet because I do have a selfie-stick that may help to keep my face further from the camera lens. In the meantime, I’m exploring how to set up a podcast, where to host (Ooh, Substack! – see below) etc. I just need to come up with a subject that isn’t covered yet, quite difficult because, of course, every subject is covered.

What is exciting is that Substack now allows podcasters to sync and distribute their episodes to Spotify.

Substack announced on Thursday it’s introducing a few new features for podcasters on its platform. Most notably, the company is rolling out a Spotify integration that will allow podcasters on Substack to sync and distribute all of their free and paid episodes to Spotify’s streaming service. In addition, Substack is introducing new custom audio transcripts and captions, along with improvements to clip sharing and mobile video.

The launch of the new features comes as Substack has announced that podcasters on Substack are collectively earning more than $100 million in annual revenue and that this number has more than doubled in the past year. The number of active podcasters on the platform has also more than doubled in the same period. (Techcrunch.com)

Lastly, I thought I’d throw this one in here. Our two dogs, Echo and Koda are lovely (apart from the shedding!) but Koda is quite an anxious dog and is very scared of loud noises like motorbikes and fireworks. Well, my partner, C, was talking to a friend who is the most professional and no-nonsense person I know about anxious dogs and she mentioned that her dog had been very anxious about fireworks too and she’d gotten in contact with this psychic (recommended to her) and she’d had a long distance healing session for her dog. And the next day it had worked. Her little dog was no longer scared of fireworks. The friend was astounded, to put it mildly. So we are having a remote psychic healing session in June or July. There is no one more sceptical than me. I shall report on the results when it has happened.

Thanks for reading and I shall talk to you soon!

Simon

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The Easter break is over in the UK and as everyone heads off to work it was my turn to have a week off. Our kid’s holiday club was hugely over-subscribed and I like to think it’s because we do a good job but it was more likely due to the cost of living crisis and parents having to rethink their holiday plans with staycations instead. I like to have little anecdotes to share with you about some of the things that kids say but it was so manic that I can only remember one thing and that was I was with a group of 5 year olds and they’re chatting.

Boy 1: My dad is really old.

Boy 2: Yeah? Well my dad is older than yours. He’s like 38

Boy 1: Mine’s more older, he’s 50 hundred years old.

Girl 1: (looking at me) How old are you?

Me:      What do you think?

Girl 1: (hesitantly) 72?

Me:      I’m 60

Boy 1: That’s really old!

Boy 2: Like a dinosaur!

Me:      I certainly feel that old. (at this point I take my hat off to scratch my head)

Girl 1: What! No hair!? Did it fall off?

Me:      I didn’t eat my vegetables when I was a child and all my hair fell out when I was 10.

All kids stare at me as they digest this.

Girl 1: Do you have to wear a hat to keep the rest of your hair on?

Me:      Yes, exactly that.

Girl 2: Bald! He’s bald like my granddad!

Boy 2: Bald and a fossil!

Me:      (pointing at a play leader who is 17 and wearing a baseball cap) He’s also bald and he’s 50 years old. Ask him to show you his bald head.

They all run off screaming to the poor play leader.

In my last email I said I would start to post my journey to becoming a published author and my random musings a little less frequently because I had so much on. This is still the case but on the other hand it does mean I have a little more time to pursue my crazy ideas.

I was in Devon, specifically a little fishing town called Brixham (and also proudly called Fishtown) for a week of R&R before heading back to the idylls of Epping Forest. I took with me a book by Larry Beinhart called How To Write A Mystery, and I’ve discussed before that this is a genre that I know very little about. I’m halfway through and it is a real eye-opener, not just from the point of view of how to construct a mystery story but also the craft of story writing in general and how to move a story forward. As I sat there with a glass of wine reading Larry’s book I had an epiphany about my YA novel set in the Amazon jungle. It was waaaay too long. I needed a cull. A hugely serious cull, to bring it down to more than half of its current 103,000 words. Believe it or not the original manuscript was close to 160,000 words. Ideally, a YA novel should be around 80,000 words max which means I’ll have to somehow lose another 23,000 words. Gulp!

I have held onto this massive manuscript because it was my first literary baby and I was convinced that it it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. And it is. But only to me. Looking at it from a commercial point of view I realise that no teenager is going to sit through a massive book, especially in today’s world of disposable, fast paced TikTok-style consumerism. Kids want to be entertained but unfortunately, it is in small, highly entertaining doses. Dare I say, that we are heading for modern versions of dime novels, penny dreadfuls and pulp fiction?

As an author who is just starting out, I have to develop my own style and find a niche that younger readers will find entertaining, no small feat when you have to compete with a universe of digital entertainment; it is clear that I should concentrate less on the potential commercial aspects of writing for a YA audience and just actually write stories that I would want to read.

So, I sat outside the Prince William pub in Brixham enjoying a nice cold pint of cider and I thought to myself that this little town would be perfect for a murder mystery with a young person as the protagonist. It had everything I needed to set up a story here. It has a long history, miles of coastline with small coves and inlets, it is a working fishing town with trawlers, there are lots of odd characters, there is a surprisingly large youth population, there is a central church, an annual pirate festival, a marina with very expensive yachts and weirdly, it appears to be slowly dying – judging by the number of shops that seem to have closed down.

Larry Beinhart, who I mentioned earlier, wrote that he spent 6 weeks in an Austrian ski resort researching for a novel he was writing. I don’t have the time or money to be able to spend 6 weeks researching so it’ll have to be 7 days and that’s my lot.

David Nicholls is a novelist and screenwriter who occasionally writes for The Guardian newspaper in the UK. He recently did an article about walking which I thoroughly enjoyed. Some people are afraid of solitude but Nicholls, like myself, enjoys that opportunity to be on your own doing something you love. Walking.

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2024/apr/13/david-nicholls-one-day-peculiar-pleasure-of-long-soggy-solo-walks?CMP=share_btn_url

Solitude or company, contemplation or conversation. My latest novel, You Are Here, is an attempt to explore the merits of each and its working title, Walking and Talking, is as good a synopsis as any. A comedy in a landscape, it’s a love story about two isolated people, Michael and Marnie, who meet on a weekend hike and decide to keep going, talking, arguing, telling jokes and stories and listening to music along the way. The setting is the Coast to Coast, the famous 192-mile route devised by the great Alfred Wainwright…

We brought the dogs down with us and they love being down on the beach chasing each other through the waves. It is also the time of year when they start shedding and they are both long-haired dogs. It is a constant source of amazement to me just how dog hair gets everywhere! I saw a YouTube video where someone took their dogs fur and put it in a bird feeder and the birds came and took it to line their nests. I tried it and it worked! It was lovely to see Blackbirds, Robins and Great Tits coming to help themselves.

While on holiday I have done a lot of walking along the South West Coastal path and have slowly come to realise that I will become one of those old men that when I was in my twenties I swore I would not become. I have started to look at getting a bush hat, binoculars and a walking stick. I have already given in to wearing a backpack (mainly with water for the dogs). Stay tuned and I‘ll post a photo once I have morphed into the Coastal Path Denizen.

That’s it, I hope you all have a fun-filled week and I’ll write to you soon!

Simon

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Hello everyone, I hope you are all enjoying your Easter break (if you get one) and are sampling the delights of some chocolate Easter Eggs. I have badly timed my ‘no eating chocolate for a month’ month!

I have made the difficult decision to post less frequently on Substack, purely because of time issues. I have so many projects going on at the moment that I’m finding it hard to keep up with everything. Realistically I will probably post every 2 weeks if I can. I know that the thousands of people who don’t read this will be devastated.

I love movies. I love going to the movies, I love that escapism that you don’t get when watching a movie at home, no matter how big your TV/projector is. The problem is that I am finding it increasingly more difficult to either find a movie I’d like to watch or to find the time. In fact, I was shocked when I realised that the last time I went to the cinema was in 2021 to see Dune 1.

I am old enough to remember that when I went to the movies as a kid in Hong Kong there would be a 15-minute break to get ice cream while they changed the film reels over. There was always a cartoon at the start of the movie and someone would show you to your seat with a torch. By the time I was a teenager, you only went to the movies with your girlfriend – and it wasn’t to watch the movie.

I recently had the chance to go and see Dune 2 with an old work colleague who happened to be on annual leave. We went on a Monday morning at 11am. There is a slightly naughty or guilty feeling about going to watch a movie at the cinema early in the morning, almost the same feeling you get when you start day drinking at 9am (I do miss those days!) You feel you should be doing something productive like working or school or shopping. There were only two other people in there with us so we sat where we liked.

I read Frank Herbert's Dune when I was a teen. It was a book I didn’t appreciate until I was in my 20s because I found the politics and language hard to understand until I re-read it. I think the movie adaptation (this time around) was very good, but what made it better was being in the cinema. The sound system made the seats shake and the music and special effects were top-notch. If you haven’t seen it, it’s worth a shot. Fair warning, it’s almost 3 hours long!

I took the dogs out last week and I realised that I was getting a little long in the tooth and found that some of the local hills were a bit more of a challenge than usual. So I thought I’d find a stick lying around in the forest and use it to make a walking stick. What I hadn’t thought about was the complexity of finding a stick in the forest that would be suitable. You think I’m joking? A forest absolutely chock full of sticks? In fact, more sticks than you could shake a stick at? Well, I discovered that I had to find a stick that, A) wasn’t lying on the ground, otherwise, it would be wet and probably on its way to being rotten. B) I didn’t want to cut a live stick from a tree. C) Trying to find a stick with the correct length and diameter. D) Finding the correct type of wood, e.g. Oak or Birch.

Trying to identify the type of tree a stick came from when it is no longer attached to the tree is quite hard. I didn’t find a suitable one straight away but, the Forest Volunteers often go into the forest and thin back some of the areas and leave big piles of brushwood and cut sticks. These are good places to find a possible candidate. I am going out this afternoon to investigate some more and I shall keep you posted.

Until next time, take care and have fun.

Simon

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As promised, the final part of my short story - Djinn (still free!)

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Chapter 7

The next morning everything was different. Nathan woke early at five o’clock to black clouds, low and pregnant with rain. It was early daylight outside but dark and moody and in the distance he could hear rumbles of thunder. His parents were still asleep so he quickly got dressed into his baggy jeans and a long-sleeve top as the temperature was noticeably cooler. The campsite was also still asleep. He ran out, down the dew-sodden field to the rickety fence at the top of the cliff and looked out to sea. The ocean was an angry, gun-metal blue with white-capped waves rushing inshore and where the water met the sky it was a dark purple, like a bruise. Below him, the huge beach was empty save for the speck of a lone dog walker who was hurrying to the car park as he watched. Nathan felt there was something still not right, but he felt strangely exhilarated. He swallowed three times to try and equalize the pressure in his ears; it felt like it did when he was underwater at the swimming pool.

As he continued watching there was a bright flash of lightning on the horizon and then a slow-deep roll of thunder. It was close. Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end and a huge column of lightning hit the rocks at the base of the cliff where he stood. The flash blinded him and he could smell ozone. The explosion of light was immediately followed by an enormous bang and crash of thunder that shook the ground he stood on. The after-glow of the lightning flash was imprinted on his retina every time he blinked. The ominous clouds seemed low enough to touch and as Nathan leant over the fence and scanned the rocks for where the lightning had struck he could feel the first drops of rain, big and fat, detonating around him. As he turned to run back to the caravan, he caught sight of a yellow-orange glow on the rocks below. He stopped to look again. At first, he thought someone must be tending a fire but then he could see that it was where the lightning must have struck, the rocks still glowing from the heat. The increasingly heavy rain made it difficult to see clearly and then he thought maybe the lightning had struck a large piece of driftwood and set it on fire. By the time he got back to his caravan, he was cold and soaked. His parents slept on.

At four o’clock in the afternoon, the rain had started to ease off a little. His parents had gone to the Fun Palace to play Bingo and Nathan had spent the day on his bed reading his back catalogue of science fiction comics he had insisted on bringing with him. Issue 6, Magazine 11 featured his favourite hero, Captain Dirk Cromwell saving planet Earth from an invasion of giant Orachonids. At 4.37 pm exactly, it stopped raining. Not a tapering off of raindrops but a complete cessation. Nathan knew the exact time because it suddenly went quiet and the first thing he did was look at the time on the wall clock.

Jumping up, he reverently placed his comic back on the pile next to his bed and pulled on his shoes. Racing down through the field onto the rain-slicked streets, he headed for the beach. The sky had lightened but was still grey. He could feel the heat of the sun trying to burn its way through the blanket-like clouds of cotton wool above his head. There were very few people about and as he hit the rain pocked sand he noticed the first rays of sunshine streaming through a hole in the clouds like a laser beam. It hit the rocks under the cliff face where he had been the day before and illuminated them like a stage in a theatre. Nathan quickened his pace. He didn’t know why, but he ended up running. Panting from his run, he saw that he was still alone on the rocks, everything still rain-slicked from the downpour. With one quick glance at the cliff face to make sure it wasn’t about to come crashing down, Nathan turned his attention to the boulders and their hidden pools.

As he hunkered down between the rocks he found a small green crab and was about to pick it up when he suddenly remembered the lightning flash from the morning. Crab forgotten, he looked up to get his bearings and then scrabbled over the rocks to where he thought the lightning had struck. Sure enough, he found a large boulder the size of a car that was split in two, blackened about its surface like it had been on fire. The rock sat in a large pool of water about three feet deep. Nathan jumped from the edge of the pool onto a smaller rock and rubbed a finger onto the cracked rock to see if the soot would come off but the blackness seemed to be part of the exterior. He put his palm on the rock to see if it was still hot, but it was disappointingly cold. Looking around he couldn’t find any evidence of logs or driftwood that might have been hit by the lightning and set on fire to explain the orange glow — unless it had been the rock itself. Shrugging, he crouched at the base of the rock and examined the pool. He saw it almost immediately, an object. It lay in the clear water, wedged between a large stone and the base of the split rock.

On closer inspection, it looked like an old-fashioned bottle. It was not a normal-looking bottle. The bottom was not round and flat but cone-shaped, like a rocket. The glass was a deep blue, not a shiny gloss blue but a dull, flat matte blue and around the base of the cone shape was fine metal wire which looked like it might be made of gold. The wire had been scrolled and bent and worked into fanciful shapes and was like a basket holding the bottle. Half of the bottle was obscured by sand but Nathan could just see some of the neck which had a dark substance around it. He knew he wouldn’t be able to reach it with just his hands, the water was too deep. A stick! That’s what he needed, he thought. He checked to see that he was still alone. The sun was beginning to dip in the late afternoon. Casting about the immediate area Nathan couldn’t see anything useful he could use to lever the bottle out from under the rock. He scouted slightly further afield and soon came across a long weathered tree branch, about six feet long. Perfect.

Slipping and sliding, but with a single-minded determination, Nathan hauled the branch behind him to the rock. It was not a big, thick branch but Nathan wasn’t big himself. With his tongue stuck out in concentration like his mother, Nathan wedged the tip of the branch under the rock near the bottle and pumped it up and down. Almost immediately he could see that this wasn’t going to work, all he was doing was splashing the water. He needed a fulcrum, something he could put under the branch to make it act as a lever. He spotted a lump of smooth stone half buried in the sand close by and dug it out. Panting with exertion he rolled the stone into the water at the base of the rock and using the branch he pulled down on the wooden lever. Nothing happened. He was simply not heavy enough and the boulder was too big.

There was no way around it, he would have to get into the pool of water and dig the bottle out. He didn’t know why but something inside of him said it was imperative to get that bottle. He sat on a flat rock, took his trainers and socks off and rolled up his jeans as best he could to his knees. He took off his t-shirt and lumped it on the rock with his shoes. Walking into the pool he was surprised to find it quite warm. The water came up to his chest at the deepest point and his rolled-up jeans were heavy in the water. Steadying himself against the side of the rock with one hand, he leant down and submerged his other arm to the shoulder and scrabbled around for the bottle. The tips of his fingers brushed the side of the bottle but he knew that unless he went under water he was not going to be able to get it. As he was making another attempt, a voice made him jump.

“Hello, what have you got there?”

With a guilty start, he snatched his hand out of the water and shading his eyes from the now-shining sun, he looked for the source of the voice. Standing on another rock above him was the girl from outside the Fun Palace who’d slapped Ginger. In the daylight, Nathan could see she was quite tanned. She was dressed in white shorts and a white T-shirt with red writing that said YOLO on the front. Her jet-black hair was in a ponytail and electric pink flip-flops finished the look. Nathan looked down at the water and muttered something.

The girl jumped down easily from the rock and landed next to Nathan who was still standing in the pool of water. “You’ll have to talk louder than that kiddo.”

“Bottle,” Nathan muttered again but a little louder.

The girl looked into the water at the base of the rock where Nathan had been fishing about, “Bottle, where?” She bent down closer to the water and saw what Nathan had seen. “Wow! That looks old. Is it stuck? Hey, maybe there’s a message in it, you know, like when people write stuff, put it in a bottle and then chuck it in the sea. Do you want me to help you get it out?”

The look of panic and alarm on his face was enough for the girl to hold up both her hands in defence. “Fine, fine I’ll just watch.”

Now Nathan was in a dilemma. If he stayed and tried to get the bottle out and failed he’d look like an idiot the interfering girl would know where it was and might come back another time and get it for herself. On the other hand, if he did manage to get the bottle out, she would know about it and tell other people and then other people would take it away from him. If she helped him and they both got it out then she would want a share of whatever money it might be worth, because as sure as William Shatner’s Captain Kirk was the best starship captain that had ever lived, Nathan knew that this had to be worth something.

The girl saw his indecision and offered him a gentle smile. “I’m not bothered about your bottle you know. If you want to keep it, that’s fine. I was just offering my help, that’s all.”

Chronically self-conscious, Nathan crossed his arms over his white chest and whispered, “Okay.”

The girl raised a quizzical eyebrow and slightly exasperated said more sharply than she meant, “Okay what? Okay, I help you, or okay I just watch?” Nathan found the directness of the girl unnerving. He spoke a little louder. “Help me.” “Please,” he added.

The girl smiled and stuck her hand out. “Emily.” Nathan reluctantly took her hand and shook it like he was holding a dead squid. “Nathan. But people call me Nate.” Emily studied his face for a moment then assumed an air of leadership. “Right Nate, what have you tried so far?” Nathan indicated the branch lying at his feet. “That’s it. It didn’t work.” Emily hunched down again and looked at the bottle under the water. “Let me try.”

Emily shook off her pink flip-flops and took a mobile phone from her pocket and lay it on one of the sandals. Nathan stood back, catching a faint whiff of perfume or body spray. He liked it. She first tried reaching the bottle with her arm but even stretching with the water up to her armpit she was six inches short.

She eyed the branch. “Maybe if we both used our weight on the rock it might move.”

The look on Nathan’s face said he was doubtful but Emily didn’t notice it as she was already hauling the branch into position. From the way she picked it up, Nathan could see she was a lot stronger than he was. Emily pushed the branch into the same position that Nathan had had it in before and steadied it as Nathan got under the branch to hold it. They then both lowered the branch down onto the fulcrum rock and added their weight to it. Both of them dangled from the end, bobbing up and down. Emily giggled and Nathan almost laughed as well. Suddenly the branch snapped and they were both dumped into the water. Emily squealed and Nathan spluttered and they climbed out of the pool. They sat laughing and Nathan suddenly realised he was enjoying himself—an unfamiliar sensation.

Emily’s laugh trailed off as she looked out towards the shoreline. She shaded her eyes against the early evening sun, brows furrowed in concentration. “Tide’s coming in.” Nathan shaded his eyes too and saw what she meant. The water was a lot closer.

“Bother.” Emily pulled out the broken half of the branch from under the big rock and then peered into the pool of water. “I think we’ve loosened it!” she said excitedly. Nathan crouched down too, “Maybe we can use the branch to push it out?” Emily stood in the pool up to her chest and looked at the incoming tide. “There’s no time, I think it’s stuck. I’ll try and reach it with my hands and pull it out.”

Nathan felt a twinge of inadequacy. He should have offered to do that first. Emily had to almost lie down on the edge of the rock pool and then slowly reach into the water. Her shoulder went under and then she stuck her head into the pool. Nathan could see that she had touched the bottle but sand had been disturbed and clouded the water. She came up, black hair plastered to her scalp, her top soaking wet. “I can touch it, and it’s wiggling a bit, but it still seems quite stuck. If you get down there with me I think we can both get it out.”

Nathan looked down at his wet jeans. Emily chided him “Don’t be such a sissy, they’ll dry off soon enough ― or you can just take them off,” she added slyly. Nathan went bright red. He couldn’t remember what underwear he was wearing. It was definitely either Star Trek or Dinosaurs. Without saying anything he took his glasses off and got into the water, jeans still on, and then took a deep breath and stuck his head underwater. Emily did the same. Nathan opened his eyes and immediately came up again frantically wiping at his face. “It stings!” he spluttered. Emily waited patiently for Nathan to calm down. “Just keep your eyes closed and feel for the bottle.”

Nathan gave her a sceptical look but took another deep breath and went under. Eyes closed he groped around in the sand and put his hand against the side of the rock. He touched Emily’s hand and quickly moved on and then found what he thought was the bottle. Emily had the bottom of the bottle. Nathan felt blindly along to the top and managed to put two fingers around the neck. Together they wiggled and pushed and pulled at the bottle. Nathan's heart was hammering in his chest as he began to run out of air. They must have been underwater for ages, though he knew it was only seconds. Suddenly the bottle came free. They both popped to the surface like whales, blowing and wiping their faces. Emily had the bottle and threw it onto the sand at the edge of the pool as they climbed out.

“Yay!” exclaimed Emily. Nathan put his glasses back on, bent down and picked it up. As it lay there, they could both see that it was undeniably no ordinary bottle. In the dry air, the glass was more of a smoky grey and blue. The glass itself had small bubbles within it hinting at an older form of glass making. The gold filigreed wire was fused to the glass and closer inspection showed that it had been worked into shapes and figures, almost lifelike and dancing. None of the figures were recognisable as human or animal. The neck and the top of the bottle were covered in a thick, black-looking substance that was hard and acted as a seal. Emily took the bottle from Nathan and held it up in front of the last rays of the sun. She tilted it this way and that. The bottle’s surface had a dull matte sheen and it was difficult to see what was inside, but there was something in there. It swirled like liquid but slowly, like honey and smoke. Even when the bottle was held still the contents appeared to slowly eddy around its confined space.

“That’s interesting,” she said, “This gold-looking stuff almost looks like writing, sort of Arabic looking. It can’t have been in the water too long either because there are no barnacles. What do you think?” Nathan took the bottle back. He shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m not really familiar with Arabic writing but you’re right about the barnacles.”

Emily gave him a big grin that showed white, even teeth. Then she went serious. “My uncle is Egyptian – on my dad’s side, which makes me half Egyptian. He’s in the army fighting in some place called Sinai.” She smiled again. “Well come on then, let’s open it and see what’s inside.”

Goosebumps raced up Nathan’s arms and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he hugged the bottle protectively. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

As he said those words one half of his brain was almost screaming, ‘Whatever you do, don’t open the bottle!’ and the other half was yelling ‘Open it! Open it!’ and yet deep down he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the bottle was not good news. But Emily was practically hopping up and down with impatience, her top and shorts soaked through. Nathan’s jeans were cold and stiff with wet salt water and a light breeze had sprung up and he shivered. With uncharacteristic firmness, Nathan made a decision. “It’s late, let’s wait until tomorrow. We can bury it somewhere safe on the beach among the rocks and then come down after breakfast and have a proper look.”

Emily nodded in agreement but then frowned. “I think you should take it up with you to the campsite. What if there’s a really high tide? A rock could break it or it could get washed back out to sea or someone might even stumble across it.” Nathan considered this scenario for a second then nodded too, “Okay, but we’ll still come back to the beach and open it here.” Emily took the bottle from Nathan again and looked carefully at the substance that coated the top and neck. “It looks like some sort of wax or plastic. Look here,” she said pointing at part of the neck, “there’s some sort of writing or marks in the stuff.” Nathan had a look too. Sure enough there appeared to be some deliberate marks in the dark red/black waxy covering, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of them. Emily wiped the sand and wetness off her hands on her shorts. “We’ll need some sort of knife to get that stuff off. I’ve got a penknife I can bring.” Nathan looked at her and thought ‘Of course she’d have a penknife.’

He turned to look at the incoming tide that was less than a hundred yards from them. “Let’s go.” They headed higher up towards the cliff face that was now a deep orange colour from the approaching sunset. At the base of the cliff, he stopped for a moment to look at the sun as it sank beneath the waves. Oblivious to Emily, he revelled in the colours and was momentarily transported to another universe where he stood in splendid isolation upon a barren lifeless world, watching a huge orange sun go supernova, dipping over the horizon.

Emily coughed, “Are you okay?” Nathan flushed red again, “Yes,” he muttered, “just looking at the sunset.” Emily glanced over her shoulder at the Earth-bound sun and gave a delightful little laugh, “Oh, you old romantic!” Nathan could feel himself burning up with embarrassment and started walking rapidly up the hill across the sand towards the main road, Emily following. As they walked Nathan’s face went through a range of expressions as he tried to say something.

Emily saw him struggling. “I don’t bite.” Nathan looked at her sideways and then staring straight ahead he shoved his hands in his pocket and said, “Er, thanks for last night, outside the Fun Palace.” Emily shrugged. “No worries. I can’t stand bullies…” she paused, “…do you get bullied a lot?” Nathan nodded and sighed, “Yeah.” He shrugged, “But you get used to it…almost don’t notice it,” he said quietly. Emily punched him lightly on the arm, “All you have to do is stand up to them once. They’ll remember.” “Easy for you to say, I’m not very strong.” Emily looked him up and down. “Yeah, but if you get picked on, just go crazy. They’ll soon leave you alone.” Nathan shrugged. “If only.”

They walked in uncomfortable silence for a minute.

“Your uncle in the army, what is he fighting for?”

Emily’s brow wrinkled in thought. “I’m not sure; my dad said that the government was trying to stop some rebels from taking over. It’s all very boring and far away. Why?”

Nathan shrugged, his face suddenly serious. “I don’t get it - people killing each other all the time. What’s the point?” Emily stopped walking and put her hands up in surrender as they reached the entrance to the caravan park. “Whoa Nate, I don’t know and so long as it’s not here, I don’t care.”

Nathan’s eyes glistened. “We should care.”

Chapter 8

Back at the campsite, Nathan headed for his caravan, bottle cradled in his arms. Emily called after him. “How early do you want to go down there?” Nathan paused. If they went too late there would be loads of people there on the beach. Too early and his parents might question what he was up to. Then he realised that they would probably still be in an alcohol-induced coma early in the day. “I’ll meet you at the gate to the campsite at 7 am.”

Emily smiled, “Great, are you going to the Fun Palace tonight? If not there’s a bunch of us going to play Run Outs and King Ball in the dark later — if you wanted to come.” Nathan had seen other kids play countless versions of Run Out but had never played himself. It looked too rough and tumble for him.

“No thanks, not tonight.” He realised this sounded lame, “There’s an old episode of Dr Who on tonight that I haven’t seen before,” and as the words left his lips he knew that this sounded even worse, especially since he’d never missed one in his life and he felt fairly sure Emily knew that.

Emily raised an eyebrow and skipped off, “Whatever. See you at seven.”

Nathan watched her go and was startled to realise she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. He dashed the thought from his head as a rush of emotions boiled inside of him. No girl was ever going to be interested in him. He crushed the feelings. By now it was almost evening but the sky was still bright with late summer light and as Nathan walked between the other caravans towards his own a voice behind him made him stop. He didn’t turn around.

“Well if it isn’t the four-eyed loser. I’ve been looking for you! Where’s your girlfriend? Are you allowed out on your own?” There was a burst of laughter. It was the unmistakable voice of Ginger. Nathan remembered Emily’s advice but decided that cowardice was the better part of valour and ignored them and took another step away from them.

“Hey, dipstick! I’m talking to you!”

Nathan turned. Ginger stood there, feet apart and fists bunched by his sides, obviously still humiliated by his run-in with Emily from the night before.

“What you got there dork?”

With a start, Nathan realised that the bottle he was holding was in plain sight. He hugged it tighter and his voice broke and he squeaked. “Nothing, it’s mine.” Ginger instinctively knew that whatever his victim was holding, it was precious to him. Therefore, he had to have it.

“Give us it here. I just want to have a look.” It came out as ‘Gissit ‘ere’.

Similarly, Nathan knew, as all victims of bullies knew, that if he gave him the object he would never see it again. “No!” Nathan said this in a much louder and more forceful voice than he had intended, but it still came out squeaky. For Ginger, this confirmed the value of the object Nathan was holding. He grinned with spite. “I’ll give you five seconds douchebag or I’m gonna’ take it.”

The two boys with Ginger had fanned out either side of him in anticipation of Nathan running. Nathan contemplated his escape route. Whatever he did they would catch him. His shoulders slumped resignedly and he held out the bottle. Ginger laughed and he turned to his two mates to share Nathan’s defeat. A spark went off in Nathan’s brain, a primordial chemical that flooded his body. He was not going to give in to this bully. The bottle suddenly felt heavy and warm. Nathan cradled the bottle tight to his chest like he was in a rugby match and bolted away from the trio. He fled straight ahead then jinked left and then right between caravans.  Already his throat was raw with effort as he took in deep breaths. Ginger and his buddies were caught by surprise. Ginger yelled and then all three took up the chase. Nathan could hear them behind him getting closer and closer. Dodging around families having barbecues, Nathan pirouetted around young kids on their bikes and skateboards and he ran through an impromptu football match. Racing down the narrow space between two caravans Nathan spied his caravan ahead. He surged forward and managed to throw the bottle through the window of his caravan before taking off to the right. Seconds later Ginger came around the corner and saw the feet of Nathan disappearing towards the Fun Palace.

Shouting again, Ginger and his mates spurred on. Nathan ran out of steam at the steps to the Fun Palace. It was already busy with the after-dinner crowd going in to mangle more songs. Bent over, panting and heaving, hands on his knees, Nathan tried to catch his breath. His thighs chafed from his wet jeans. He couldn’t go any further. As Ginger and his posse careered down the path towards him and stopped in a tangle in front of him, Nathan’s Dad came out from around the corner stuffing a packet of cigarettes in his pocket. He saw Nathan and came over just as Ginger got to within striking distance. “Alright dude, you having fun?” initially mistaking the hunt as a game of tag. He saw the look on Ginger’s face and then Nathan’s and immediately understood the situation. He put himself between the boys and turned to Ginger, who was almost as tall as he was and looked coolly into his eyes. “You appear to be a troublemaker, sunshine.”

Ginger, still puffing from his run, didn’t look away but smiled with no warmth. “We’re just having a bit of fun, is all.” He glanced at Nathan.

Nathan was now standing, getting his breath back. Ginger noticed he didn’t have the bottle and looked quickly on the ground for it. Not seeing it he turned and looked back at Nathan’s father. “It’s alright, we were going anyway. Nancy-boy here didn’t want to play; the wimp.” The other boys laughed. Nathan’s father remained in front of Ginger and said very quietly, “If I see you near him again we’re going to have a problem.”

Ginger flinched and took a step back. “Nah we won’t, you can’t touch me, that’s child abuse and I’ll have you in prison.”

Nathan's father kept his calm gaze, “You stupid boy. I don’t have to touch you. I’ll go and make sure that you and your family are thrown out of the camp ― and everyone will know it’s your fault.”

            Ginger weighed the words then silently turned and gruffly punched one of his mates. “Let’s go.”

Nathan’s father turned to his son, “You get a lot of that?”

Nathan shrugged and pushed his glasses up his nose, “You get used to it.”

His dad appraised his son, almost seeing him for the first time. “You okay Nate? You want to come in and have a drink?” he said nodding towards the doors of the Fun Palace.

Nathan shook his head, “No thanks Dad, I’ll just go back to the caravan and watch some TV.”

His father ruffled his hair, “Okay. But if that kid has another go, you have my permission to hit him back, alright?” his father said with mock sternness. Nathan gave him a reassuring smile and headed back to his caravan keeping a wary eye out for Ginger. If only it was that simple, he thought.

Back in the caravan, Nathan found the bottle on the floor. Thankfully, it looked like it had bounced off the sofa first. The thick glass had protected it. He carried it to his room and turning on a bedside lamp Nathan held the bottle up to the light. He tried to see what was inside but it was the same as when he and Emily were on the beach. All he could see were eddies of what looked like a milky liquid inside. Nathan let out a big sigh and put the bottle under his bed. He almost felt it was essential he opened the bottle right there and then but something deep in his heart stopped him. It was fear.

He turned on the TV and managed to catch the beginning of an old episode of Aquila but the signal reception made it almost unwatchable. In bed, he heard his parents arguing as they came home. His mother sounded very drunk and she stormed into their tiny bedroom, slamming closed the flimsy door. His father called out, “Alright Nate, you in bed?” Nathan mumbled loud enough for his dad to know he was there. He heard his father grab a beer from the fridge then sit on the small sofa and turn on the TV.

Chapter 9

That night his dreams were dark and turbulent; filled with boiling clouds of black smoke, flashes and sparks of red embers. Towering columns of rock dominated the horizon and unseen creatures scurried and darted through the impenetrable dark fog, the sound of their claws skittering on stone, plainly audible. Nathan tossed and turned in his bed, moaning and muttering. There was something in those shadowy clouds stalking him. At first, he thought that it must be some kind of dinosaur, a T-Rex maybe, but he soon realised that this was not like anything he had dreamt of before. This was something bigger, stronger and something else… evil. With a jolt he sat up in bed fighting for breath, eyes wide. His bed covers were on the floor. Looking out of the window he could already see the first streaks of dawn beginning to light the sky. His bedside clock said 4.41 am. He checked under the bed. The bottle was still there. Damp with perspiration Nathan, quietly towelled himself off, put on his glasses then got into a fresh pair of too-short jeans and a T-shirt that had the slogan ‘Kiss My...’ and then a cartoon of a donkey from behind looking over its shoulder.

Nathan got the bottle, grabbed a blanket and went out into the early dawn and sat on a folding camp chair with the blanket wrapped around him. The bottle sat on his lap protectively covered with a corner of the blanket. His bad dream was already fading as he looked up at the brightening sky. It promised to be another hot one and Nathan started to try and go back over what he had dreamt. All he could remember were dark clouds boiling with something hidden deep inside them.

He dozed off in the chair and woke with a start. His watch said it was 6.45 am. He ducked back into the caravan and wrote a note for his parents to say that he would be down the beach for the day and quickly made himself a peanut butter sandwich. At exactly seven o’clock he waited by the gate at the entrance to the campsite, the bottle carried in an orange-coloured Sainsbury’s bag. People were already up, going back and forth to the shower block or walking dogs. Kids were out on bicycles or kicking footballs about. The smell of frying bacon drifted across the air. Emily didn’t get there until quarter past the hour which slightly irritated Nathan.

Emily was oblivious and gave Nathan a cute smile, “Alright Nate, got the bottle?” she asked. Nathan couldn’t help himself and smiled too, “Yeah”, his irritation evaporating as he held up the bag. Emily wore similar clothing to the day before only this time the top and shorts were a deep pink and her top had a picture of a goldfish driving an army tank. Her glossy black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She pulled a multi-bladed Swiss knife from her pocket, “I remembered to bring this,” she paused, “Nice T-shirt,” she observed, but not unkindly. Nathan self-consciously covered the donkey with an arm. “It was a present,” he mumbled.

As they made their way down the hill to the beach in the morning sunshine the two children soon realised that it was going to be a busy day. From the hill, they could already see plenty of dog walkers and joggers. Early bird sun worshippers were selecting the choicest spots on the beach to hammer in their windbreaks and roll out their picnic blankets and towels. In the distance, two miles away at the other end of the beach, dot-like kite surfers could be glimpsed soaring and swooping as the owners hung beneath them. At the base of the cliff, Nathan and Emily were dismayed to see that the tide was in. It was still a hundred yards from the base of the cliff but all the rock pools, large boulders and potential secret hiding places were underwater, and it wasn’t clear if the tide was still coming in or starting to go out.

Emily shaded her eyes with her hand and scanned the beach and cliff face. “Good job we got the bottle out yesterday instead of leaving it, hey?” Nathan nodded in agreement, “Let’s see if we can find somewhere along the cliff,” he said, eyeing an adult and two children picking their way across the rocks towards their position.

Emily’s forehead wrinkled, unsure. “What if the tide’s still coming in?”

“I don’t think it is. See all the seaweed and barnacles? They only come up to here, a high tide point. I think the water only gets to the cliff when there is a storm.”  Emily could see what Nathan meant. There was a distinct line along the rocks and shingle where all the seaweed and ocean debris just stopped after being deposited by the tide. Nathan continued. “Even if the tide continues up it will only get as far as where we’re standing, that gives us quite a bit of beach to ourselves.”

Nathan suddenly noticed that Emily wasn’t wearing her glasses. “What happened to your specs?”

“Oh, they’re not real glasses, just fashion ones. You know, with plain glass.”

Nathan looked mystified. Emily laughed again, “It’s a ‘girl’ thing.” Nathan was beginning to realise that there were a lot of ‘girl things’ that he would never understand. Emily then fished in the front pocket of her shorts and took out a smartphone. She rapidly did some tapping on the screen and then a minute later declared, “Yup, the tide’s going out. It will be high tide again at 5.46 pm this afternoon.” Nathan grunted in admiration.

As the sun started to heat the sand and boulders around them the two children jumped and skipped over rocks and pools and walked along the cliff face in companionable silence. At various points along the base, there were piles of crumbled rock where a mini avalanche had happened. This didn’t make Nathan feel very secure but Emily hummed happily as she negotiated these minor barriers. Emily jumped down from a high bank of shingle on to the wet sand closer to the breaking surf where she spotted a shell.

She looked back up at the cliff, craning her neck to see the top, “Hey, I think I can see a cave!” Nathan jumped down next to her and looked back up the cliff too. “No, I can’t see anything.”

“There,” she said pointing, “Where that bush is sticking out about halfway up. It’s covering the entrance. See? That dark spot behind it.”

Nathan looked along her pointed arm and suddenly became aware of how close she was to him. Once he spotted the cave on the cliff side it seemed obvious to Nathan. The opening did not look very big. “You’re not thinking of going up there are you?” She smirked and Nathan raised an eyebrow in question and repeated, “Are you?” Emily was already at the base of one of the mini avalanches scrabbling up the loose material, “C’mon!” she called without looking back.

Nathan sighed as he watched her retreating form. He adjusted the orange Sainsbury’s bag, had a quick look to see if anyone was watching and then scrabbled up after her. Emily had found a thin path with almost non-existent foot and hand holds and was climbing with the agility of a mountain goat. Nathan was much more circumspect and very cautiously started climbing, the bottle in the bag swinging backwards and forwards and side to side from his arm. Emily had already reached the bush and suddenly all he could see were her bare legs sticking out. He concentrated on the rock face and started to have fantasies of the entire cliff cascading down around his ears, buried under tons of chalky rock where he would be lost for millennia and become a fossilised hominid. He risked a furtive look upwards and saw Emily’s face almost in front of his. He hadn’t realised that he was almost there. Emily grinned and extended a hand, “C’mon up, the view’s lovely.” Nathan tentatively took her hand and she pulled him in.

“Piece of cake,” she said.

The cave was not actually a cave. It was a large hole in the rock face where a rock or plant had come loose and the elements had finished the job of removing it. The space was large enough for them to both sit cross-legged but they both had to hunch forwards slightly because of the low roof. The hole was about forty feet up the cliff and Emily was right, Nathan conceded, the view was pretty good. The bay stretched around in a semi-circle on either side of them as far as the eye could see. Seagulls wheeled and dipped around the breaking surf, looking for crabs and shrimps. Nathan had a quick check and couldn’t see anyone looking up at them. The nearest people seemed to be the man and two small children they had seen earlier, and they were just ants on the sand. The hole they sat in amplified the crashing surf and the wind ruffled their hair so Emily had to raise her voice. Nathan noticed that her top and her knees were now streaked with orange chalky clay. He looked down at his t-shirt and was grimly pleased to see that his donkey was almost covered in the stuff as well.

Emily poked the bag, “Let’s open it and see what that stuff is inside.”

Nathan fished the bottle out and laid it on its side. It didn’t look any different. Emily picked it up and swished it about to get the contents moving. The gold filigree around the body glinted in the early morning sunlight. Nathan took the bottle and tried to use his finger nails to pick at the thick black looking wax seal. He gave up immediately and handed the bottle to Emily.

“The seal is rock hard.”

Emily pulled out her pocket knife and unfolded the largest blade. She inserted the tip under the edge of the wax seal and carefully increased pressure trying to snap bits of it off. Emily knew that this was dangerous as the knife could easily close shut on her fingers. She tried a different tack and folded the blade back in and pulled out a metal spike called an awl. She tried to dig it into the side of the wax with the heavy point but nothing happened. The dark wax stayed that way ― dark and untouched; not even scratched. Emily frowned.

“Bum. We’ll have to break it.”

“What if it’s worth something? Breaking it will just make it useless.”

Emily sat the bottle in her lap, “You’re right. We’ll have to find another way.” She paused in thought. “What we really need is a way to clamp the bottle in place somehow and use a bigger knife.”

Nathan looked sceptical, “Maybe it wasn’t designed to be opened.”

Emily scoffed, “All bottles are designed to be opened. Why make one that can’t? What can you keep in it that is so precious that you don’t want it to see the light of day?”

Suddenly a loud chirruping noise like crickets filled the cave. Emily reached for her pocket and extracted her smartphone. “Hang on,” she said to Nathan and took the call.

“Hi mum. Yep. I’m okay. I’m at the beach. Oh, you’re there too? I’m around the corner at the bottom of the cliff with my new friend, Nate. The one I was telling you about yesterday from the caravan park…yes, that one.” She listened carefully then said, “Rain, what rain?” and looked out to sea. “Oh, that rain.”

Nathan followed her gaze. It was still bright and sunny but on the horizon was a thick, dark band of black cloud that was getting bigger as they watched. “Okay, I’ll see you at lunchtime. Say ‘Hi’ to the three trolls. Love you, bye.” Emily checked the time and it said ten o’clock and she put the phone back in her pocket. “Sorry, it was one of the parentals.”

Nathan had never heard them called that before. He was still red-cheeked at Emily’s description of him as a friend and she had discussed him with her parents. He felt slightly jealous that she had such a loving relationship with her family.

“Three trolls?”

Emily laughed, “Yep, my three little brothers. Triplets. They’re a real pain but I love them anyway.” Still slightly jealous, Nathan gulped nervously as he peered over the edge. “Let’s get down to the beach and find another way to open this thing.”

Emily agreed and put the bottle back in the plastic bag. “You go down first and I’ll hand you the bottle.”

Nathan looked over the edge again and blanched, it looked a hundred feet down. “Really? Ladies first.”

Emily blew a raspberry, “Very funny. You’re not scared are you?”

Nathan nodded vigorously, “Scared. Yes, very scared. No shame in that. You lead.” Emily stroked a stray lock of hair from her ponytail back over her ear. Nathan liked her ears. They were small and perfectly formed.

“Men!” Emily rapidly uncrossed her legs, swung them out and turned around to face Nathan, half her body already out over the abyss. “See ya!” and she dropped from sight. Nathan looked quickly over the edge and saw that Emily had just let go and used her hands and feet to control her descent, just sliding down the cliff face. She was at the top of the mini avalanche in seconds. “Throw me the bottle!” she called.

Nathan dangled the bottle in the bag carefully over the precipice and judged where Emily was then let go. At the same time, a gust of wind spun the bag and banged it against the cliff wall. Nathan held his breath and then watched in despair as the bottle and bag tumbled down, banging against the rocks. It landed on the shingle. Nathan knew it was broken. It could not have survived that fall. Emily trudged through the deep shingle and retrieved the bag, opened it to look and then shouted, “No probs. It’s okay!”

Nathan exhaled with relief where he had been holding his breath. He then slowly and agonisingly made his way down the cliff face one excruciatingly slow hand-hold at a time. He finally put his feet on terra firma and sweating, turned to find Emily smiling, “About time Evel Knievel.”

“Evel Knievel?”

“Old school, dare-devil stuntman,” Emily grinned.

“Ha ha, funny ha ha,” said Nathan drily.

Nathan trailed down to the water’s edge and sat in the sand a few feet from the crashing surf and Emily joined him with the bottle still in its bag. “We’re going to have to go back to the caravan park and find something to open it.”

Nathan hugged his knees looking out to sea. The dark band of cloud was rapidly approaching, already beginning to blot out the sun, though there was no wind to warn of a coming storm. He took the bag from Emily. “Let’s just break the top off. Really, if we show it to anyone they’ll end up keeping the money and fame and we’ll get nothing. We’re just kids.”

 “What do you think’s in it, champagne or wine? I’ll hold it with the bag and you break it. I think we should just smash it below the wax seal.”

Nathan didn’t reply straight away as he figured something out. “I’ve got it! We’ll bury it in wet sand up to its neck. The wet sand will cushion it and stop the whole bottle from breaking. All we have to do is break off the neck and hey presto, one open bottle!”

Emily got onto her knees, looked up and down the short stretch of beach to make sure they were alone and started digging. “Brilliant! I hope it’s worth it, I’ve never tried champagne before.” Within a minute she had dug a hole deep enough. Water slowly seeped into the hole from the sides. Nathan placed the bottle in it and then took it out so Emily could make it deeper. The next try found it a perfect fit and they filled in the hole around the bottle with thick, waterlogged sand.

“Brill-o,” said Emily patting the sand down around the neck. Three inches of the neck stuck out. They started casting about for a stone to do the damage. Nathan found one and hefted it in his hand for size. Satisfied he looked at Emily.

“Go on,” she urged, “You found it, you open it.”

Nathan drew his hand back and took careful aim. “I’m going to throw it.” He missed twice and on the third throw, the stone hit the neck with an audible crack. The top of the bottle broke off around the black wax seal and fell on the sand.

For a second nothing happened — then all hell broke loose.

Chapter 10

The bright sunlight seemed to dim and dark blue/purple smoke billowed out from the neck of the bottle onto the sand around their feet. They both took a step back as the thick smoke enveloped their ankles and then watched as tendrils of smoke snaked towards the sea. There was a huge clap of thunder and a white flash and then very clearly, a green waterspout formed in the sea like a small twister. It was twice the height of a man and it moved rapidly toward the children. As it drew nearer, the smoke on the sand was sucked into the waterspout turning it a dark blue with flashes of purple. The waterspout came ashore, causing a small sandstorm that made the children cover their eyes. Still spinning, the water vortex stopped five feet from them.

Nathan and Emily stood still in wonder and fear. “Wow!” breathed Emily.

The waterspout collapsed in a rush of roiling sea and foam into the sand and there before them stood a man. He was tall and his well-defined muscles glistened wetly, though being wet did not seem to bother him. The man had tattooed pale red skin, was bare-chested and wore loose-fitting trousers which were a dark blue and trimmed with gold. His hair was jet black and hung dankly around his shoulders.

Around his thick neck was a solid gold necklace with a pendant in the shape of a sun. His wrists were circled with gold bracelets and his fingers were covered in gold rings set with large jewels like rubies and emeralds. The man’s face sported a neatly trimmed goatee-style beard and he had deep green eyes. He did not look happy, but neither did he look angry. He eyed the children for a moment and then gave a small bow. His lips did not move but Nathan could clearly hear his deep, powerful voice as he spoke. He looked to Emily who confirmed with a nod that she could too.

“Oh powerful masters, I am Al Kassim, eighth King of the Djinn and I do your bidding.” He bowed deeply again.

Nathan noticed that the sky remained dark; he could see white seagulls in the background seemingly suspended in the air, not moving. Behind Al Kassim, the sea appeared to have been frozen; waves at the point of curling and collapsing were motionless like a photograph.

“Where did you come from?” asked Nathan, though he knew the answer.

Al Kassim looked at the broken bottle at their feet. “I have been imprisoned and bound to that accursed vessel for over two thousand nine hundred years by Asmodeus, the king of demons, young masters. You have freed me and as decreed by King Solomon I owe you a debt. I am to grant you your desires.”

Emily clapped her hands in delight, “You’re a genie and you have to grant us three wishes?!”

Al Kassim frowned, “No, not genie, I am Djinn, a god from another time…and yes, I can grant you your heart’s desires three times as is foretold by the great Al Yazeed, father of the Marid, greatest of all Djinn tribes.” Al Kassim bowed deeply once more.

Emily whispered to Nathan, “What do you think?”

The Djinn appeared to smile slightly, “You do not need to talk quietly young mistress, as I can hear your thoughts. You are confused and yet excited.”

He looked at Nathan. “You, young master seek to explore the possibilities. Some appear to be good and yet others are very dark, a path you may not wish to travel.”

Nathan gulped at being so transparent. Emily looked sideways at Nathan. “What does he mean?” Nathan shrugged, “Nothing, really.”

Al Kassim suddenly clapped his hands and bowed, “It is done.”

Nathan looked surprised. “What is done?”

Emily smiled nervously, “I think I just got a horse.” She looked around expectantly.

Al Kassim spread his arms wide and inclined his head slightly, his black hair falling forward, “It is as you have wished young mistress. The creature of your desire is now outside your home.”

Emily took a step back, “But there’s no one home. We’re all here on holiday!”

Al Kassim smiled slightly, arms crossed. “You may choose another desire, young mistress.”

Nathan looked around the frozen beach. They were all alone. “Do we have three wishes each or is it between us?”

“Alas young master, I am to grant but three desires only. You are advised to choose wisely.”

Al Kassim clapped again and spread his arms wide, “It is done.”

Emily shouted, “I didn’t wish for anything!”

Nathan looked at his feet in the sand, hands in his pockets. “I did.”

Al Kassim crossed his arms over his chest again, his bracelets clinking against each other. “The young master wished for his mother and father to be happy and united once more. This has been granted.”

Emily gave Nathan a sideways glance while Nathan fought an urge to run off back to the campsite and check.

Emily stood closer to Nathan. “We’ve got one left, what shall we wish for — more wishes?”

Al Kassim groaned and said in a bored voice like he’d done it a thousand times before, “A master is granted three desires only. The Marid Djinn are creatures of free will, as are you. We are benevolent and have chosen to lead a life of dignity and respect and to serve and live alongside our human masters. Please do not ask for something that cannot be granted as I will be then unbound and free to return to my realm.”

Nathan turned to Emily with a light in his eyes, “Well, we could ask for money, lots of it; or to live forever, or to have a mega-robot so we don’t get bullied. What about a dog or the latest games console?”

Emily grinned, “Yeah, lots of jewellery, hundreds of cats. A motorbike, a castle, — jeez, you know, I don’t know what to wish for.”

Nathan looked thoughtful, “An end to war and fighting? Plenty of food for everyone? How about no more religion? That could sort a lot of problems out.” Emily looked doubtful. “No religion? Are you nuts? We need something for us. Money’s always a good one.”

Al Kassim looked troubled, “Please choose wisely young masters. An end to all religion can be granted but you may wish to consider the consequences.”

“I guess there would be world peace, nothing to fight over.”

Al Kassim chose his words carefully, “Religion is not the sole reason that mortal kind has a reason to fight. You may consider greed, disagreements about your different beliefs, fear and even that a nation may think it better and stronger than another. Religion unites a common people, whether for good or bad.”

Nathan groped for Emily’s hand. She took it without thinking. “Can Emily and I think about it, maybe choose tomorrow?”

Al Kassim took a step forward and the children were able to see that his pale red skin glowed slightly. The rings on his fingers sparkled with their own fire.

“It is foretold by the great Al Yazeed, father of the Marid, greatest of all Djinn tribes that your desires are to be fulfilled within the day of a Djinn’s release. That is the way of things. What is your final request, young masters’?” Al Kassim bowed again in respect.

Emily hopped indecisively from one foot to the other, “Oh bloody hell, I can’t decide!”

Nathan was quiet, head bowed, apparently deep in thought.

Al Kassim suddenly took two steps back until the sea was up to his knees. He clapped his hands, threw his head back, eyes closed and spread his arms wide. He slowly lowered his head and looked at the children with his piercing green eyes. Bowing his head forward, a look of sadness crossed his face.

“Your desire has been granted, young master. It has, as was foretold by the wisest of all Djinn, Al Marak, and the most evil, Asmodeus, king of demons and angels that this wish would come to pass. From my lips to my heart to the breath and hearts of all my Djinn brethren and so to your God ― go in peace, for you now have something to live for.” Al Kassim’s face had a look of resigned sadness.

As he uttered the last of his words the water around the Djinn’s feet started to boil and climb up his body until the waterspout formed again and sped out across the sea. Slowly the dark skies lightened and shafts of bright sunlight speared like lasers onto the sea surface and across the beach. The sound of gulls started to intrude and small waves started to curl back up the shingle. A larger wave splashed onto the ornate bottle and sucked and dragged it back into the water. Neither child moved to save it.

“What did you wish for Nathan?”

Nathan looked at Emily with tears in his eyes and sat suddenly on the sand. “I’m not sure. I just briefly wished that there were no more problems in the world, and then I thought, ‘How can that happen?’ Then I thought, ‘If we were all dead then there’d be no more problems, Earth could start again.’ Then I thought that was silly, and then I panicked and thought of something else ― I wished for a new set of Dr Who DVDs; but I think it’s too late.”

“Well, you must have wished for something because old genie-boy has gone and we’re still here.” She squeezed his hand that she was still holding, “No one’s going to believe us you know.”

Nathan stood up and brushed the damp sand from his shorts, “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” He brightened slightly. “Maybe it’s all a dream!”

Emily checked the time on her phone and frowned. It had been ten o’clock when she last checked her phone and now it still said ten o’clock.

Nathan looked around again. Everything seemed normal. He shrugged. “Yeah, it’s all some crazy dream. Let’s go.”

As they trudged back through the sand along the water’s edge Emily’s phone rang again. “Hi mum.” Emily stopped walking, her face shocked. “What? A horse! You’re kidding! Ok, Ok. Where did it come from? No! Alright, I’ll see you later. Bye, love you.”

She grinned and looked at Nathan. “Some dream, huh? Mum said she got a call from a next-door neighbour to say that a beautiful chestnut horse was in our front garden.”

Nathan didn’t smile back. “Well hopefully my parents are like newlyweds and I’ve got a pile of DVDs when I get back then.”

Emily teased, “So do I, I wouldn’t want us to all die some horrible death just as I was getting to know you.” Nathan blushed again.

The two of them scrambled over the rocks back onto the main beach and Emily went to meet her parents and brothers after telling Nathan that she would see him later. Back at his caravan, Nathan found his mum and dad outside in deck chairs holding hands and chatting animatedly, a radio playing some music in the background.

His mum saw him and beamed. “Hi darling, you’re not going to believe this but your dad and I have decided to really give our marriage a go. We know it’s been rough on you lately and we’re very sorry. We’ve suddenly realised how much we love each other and we’re going to make it up to you. I’ve thrown away all the booze and fags too.”

Nathan gave a wan smile. His mother looked younger and more radiant and his father grinned from ear to ear.

“That’s great you two. I’m not feeling very well so I’m going to lie down for a few minutes.”

Nathan’s dad looked serious for a second. “Ok, dude. You go and get some rest and then we’re all going out to lunch to celebrate.” He looked at Nathan’s mum and wiped his brow and then looked at the sky that was now a white hazy colour. “Wow, looks like it’s going to be a scorcher today!” The music on the radio crackled with static.

Nathan went into his small room in the caravan. His dad was right though, it was already very warm. Sweat trickled down the side of Nathan’s temples. He looked around the inside of the caravan. There were no DVDs; nothing indicating a Dr Who presence of any kind. Slightly panicking, he turned the room upside down. Nothing. Maybe they were back at his house, a giant pile on the living room floor, but as soon as that thought left him he knew it wasn’t true. Nathan climbed out of his caravan window and silently made his way around the back towards the beach again. As he crossed the sand he heard someone calling his name. He ignored it and carried on to the water’s edge where he walked through the surf in his shoes. He ignored the wet sand filling the insides, making his feet drag. He finally stood at a stretch of surf where there was no one else around.

Emily came panting up behind him and stood in the water next to him, “Hey, you alright? You didn’t hear me. I was calling you. Our TV and radio have stopped working. I was coming over to see if yours was okay.”

Nathan continued looking out over the horizon. “Have you noticed how hot it is all of a sudden?”

Emily gazed at Nathan’s face, searching for something. “Yes,” she said carefully. “It is hot, but they did say that it was going to be 29 degrees today.”

Nathan pointed out to sea. “Look at that. That is not good.”

Emily looked out to the horizon where the ocean met the white sky. “I don’t see anything, only a boat.”

The sea was flat now, like a mirror. It had a peculiar colour to it, a dark stormy grey with streaks of deep bottle green that was at odds with the bright hazy sunshine of the day.

Nathan’s shoulders slumped and he sighed, “Look at the sun. My wish came true.”

It took Emily a minute to see what he meant as she shaded her eyes against the glare and then she saw it, two suns, close together, one brighter than the other.

She looked at Nathan in puzzlement, “What does it mean?”

Nathan stared at Emily’s face, as though seeing it for the first time, “No more bullies…” he paused, “No more violence or fighting. We’ll all be at peace at last.”

“How?” Emily asked.  Nathan shrugged. “Asteroid, maybe giant meteor I guess. It’s the only way that the world could end.” Tears streamed down his face, “I’m sorry, what have I done?”

Emily clutched his hand. Now she had seen the second sun, the asteroid, she could feel the heat radiating down.

“You idiot!” she screamed. “My family…we should tell people…” she paused as she realised how futile it sounded. Tears fell from her eyes too and she whispered,

“Just one more wish...”

The End

That’s it my friends for the time being. I shall go back to writing for now and see what the future holds.

Cheers!

Simon

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I promised said that I would post the final part of Djinn this week but things have been a little hectic with the bathroom remodelling. It is finally finished and I have been tidying up the last little bits, like filling, sanding and painting. I’m sorry. Here is an article I wrote a few weeks ago instead.

Writing space. This is the space that a writer needs to be able to write. I used to think that all you needed was a cubby-hole and a computer and you’d be set, ready to digitally pen the greatest story ever told. Wrong. It appears that I can’t possibly write unless I have the optimal conditions and this includes a room the size of a tennis court, a coffee machine and a chaise longue on which to lie down and muse.

I looked at the shed that Roald Dhal used to write some of his most famous books and stories and thought to myself there is no way that I’d be able to have a set-up like that. It’s small, dirty and probably smells – and there’s no computer. But obviously, it worked for him.

In my mind’s eye, I imagined I would have a ‘home office’, something that I could have at the bottom of the garden. It would be quite big, have a warm wooden floor, heating, plenty of natural light and running water and electricity. There would be a very large desk with a computer, a standing workstation (they’re very effective) and a coffee machine and a mini fridge. That’s the ideal

One wall would have lots of shelves with a broad range of reference books, maps, and archived material. Another wall would have a huge corkboard to put up pictures and images that would help me get the dreaded writer's block behind me.

There would be a couple of rugs scattered about made by local craftspeople (except where my upholstered leather office chair goes as they’re a bugger to move on carpet) and a stereo system to pipe in light music when I was in the mood.

Anyhoo – I do have a home office but it’s not in the garden, it’s in the house and is what is known as a box room, broom cupboard or – cubbyhole. Harry Potter can relate. It’s dark and cramped and I share it with my partner. I am a ‘bare desk’ person. Just a monitor, speakers and keyboard. Maybe a notebook. It has a small desk lamp on it. Everything else is in the drawers or on the shelves of the ridiculously small bookshelf. My partner has a bigger desk next to mine and it has a mountain of crap on it. A mountain. So much so, that the mountain of crap can no longer be contained on her desk and finds its way onto mine. When I complained she dutifully took it off my desk and put it on my chair. The floor around her desk is also piled high with crap. There is a cat in there somewhere too. She says she knows where every single thing that she needs is. I tested her once and lived to regret it because when she couldn’t find it, she reasoned I must have moved the said piece of crap.

We sit 45 degrees to each other so our chairs are constantly hitting each other. If either one of us wants to get up and out of the ‘office’, the other one has to get up and move. Her desk mirrors her life, a chaotic maelstrom that I happen to be caught up in. I like to think that mine reflects my Spartan writer’s soul. Just don’t look in my bedroom wardrobe!

Don’t get me wrong, we work happily together but I am now getting to the point that I think I will just work from a laptop elsewhere in the house and let her take over the cubbyhole, letting the tsunami of crap engulf my desk.

Update: I have commandeered one of the kids' rooms while they’re off gallivanting around Southeast Asia. The view is of the street and I can see old Mr. Jones walking around in his baggy Y-fronts in his front room over the road. He does have curtains (I should know because I put them up for him 2 years ago) but he never closes them.  

I’ve painted the bedroom white and have installed a small leather-topped writing desk, another table sits in a corner where I do craft stuff and I have an Ikea Billy bookcase for my reference books. All the other books are on a pile next to my side of the bed. They’re either ‘to be read’ or ‘already read’ along with a reading tablet and a notebook in case inspiration strikes in the middle of the night. So far, the first page of the notebook has a barely legible scrawl that says ‘cat litter’.

My partner has now moved a mountain of her crap into my writing space and put it on and under the craft table saying that I never did any crafts (that’s not the point!) so this space should not go to waste.

Looking out of our bedroom window I can see the end of the garden and the very sorry-looking garden shed. A germ of an idea begins to grow. What if we tear down the old shed and replace it with another? and fill it with all the garden crap – but next to it would be a second shed which would become my idyll, my inner sanctum, my alone space? I put the idea tentatively to my other half. She doesn’t shoot me down in flames (that’s a first). We both know the oldest one will come back from Southeast Asia at some point, will move back in and demand his room back. He doesn’t have a proper job and at the age of 25, we know that he’ll be living at home until he’s in his 40s or we’re dead, whichever comes first.

She asks me to go and price it all up. I skip off to do the stuff I love, spending hours looking at magnificent garden offices that I can never afford. Anyway, I did all the calculations and factored in getting the old shed out, putting in a bigger concrete base, running an armoured electrical cable and Wi-Fi down there. When it got to £11,000 I stopped. 

Let me know where you write – is it somewhere posh or somewhere humble?

So, I have embarked on the KDP tutorial this week and played around with their sample of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. It seems quite simple, upload your manuscript and it should automatically format it. I just have to play around with fonts, dropped caps, front matter, back matter, table of contents, styles and themes, Easy! Then I just need to decide on the size of the book and the front and back cover, add a blurb, decide on the price and I should be done. Right? Right?

Stay tuned for the last instalment of Djinn and the progress (if any) I have made with KDP.

Do good and be kind!

Simon

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Hello everyone,

I hope you have all been keeping well. Last week I posted (for free) the first half of my short story, Djinn. This week I’m posting the next few chapters.

Chapter 4

One week later they were on their way to Perranporth in Cornwall, their battered 1980 Ford Granada growling in frustration. Nathan and his parents had set off at seven in the morning to avoid traffic jams. An hour later they were in one of the biggest traffic jams of the year on the M25 and his mother was already blaming his dad for the situation. Nathan sat in the back of the car sharing the back seat with plastic bin bags of holiday necessities and a pile of library books on his lap. Mrs Hardy had been sympathetic. Over the last eight months, she had come to know this misunderstood boy and she had delighted in Franklin’s reviews of the books he had read. They shared ideas and opinions and she was genuinely sad for him as she had begun to find out the torment that Franklin went through at home and school.

“Never mind poppet,” she said, using an endearment that she didn’t even use for her husband Mark or Sebastian, her Yorkshire terrier. “I’m sure the time will fly by. Here, I’ve found a couple of books you might like. Try this one; it’s called ‘Eager’ by Helen Fox. A bit different to what you normally read but it’s important to realise that science fiction is as wide as the universe.” She ruffled his bowl cut.

The drive to Cornwall had not gone as planned.

“Sat Navs Derek’, that’s why they’ve been invented, to avoid this sort of cock up.”

Nathans's dad looked straight ahead, gripping the wheel tightly and ground his teeth, “I remember you saying, not so long ago Sarah, that Sat Navs were not to be trusted as we’d end up somewhere like France.”

His mum tutted in annoyance and lit a cigarette, rolling down her window. “Do you always have to take me so literally?” She stared out the window at the stationary traffic. “Bloody hell, I’m dying for a drink.”

To make things worse it had been predicted to be one of the hottest days of the year ― and they had no air conditioning. The trip from London normally took six hours. Six hours of sitting in a tiny car stuffed with their belongings, full of cigarette smoke and listening to alternating periods of silence or hissing static from the radio that never seemed to work. This was followed by long periods of shouting and arguing from his parents. Nathan tried to block it all out by reading a science fiction novel but reading in a moving car made him feel sick. Eight and half hours later they got to Perranporth at three thirty in the afternoon.

The caravan park was as dreadful as Nathan thought it would be. The entrance from the road was partially hidden by undergrowth and a faded and dilapidated sign in blue and yellow welcomed you to ‘Sunny Biddle Haven’ – Where All Your Dreams Come True, it said in a peeling subscript. As they drove through the entrance Nathan thought to himself, ‘Uh Oh, this looks like trouble.’ Rough-looking kids were running around screaming, playing catch and thumping each other ― the girls as well. One particularly large ginger boy, with freckles spotted him as they drove past and sized him up. Nathan recognised the look and just knew that Ginger was going to make his life a misery. The caravan park sat on three acres of fields perched atop a cliff with a rickety wooden fence running along the edge to prevent the holidaying kids from plunging to a certain doom on the rocks and beach below, but this didn’t seem to stop the caravan kids from climbing all over it anyway, despite the bright red signs warning vacationers of a perilous death if they went anywhere near the edge.

The long caravan that Nathan and his family had hired was beige and dark brown on the outside and a 1970s electric orange on the inside. It was basic and had two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen area and a stand-up shower room with a toilet. A small TV sat forlornly against one wall, a bent aerial sat drunkenly on its top and a side window enabled Nathan to note, with some alarm, that the large ginger kid was staying in the caravan opposite. Ginger saw Nathan looking through his window and smiled a slow grin, laced with all sorts of malice. He pointed two fingers at his own eyes and then pointed them at Nathan as if to say ‘I’ll be watching you’.

Nathan’s mother stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed her small dominion and then turned to face her husband as he struggled into the caravan with bulging black rubbish sacks stuffed with their supplies of food and clothing for the week. Nathan definitely heard the clink of a bottle or two in there.

“Jesus Derek, I cannot believe you think that this is luxury. Luxury caravan you said.” His mother put ‘luxury’ in inverted air commas with two fingers of each hand.

Nathan knew that this was going to be a humdinger of an argument by the way his mother’s voice started to rise. His father dumped the bags on the floor as his wife got into full flow.

“Really, you are bloody useless and this is bloody awful. It’s enough to make me want to have a drink!” she said waving her hands about to take in the inferior ordinariness of the interior. “Christ I need a fag n’all.”

“Tough. This is all we could afford. If you cut down on the fags and the booze and got a job we might have been able to afford something a bit better,” replied Nathan’s Dad. “Anyway, we’re here now and we might as well make the most of it. You said you didn’t mind a bit of ‘roughing it’, doing some camping you said. Seriously, this’ll be fine. They’ve got evening entertainment and a swimming pool. Why don’t you have a drink and relax while I do all the unpacking and putting things away? We wouldn’t want you to strain yourself lifting one of these really heavy, massive bags now would we?”

Nathans mum started to go red in the face. “Don’t you start Derek Franklin! You know I’ve got a bad back! Anyway, what about you, you bloody useless ingrate?...” She trailed off, wagging one finger at her husband and then she darted to one of the bags and rummaged around eventually surfacing with a bottle of gin which she held aloft triumphantly. “Too sodding right I’m going to make the most of it. If we’re going to stay in this dump I might as well start early.” With that, she twisted off the cap and took a slug straight from the bottle.

Nathan ducked out and jumped off the stairs of the caravan straight into the formidable stomach of Ginger who was passing by with a football in his hands. Nathan’s actions knocked the ball from Ginger’s hands and Ginger immediately shouted, “Hey! That’s my football you div. Go get it!” His horizontally striped t-shirt added to his wideness while his shorts looked slightly too snug. Ginger stood a foot taller than Nathan and was impressively freckled. Nathan mumbled an apology and went to retrieve the football which had rolled under another caravan into inky shadowed blackness caused by the hot, white light of the sun. As he nervously went under the caravan, worried that any minute it would slip its wooden blocks and come crashing down on him, Ginger kicked him in the backside, hard.

“That’s for knocking my ball away. Now hurry up dork or I’ll have something else waiting for you when you come out.” Nathan scooped the ball out into the sunlight. Ginger picked it up and laughed as Nathan stayed where he was under the caravan and watched the fat, freckled legs walk away. Ginger looked back and called out, “Nice haircut by the way!” Nathan got out from underneath the caravan and brushed himself down. His mother slid open a window in their caravan opposite and bluish cigarette smoke rolled out. Drink in one hand, cigarette in the other she surveyed him coolly. “Really Nathan, can’t you just try and get on with people for once?” Nathan realised she must have witnessed the whole thing. She softened a bit. “Why don’t you go into the town and see what’s about? Get some money off your feckless father and buy something to eat. It might be a while before I sort all this mess out in here,” and she slid the window closed again.

Nathan didn’t reply but thought he’d do anything to get out of there. He skipped around the caravan to find his father sitting in the car, engine off, doors open in the baking heat, sipping a warm can of beer.

“Alright Nate?” He offered the can to Nathan in fatherly companionship. Nathan shook his head and pushed his glasses back up his nose with one finger. “Mum says I have to ask you for some money so I can go into town and buy something to eat.”

His Dad grunted. “Of course, she would. At this rate, she’s going to have a coronary from all the massive amounts of doing bugger all that she does.” Nevertheless, he fished out two pound coins from the dashboard and handed them to Nathan. Nathan thanked him and as he walked off towards the main entrance of the campsite his Dad called out.

“Next time, hit the ginger kid if he gives you a hard time!”

Nathan mumbled under his breath, “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

Chapter 5

The walk into the town centre took fifteen minutes in the boiling high temperatures. Despite being almost five o’clock in the afternoon, waves of shimmering heat danced from the pavement as holiday-makers walked around in flip-flops and brightly coloured shorts. Nathan walked down the narrow main street and caught a glimpse of the sea between two buildings. The water was smooth and flat like molten white metal. Nathan inhaled the tangy brine and caught a subtle whiff of suntan lotion. Shading his eyes with his hand he scanned the shops along the main street. Storefronts bristled with fishing nets, colourful inflatable toys, postcards, towels, buckets and spades. Other shops boasted cream teas or famous Cornish Pasties, and then he espied an old-fashioned-looking ice cream parlour. Blazoned above the doorway a sign shouted ‘Nifty’s Pure Cornish Ice Cream – come get some!’ Nathan didn’t need telling twice. He hurried across the road. Nathan surveyed the flavours. Forty of them! He loved ice cream though he couldn’t remember when he’d last had some, it was that long ago.

Clutching his money in his hand, Nathan stood patiently in the queue and examined all the flavours available on a notice board. He was finally served by a surly man in a white apron splattered with strawberry sauce. He looked like he should be in a butcher's shop. Nathan dithered over which flavour to have, Lemon & Lime Meringue or Peanut Butter Caramel Swirl? Raspberry Double Dip or New York Cheesecake? Licking his lips he decided to have Vanilla Fudge Chip and Strawberry Kiwi Swirl, both flavours in a tub. The unhappy shop assistant piled the ice cream high and then holding the ice cream treat in one hand he stretched the other out and asked for £4.80. Nathan realised with dismay that he didn’t have enough money. Red-faced with embarrassment, he dodged out of the shop and raced the short distance to the beach empty-handed, £2 still in his hand and an empty ice cream pang in his stomach. Disappointed, he trudged across the sand past a rowdy pub and got to the main part of the beach.

The beach was huge, the biggest beach he had ever been to in his life. The sand was fine and yellow, the tide was out and the breaking waves were a thin white line in the distance that seemed miles away. Nathan started walking towards that distant horizon. A cool breeze blew in from the ocean and to his right, Nathan could see people kite surfing. Much further away across the sands, he could see multi-coloured Parafoils dancing and darting up and down. Behind him, large dunes tufted with coarse sea grass rolled away. He estimated the beach had to be at least two miles long. Maybe this holiday wouldn’t be so bad after all. After a few minutes, he realised he looked out of place in his bell-bottomed jeans, dirty trainers and t-shirt. Gaudy coloured windbreaks that were horizontally striped in red, orange, yellow and blue had been hammered into the sand to shield people from the wind as they roasted themselves under the sun’s rays in their bikinis and swim shorts.

Nathan revelled in the soft, hot sand. Squidging it between his toes he glanced up at the sound of predatory white seagulls wheeling and circling like hunter/killer drones from the Killian Nemesis Saga. As he got closer to the surf he could hear the boom of the waves pounding the shore and watched in silent admiration as body-boarders and surfers wiped out in boiling waves of greeny-white foam.

To his left, a cliff wall jutted out over the sea. At its base, a jumble of boulders and rocks, slimed green with seaweed and pimpled with barnacles, sat drying in the sun’s heat. Some of the boulders looked as big as houses, a landscape that wouldn’t have been out of place on another planet. He looked nervously up at the cliff face towering majestically above him. It didn’t look safe; the chalky crumbling walls were a pale yellow, shot through with huge striped bands of brown and orange. At the top of the cliff, he could see a small wooden fence running along the length of it and realised that this was where his caravan park was. He involuntarily checked for bodies at the base of the cliff. He was relieved and disappointed at the same time when he didn’t see any.

He spotted dozens of people picking their way through the rock pools and boulders without a care in the world right under the cliff face. Nathan reasoned that if he was going to die under a massive avalanche of tons of chalky rock then at least he wouldn’t be dying alone. Putting his trainers back on, he stuffed his socks into the pockets of his jeans and eagerly jumped gazelle-like from rock to rock and started to explore. Well, Nathan thought, it was gazelle-like as far as he was concerned but judging from the alarmed looks he was getting from people it probably looked more like a giraffe on a pogo stick.

Further along the base of the cliff, Nathan came to a shallow rock pool that was four feet across and filled to the brim with clear seawater. This small body of water had been marooned and isolated as the tide went out leaving a strong salty smell. Strands of brackish-looking seaweed, dark brown and slimy, sat motionless in the bottom. Lying down at the edge of the pool he became hidden from the rest of the world. His glasses slipped off his nose into the water and he fished them out, putting them into a back pocket.

Alone, the sound of the waves receded and Nathan became one with his new domain. In the cool depths of the pool, he could see tiny shrimps, small crabs and dozens of miniature translucent fish, their presence only given away by the black dots of their eyes. He became transported to an underwater realm populated by giant squid and war-faring denizens of the deep, all ruled over by Neptune, the king of the sea. A rock became a giant blue whale, devouring entire floating cities; seaweed became the tentacles of a vicious black octopus that suddenly battled with the blue whale. The translucent fish became armies of alien submarines unleashing torpedoes of doom on peaceful pods of starfish grazing on marine vegetation. Over there, were dozens of small snail-tanks rolling through sandy battlefields — and throughout all this Nathan was the General, the architect, the God who could build cities at will and destroy them in a blink. He commanded armies and invented alien worlds populated with creatures and beasts on a whim. Nathan didn’t think he’d ever been happier.

A sudden squawk from a seagull brought Nathan back to the present and he jumped up. He was startled to see that the tide was starting to come in to reclaim his borrowed kingdom and that the once-yellow sun was now orange and had dipped a few more degrees towards the horizon. Putting his glasses back on he quickly made his way back to the beach and was further dismayed to see that many of the hordes of people had gone, leaving behind the detritus of a day out at the beach. Worried that he would be in trouble for being late, Nathan hurried back to the caravan park. It was a needless worry; his mother was sunburnt and comatose on a sun-lounger. Dressed in a white T-shirt, bikini bottoms and a floppy straw hat, she lay with mouth open, snoring while the drink she had been holding lay spilt in the grass, contents lost forever. Her legs and arms were a deep, angry pink colour and her nose was practically glowing. Nearby his father, also sunburnt and shirtless, was bent over a small disposable barbecue, sausages and burgers on standby next to it.

Coughing from the smoke, he saw Nathan and came over. “You alright dude? You’ve been gone for hours, it’s almost dinner time.”

“Yes Dad, sorry I’m late. I was down on the beach playing.”

His dad didn’t seem to notice the remark and carried on talking. “Never mind, mercifully, your mother’s been passed out for the last hour or so and didn’t notice you were gone.” His dad glanced at her indifferently, “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” he said to no one in particular. He seemed to notice Nathan again for the first time. “Better get yourself cleaned up and put some cream on the back of your neck, it’s burnt, you silly beggar. I’ll wake sleeping beauty here and we’ll get the nosh on the barbie.” His dad smiled at him. “Guess you and me will have to make this holiday work if we want it to be a holiday eh? It’ll be just like the old days.”

Nathan smiled back, “Yes Dad,” though they had never had a holiday and he thought to himself ‘What old days?’ He went into the caravan and washed and changed. There wasn’t a lot of clothing to choose from as it seemed his mother had only remembered to bring a few of his things so he ended up in a pair of his grey school shorts and a pale blue t-shirt that was a few years old with the faded word DISCO printed large across the front in rainbow coloured lettering.

Chapter 6

At nine o’clock that evening, after Nathan had finished pushing bits of scorched sausage around his plate, his parents announced they were all going to the Fun Palace to ‘have a bit of a boogie’. Nathan protested that he was tired and would rather stay behind and watch TV.

“Rubbish, don’t be such a misery guts Nate, you’re coming with us,” his mum chided, “We’d be awful parents if we left you here on your own.” Nathan didn’t bother to point out the irony.

Reluctantly he stepped out with them into the twilight and they headed towards what Nathan could only see as certain humiliation. As they strolled along other groups and families streamed from their caravans and tents towards the brightly lit mecca that was the Fun Palace. There were whoops and hollers from young men already drunk, screams and squeals from young women who were as equally drunk and yells and shouts from kids playing tag. Nathan felt there was a certain tension in the air, he couldn’t put his finger on it but he imagined that it felt a bit like just before a riot kicked off.

From the outside, the Fun Palace looked anything but fun. It was a large wood and brick building with strings of naked light bulbs running along the edge of the roof giving it a cheap, carnival feel. As they pushed through the door, a wave of sweaty heat and tumultuous noise slammed into them. It was like a reverse Tardis thought Nathan, massive on the outside and tiny on the inside. People sat bunched at small tables and chairs, plastic bowls of crisps and half-drunk bottles of beer and glasses of wine littered the tables. To one side was a bar with a mob of impatient people clamouring for the attention of the sole bartender who, judging from his acne-spotted face, couldn’t have been more than seventeen. To the left was a small stage where an overweight woman in a very tight and shiny electric-pink leotard was singing out of tune to a karaoke song. The speakers struggled to cope and her singing came out scratchy and distorted. Huge sweat marks pooled out from beneath her armpits and breasts.

In front of the stage was a small dance floor that was already over-crowded with four people on it. Nathan’s father shouted, “I’ll get some drinks and snacks; you two find a table!” and he joined the back of the throng trying to get to the bar. Nathan could already see that all the tables and chairs were occupied. His mum started to bounce along to the music that came thundering from the stage as she danced over to a small area where a shelf ran along a wall. Nathan was certain that all eyes were on them and people were sniggering behind their backs but when he sneaked a look no one gave them any mind. Near the toilets, Nathan spotted Ginger and a few of his friends having a go on an arcade machine that had a machine gun. Ginger was pulling the trigger and shouting while his friends egged him on. Luckily Ginger hadn’t seen him yet. Nathan’s Dad arrived with the drinks and pushed aside empty glasses to find space for theirs then realised that he’d forgotten to get some crisps. He pushed his way back through the noise to the bar. Conversation was impossible.

Suddenly the woman in pink finished her song and the music died. The comparative silence was deafening and dancers jigged on the spot waiting for the next song. There was some desultory clapping before a sweating man dressed in a tuxedo jumped on to the stage with a microphone. A purple spotlight gave him a Dracula–like tint. He spread his arms wide to encompass the whole room and beamed a wolfish smile at all the people.

“Good evening Ladies and Gentleman! I’m sure you all enjoyed Rebecca’s rendition of New York New York, so good they had to name it twice. Luckily she didn’t sing it twice.” There was raucous laughter from the crowd. “Now don’t be shy, if you think you can carry a tune, hop on up here and give the ‘ol karaoke some welly!”

Nathan’s mother shrieked, “Me! Me!” and skipped and dodged her way through the tables to the stage. The compere’s eyes widened in alarm and he held the microphone out in front of him like a shield. Nathan’s mother grabbed the mic and panting said, “Hi. My name’s Sarah!”

Under the purple spotlight, her sunburn took on a deep crimson, like raw meat. Nathan’s mother turned to the screen of the karaoke machine, flicked through a list of songs and found one she liked. Within seconds the opening chords to Whitney Huston’s ‘I Will Always Love You,’ pumped out and Nathan’s mum, Sarah, had finally found her niche in life. There were startled looks, spilt drinks and whispered comments behind the backs of hands as the first words were screeched out. Eyes closed, Sarah leant back into the song and ‘gave it some welly’. Nathan hunched his shoulders and tried to make himself smaller, not wanting to be associated with the strange woman on stage who was murdering a famous song. Back at the bar Nathan’s dad was simultaneously laughing and trying to catch his wife’s eye as he mimed a ‘cutting his throat’ gesture to tell her to stop, but it was too late. At last, the song finished and there was another stunned silence. Sarah stood with her eyes closed for a few moments then opened them, a big smile on her face. There was one, slow hand clap from Nathan’s Dad.

Quickly, the MC jumped onto the stage before Nathan’s mum had a chance to sing another one. He grabbed the mic roughly from her hands and said with a forced smile. “Wow, that was really different! Thank you, Sarah, for your interpretation.” He ushered her off the small platform where she made her way back through the parting crowd to Nathan and his father, her eyes shining with triumph. The MC gestured at another man who was hovering over a small mixing deck and CD player.

“Now; we’re going to liven’ things up a bit and fire up the old dance floor with a bit of Abba! You can’t go wrong with a bit of Abba.”

Nathan’s mum snorted with delight, downed her glass of white wine in one go, grabbed her husband’s hand and pulled him towards the dance floor as the first bars of “Waterloo” belted out. Nathan watched as the tiny dance floor rapidly disappeared under gyrating and sweaty bodies. This was as much fun as going to the dentist, he thought.  After five minutes he couldn’t stand it any longer and headed for the door. He was halfway out when a push from behind sent him flying out into the court yard onto his bum.

Ginger stood there sneering down at him with two other boys. Nathan picked up his glasses and got to his feet. He glanced at Ginger, guessing him to be about thirteen.

“Oi, numpty, nice t-shirt, fancy dress is it?” The three boys bayed with laughter. It was now dark outside but the naked light bulbs made it almost like daylight. “Don’t tell me,” said Ginger, “Your mum was so bad at singing that you had to run for your life? That’s why we’re all out here!” and the boys laughed again.

Nathan could feel his face starting to go red. He felt a flash of white-hot anger - but then his shoulders slumped as he realised he was never going to do or say anything, he just wasn’t brave. Sensing easy pickings, Ginger stepped up to Nathan's face and looked down on him. His breath smelt of Coca-Cola and chocolate.

“I thoughts you was a loser the minute I saws ya’. I think you could do with a beating, jus’ for bein’ a loser and for that dodgy haircut.” He stepped back. “C’mon loser, let’s see what you got,” and he raised his fists.

The two other boys started to chant, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Nathan swallowed in fear; his eyes locked on the fists of the fat boy.

Suddenly a girl’s voice rang out, bouncing off the walls of the Fun Palace, “Oi, moron, back off!”

All heads turned to find the source of the additional threat. Behind the boys stood a girl, slim with shoulder-length black hair, her fists on hips. Dressed in jeans, cowboy boots and a red cowboy shirt, she was about the same age as Nathan but slightly taller and wore glasses. She glared at the boys, Ginger in particular. “Go pick on someone your own size, you bully.”

Ginger laughed in mock fright, “Ooh, I’m really scared, what happened, lose your horse?” Ginger’s cohorts chuckled as well.

The girl didn’t seem scared at all, her voice was even and controlled, “Last chance pork chop. I’ve got three brothers and I ain’t scared of you.”

Ginger faltered a second, her coolness wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. But then, under the eyes of his friends, he stepped towards her. The girl took a swift step forward and slapped him hard, open-handed, across the face. There was a crack like a pistol shot. Ginger’s backup boys gasped in shock and Ginger himself bent forward holding two hands to the side of his face that had now gone red. “Hey, what did you do that for!?” he said with a muffled and plaintive cry.

“For being a bully, now hop it before I give you another one,” she said menacingly, fists clenched.

Ginger and his friends backed away and stumbled off towards the caravans. The girl turned to Nathan, “You alright?”

Nathan nodded back in mute surprise. The girl gave Nathan one last look, smiled, then turned and headed off into the night. Still rattled by the close call from Ginger, Nathan went back to his caravan to watch a bit of television on the small TV set before turning in for the night. His thoughts settled briefly on the girl in glasses. No one had ever stood up for him before. She must be touched in the head.

The night air was hot and heavy. Crickets made a frantic chirruping sound and it smelt like rain. Looking up at the sky Nathan couldn’t see any stars; just a deep black and a profound stillness of the air. After getting into bed he was soon asleep. His dream-filled slumber was interrupted by his parents coming back at two in the morning singing at the top of their voices, very drunk. The door to his room banged open as his father checked on him and then there were lots of exaggerated ‘shushing‘ sounds as his parents fell giggling into their room just centimetres away. As Nathan dropped back into his dream world of Cyborgs, dinosaurs and lost cities the last thing he saw was Ginger leering over him, impossibly fat and impossibly tall, like a ginger Godzilla.

Part 3 next week!

MAGA MANIA

I have been following the recent primaries in the race for the next President with some fascination. I’m not a political animal and I would not normally use this platform to talk about politics but, what I will talk about are the human beings involved in this, primarily Trump and Biden. Trump is currently under indictment, he’s firefighting while being investigated, but it is interesting to note that being charged with a crime does not automatically disqualify someone from running for president. The U.S. Constitution has set out the eligibility requirements for the presidency, and being charged with a crime is not explicitly listed as a disqualifying factor. Who knew? Also, his Agenda47 seems to have stirred a hornet’s nest that has ended up in an ‘influencer’ on TikTok accidentally creating an ad campaign promoting all the former president's campaign promise, much to the delight of half the country.

Biden appears to be in the early stages of dementia, he slurs his words, he’s not sure who half the people are that he meets and he falls asleep during meetings…a lot. What I find hard to understand is that in a country of 331 million people, Biden and Trump are the final two candidates? No one else was available? November will be a very interesting time.

Mooches with Pooches

My latest mad idea is a step closer to fruition. I have decided to use the time I walk the hounds to record some of the beautiful walks around the forest I live in. I’m ashamed to say that I don’t know all there is to know about my neck of the woods (pun intended) that is called Epping Forest so I thought it might be fun to find out more and record that process. I will be doing my first test shoot this Monday and that will decide whether I go ahead or not. I’m not photogenic and I cringe when I hear my own voice, so this may all come to nothing.

Amazon KDP

Also, over the next few weeks, I’ll be looking at how Amazon’s KDP want manuscripts to be formatted for printing and e-books for my jungle adventure. I’m also working on the cover and asking myself if there is any mileage in editing it for the umpteenth time. I am poor so I can’t afford a proper editor, though I know that if the book stands any sort of chance of selling then I should get one.

That’s it for this week. Do good and be happy.

Simon

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Today I shall post part of my short story called Djinn. It was originally going to be written for children (ages 6 – 9) but, as you will see, it took a darker turn and I ended up writing it ostensibly for an adult crowd. I liked the idea of children finding a Genie and at first toyed with the idea – what would a child ask for if given 3 wishes? I felt it a bit frivolous to think that they might just ask for an ice cream or a PlayStation when they could have anything they wanted, but they lacked the imagination or experience to come up with something – so I changed the ages of the kids to young teenagers. This story was started (like many of my stories and writing) about 11 years ago and has undergone a few revisions. I put it online (I can’t for the life of me remember where) but it came back with 1 comment that advised me to work on it some more. It is not truly finished because I want to work on the middle portion of the story more, especially the dialogue, but I wanted to put it out there to test the waters.

If anyone wants to comment – positive or negative I’d be really pleased.

The Beginning.

And so it came to pass that King Solomon, the mightiest King in all antiquity, ruler of the lush, forested lands of Israel, discovered that the Alihatan An-Nur had been stolen from the royal treasury. The seven precious jewels formed the Rainbow Bridge of Light linking mortal man to the great Egyptian sun god, Amun Ra in a time when there was peace and harmony among the tribes. King Solomon’s first and main wife, Kemanutthe, daughter of the Pharaoh, Psusennes I and the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, had become jealous of the Alihatan An-Nur believing their beauty to be greater than her own. She commanded Solomon to retrieve the jewels from the sky.

“Surely my husband, the wisest and strongest King can bring me the jewels I desire?” Kemanutthe ran her finger coyly along Solomon’s arm. “The great King of Israel must know a way.”

Solomon’s chest puffed with pride and though wise, he was vain, believing he was above all Gods. He called forward the eight slave Kings of the Djinn and bade them bring him these jewels of light as a gift for his queen. Only seven of the eight Djinn rulers came forward and bowed before their master.

Solomon regarded his servants severely. “My queen desires the Alihatan An-Nur. You shall get them for me.”

The seven Djinn rulers duly sent their angels, the Mal'akh to pluck the jewels from the Bridge of Light. As the jewels of light were taken, a shadow fell across the world and creatures of the night began to spawn forth across the land, but Solomon cared not, for love and lust were a spell cast by his queen, Kemanutthe to blind him.

Kemanutthe’s jealousy remained undiminished and she soon tired of the jewels. She put them in a box, much as a child would soon tire of a toy. Some months later, she discovered the seven jewels were missing from the treasury and she flew into a fiery rage. Again, King Solomon called upon the eight kings of the Djinn, the masters of all angels, the Mal'akh and commanded them to find the thief. But as before, only seven Djinn arrived. They sent their angels to cast about Solomon’s kingdom but after nine days and nights, they were unable to find the thief.

Shortly after, Solomon was visited by Puabi, the Queen of Ur, one of the biggest and richest kingdoms to the northeast. Secretly, she wanted to marry Solomon to increase her empire. She had heard of his misfortune and gifted Solomon a gold ring upon which was set a large, blood-red diamond. The queen told him that the ring had the power to control all the demons of the Earth. At once, Solomon banished the seven Djinn and forsaking his own god, Solomon prayed, using the ancient spell that Puabi gave him and called upon the ring to summon Asmodeus, the king of demons. Asmodeus appeared in boiling black smoke and fire and Solomon bade him find the being responsible for stealing his beloved wife’s jewels.

The dark creature consulted the Hajar al-Haqiqa, the ancient stone of truth, then clapped his clawed hands together and a Djinn appeared in a pillar of flame.

Asmodeus bowed low. “Your thief, oh King of kings,” he hissed.

“Your name?” commanded Solomon.

“Al Kassim, my lord, the eighth king of the Djinn.” Al Kassim calmly bowed too.

“Are you the one who stole the Alihatan An-Nur from my treasury and deprived my queen of such beauty?”

Al Kassim smiled lightly. “The jewels are the light of the world my lord, and should be returned to the sky from whence they came, linking man to Amun Ra, the great. As you have stolen them, so have I returned them. No mortal, whether king, queen or slave should possess them. As a reminder, they shall appear only when it has rained. To make sure they stay there your Highness, your kingdom shall endure drought for one thousand years. The spell of Midbar has already been cast.”

Rage tore through King Solomon. “You dare to go against me, your King? You shall pay for your insolence!”

He commanded Asmodeus to imprison the Djinn in a vessel made from the sands of the desert and bound with gold. The king of demons despised all mortals but bound to the ring, he did as Solomon bade him and tried to cast a spell upon Al Kassim. There was a great battle between the demon king and the eighth Djinn but Asmodeus finally won and placed Al Kassim in a small bottle. Solomon sealed it with his own blood and a wax seal to hold the Djinn captive for all eternity. He then had Asmodeus place a curse upon the Djinn, that he could not be released unless freed by a mortal whose life held no meaning. If such a mortal freed him, then upon his release the Djinn must offer his liberator three desires before he would be free of all debt and burden to his gods. Solomon had the king of demons cast the vessel into the depths of the sea where it would remain hidden forever and forgotten by time.

Solomon then found a great rock to secretly smash the blood-red diamond ring and be free of Asmodeus. As Asmodeus cast the spell of imprisonment and banishment upon Al Kassim, he carefully added another spell written in the ancient tongues, one that would ensure the end of all humankind. As he uttered the last syllable, Solomon brought the great rock down on the ring.

Chapter 1

Nathan Franklin was just an ordinary boy, twelve years old ordinary. He was the sort of boy you might not even give a second glance to, the quiet and unassuming sort. Nathan hated drawing attention to himself because that inevitably led to trouble and no matter what he did, trouble always found him. He sometimes felt like he had a giant arrow sign hanging over him, blinking in red, capital neon letters shouting “HERE HE IS!”

As twelve-year-old boys went, Nathan was short; short enough that he was called names like midget, squirt, short-arse, titch and shrimp – and that was on the good days. He had a haircut that was a disaster, a high-sided pudding-basin cut that went all the way around. It wasn’t fashionable or indeed, had ever been in fashion, but fashion was the last thing on his mother’s mind as she cut his hair for him at home.

When Mrs Franklin got the ‘wobbles’ from the gin and made a mistake, she would resort to using the small mixing bowl from the cupboard next to the sink, She would plonk it on top of his head and cut off whatever hair stuck out. Unfortunately, the bowl had slipped to one side and his hairline was an inch higher above one ear than the other. Nathan’s mother would ‘tut’ as she cut and would finally stand back and squint critically at her handiwork, tongue stuck out in concentration and then sigh,

 “That will have to do,”

But she had saved herself £10 from the barbers which could be used on more important things ― like gin. For Nathan, it was a haircut guaranteed to get him noticed.

What was left of Nathan’s hair was brown; his eyes were brown and he was thin and very pale. To make matters worse, Nathan’s voice was beginning to break, a voice that would betray him at the worst moments, like having to speak up in front of the class or when girls spoke to him. He wore glasses. Not up-to-the-minute designer ones you understand, but thick, black plastic ones, like Buddy Holly. He had been called ‘specky four-eyes’ for so long it no longer bothered him.

Nathan was a target. A perfect target… and the bullies knew it. Of all the kids at Gardeners Secondary School Nathan was the easiest to pick on and to top it off, Nathan Franklin had a nickname - Frankie, which was not short for Franklin, but short for Frankenstein. The bullies didn’t know that Frankenstein was the doctor who created the monster and not the monster itself, but Nathan was pretty sure that if he pointed this out he would regret it. It was small details like this that made Nathan irritated. No, not irritated, but angry, really really angry. His sheer impotency made him angry. The cretins. But it was an impotent rage, a rage that had nowhere to go but inwards.

Nathan lived with his mum and dad in a two-bedroom council house whose frontage was dirty and the plaster render was peeling off. The front drive was covered in weeds and the Franklin’s neighbours on the right were a large from hell. They threw things and would often let their two Pit Bulls do their business in the Franklin’s front garden and delighted in shouting out obscenities at Nathan. Nathan hated raised voices and would hunch his shoulders around his ears protectively and ignore everyone.

“Hey, Frankie!” Shouted the oldest boy next door over the hedge. “’Gis a kiss ya fookin’ pouf!” Frankie ignored the insult and went inside, passing his father who was on his way to work and would be gone for the next 4 weeks.

“Hey champ, how’s life dude?” Frankie’s dad lived permanently in the '70s and called everyone ‘dude’. Frankie mumbled a platitude but his dad was already in the car and turning the engine over. His mother appeared, watching her husband drive away.

“Good riddance.”

Franklin did a lot of thinking. Morbidly fascinated by the news on television, he would watch with horror the wars, robberies, murders and natural disasters that happened every day. He felt with concrete conviction that this was Mother Nature’s way of saying that enough was enough, humans were a pestilence. What Nathan could not fathom were the wars going on around the globe and the children and innocents who died. Though he didn’t know the name of it, he pondered deeply the mystery of man’s inhumanity against man and started to despair.

Despite his ordinariness and his miserable existence, Nathan was not duly unhappy, because he had an escape. He lived in an astounding world populated by dragons, ogres, two-headed Martians, spaceships, lasers and dinosaurs. His escape from life was his head. His head was the cinema screen of his soul where he was Captain Dirk Cromwell, where he daydreamed of being a hero in never-ending quests and battles on far-off planets, battles of a galactic magnitude where he always won, where he was always the hero. Always.

During the last couple of years, Nathan had started to look at other kids around him and after comparing himself he was vaguely aware that he was odd, that he didn’t fit in. There was a nebulous feeling that he should make an effort to be more like them but trying to ‘fit in’ seemed to take a back seat to the pressing urgency of the next adventure in his head, something far more important than anything else going on around him.

Nathan’s school work was just below average. He was the student that the phrase ‘could do better’ was invented for. Even the teachers at Gardeners Secondary School couldn’t help themselves but to pick on Nathan as an example of everything a student shouldn’t be. Nathan was scruffy. Not intentionally so, but it was difficult to take the time to dress yourself when some of the most epic battles in the Diredoom Dominion demanded your full attention, or if your parents had forgotten to wash your clothes or, they hadn’t bought you any socks for months and the ones you had were full of giant holes, or, for example, when the Arganotrox Army needed a leader and Nathan was it… and as for wearing odd socks, Nathan wore odd socks because he simply wasn’t interested in socks. Odd socks worn by your average child nowadays are trendy, it shows them to be edgy and different, and it makes them stand out; on Nathan it just made him stand out. He was constantly nagged to tuck in an errant shirt tail or straighten his tie. His school trousers would often be three inches too short and his shoelaces were always undone.

And then there were the girls. Nathan noticed girls but in a fearful way. They were merciless, standing in groups at the corners of corridors like a frenzy of sharks waiting for an errant sardine. They would fall silent as Nathan approached and then as soon as he hustled past they would snigger and burst out laughing and call out.

“Hey Frankenstein, where’s your boyfriend!” or “Hey Frankie, who cut your hair? Was it your mum with a knife and fork?!”

Emily Dudeck from class 8H was particularly savage. “Oh my GOD! Look at him!” she cried. “Look at those shoes! What happened, did you escape from a circus?!”

Nathan glanced down at his battered shoes where the sole was coming away from the uppers and it would flap as he walked. He had tried rubber bands but that didn’t last long. Now he was using sticky tape and for the moment it was working. Nathan would ignore the bullies as much as he could but this seemed to infuriate them more and they would reserve their full venom for him as he walked to the bus stop to go home after school.

But Nathan was oblivious to it all. He buried his anger deep, so deep that even he wasn’t sure if he was angry any more. He’d clench his fists, fingernails digging into his palms, but he didn’t notice. He figured they would get bored with him soon enough, but the more he ignored the bullies the worse they became, as bullies are wont to do. They wanted to break him. They would trip him up or push him from behind. The Anderson twins made his life unbearable; one would kneel on the ground behind Nathan while the other would push him, sending him toppling over backwards and then one day, Wayne Connolly in Year 9 pulled him behind the chemistry lab and gave Nathan a hiding ― for no good reason other than Nathan was Nathan and had a stupid haircut. Wayne Connolly was big and Nathan was left dazed and sniffling on the concrete, glasses scratched and thrown to one side.

He picked himself up and when people, teachers and students, saw him they offered no sympathy. The teachers told him to clean himself up; he was a disgrace to the school. Fellow students made mock pitying noises and chicken noises and said things like, “Aww, did little diddums fall over?” They didn’t really care, and of course, some of the worst offenders were the other geeky kids in school. They relied on Nathan to get picked on, so they wouldn’t come under the bully’s predatory eye. After all, he was Frankenstein the Dork. And Nathan ignored them all. He dried his tears, wiped his nose on his sleeve and got up and limped off to battle hoards of sinister Storgon lizard beasts on Tyco where the Gardeners Space Academy was under attack and Captain Dirk Cromwell came along in the nick of time and saved the space cadets puny hides and basked in their adulation and praise.

There was nothing he could do but to endure the taunts. He didn’t want to fight. He hated violence, well, real violence. The violence in his mind wasn’t real. He knew that, so it didn’t count. Sometimes he wondered if he could become like Bruce Lee and then everyone would respect him but deep down he knew he didn’t have it in him. In the beginning, he used to wonder why people would be so nasty but then he came to realise that a lot of people were just that way, nasty. Maybe they had bad lives themselves and wanted to take it out on someone else. Maybe they felt weak and ineffectual and wanted to feel strong by bullying someone else. Maybe they were just born cruel. Nathan had often thought long and hard about people being horrible to other people. The news stories showed only the wars over religion, the famines in far-off countries and the constant civil wars where women and children were killed as often as soldiers and civilians. Bullies came from all over the world and seemed to be programmed to prey on the weak and they felt stronger when they were together in groups…and this bothered Nathan a lot.

Chapter 2

When he got home after school his mother gave him an odd look from the sofa where she sat in her dressing gown. She’d had a long day of watching the television and had even had to pop out to the shops to get some more cigarettes; she was exhausted. “Are you okay Nate?” she slurred. She was drunk again, wreathed in horrible-smelling cigarette smoke with the television blaring. His mother chose cheap cigarettes because ‘the bloody Government was taxing us to death ― us, the poor people who could least afford it. It was bloody criminal!’

Nathan just climbed the stairs and said quietly, “Yes mum, I’m okay.”

“How was school?” she called as an afterthought, the sort of thing mums are supposed to ask.

“Great!” he said, with false brightness and a tinge of sarcasm.

Mrs Franklin didn’t even hear the last answer as she poured another gin and tonic, cigarette in hand. She called out up the stairs, “I’ve not had time to make tea today so you’ll have to make do with sandwiches or something when you’re hungry.”

Nathan thought that his mother probably loved him strangely distant way but he felt that she saw him as an inconvenience rather than a child that she could nurture and dote on. Nathan wasn’t hungry because he knew that the only sandwiches he would be allowed to make on his own would be jam or peanut butter because anything else would be too messy and his mother ‘couldn’t be doing with clearing up after him all the time, didn’t he know what a bugger of a day she’d had?’ and he would bet his last light-sabre that there wasn’t any ham or eggs or bacon in the fridge or even the odd pork pie. There was never anything in the fridge, just bottles of tonic water and a large bottle of Gin or Vodka, the only concession to the family’s five-a-day was a dried up lemon and a couple of olives — but there was always plenty of white bread from the supermarket. It was always the ‘saver’ type, the sort that was thin, tasteless and squidgy.

Nathan’s dad, a long distance lorry driver, only came home after ten in the evening but was mostly away weeks on end; a fleeting ghost. He was a slip of a man, short like his son with a hint of smile in the corner of his mouth. On the rare occasions he did see Nathan he would give him an awkward “Howdy” in greeting, like a stranger in the house. He sometimes asked how things were going at school. but more often than not he would be at the kitchen table reading the paper ― even if it was a week old That was his father’s escape. His father once asked “How did that spelling test go the other day?” Franklin shrugged. “Fine, I guess.” He didn’t tell his father that it was 2 weeks ago.

Nathan’s home life had quiet moments, interspersed with his mum’s screaming barrages of drunken abuse and invective at his father, telling him what a useless dad and husband he was. Nathan knew, as only children in difficult households could know, that his dad stayed away as much as possible to avoid winding his Mum up. His dad wanted a quiet life while his mum was frustrated with hers and took it out on Nathan’s father. All the plans they had made as newlyweds had evaporated within a few short years. Over time his Dad had retreated into his work and mostly ignored the shouting from his wife.

Up in his bedroom, Nathan got out his homework and made a start on Maths. His room contained a simple low bed, a table and chair and two shelves that had some old toy figures on them from when he was younger, a time when things were probably better. He would often stare at the figures and try and dredge up memories of a better time, like in the movies where everyone had perfect families – but those memories never came. In one corner was a small wardrobe that had a few clothes in it and buried in the bottom of that wardrobe was his small collection of comics. Nathan was not a brilliant academic but he wasn’t stupid either ― just average. He had stopped asking his parents a long time ago to help him with his homework and he didn’t get much help from his teachers either. His head of year, Mr Lacey, had taken Nathan to one side and told him that he would have to “…just get on with it like everyone else. Didn’t he know that other students genuinely needed help?”

And that’s what Nathan did, he got on with it. Nathan did not have a computer. Everyone at school knew he didn’t have a computer. It wasn’t because he didn’t want one but because his parents said he didn’t need one.

“You don’t need all that computer malarkey, if you want information, you should go to the library,” said his mother, though that didn’t stop her from having the latest smartphone and a computer tablet and going on all the social media sites. Unlike many children that Nathan knew, he liked reading. Nathan loved fantasy and adventure stories. He enjoyed science fiction and stories of derring-do where the hero saves the day and there was always a winner. He longed for a time when he thought that men had been gentlemen and women had been damsels waiting to be rescued from distress or their honour protected or they were there to be saved from huge, ferocious dragons.

Chapter 3

Nathan took his mother’s advice and found his local library and it was a revelation. The library became his sanctuary; his hideaway. He would often go there early on a Saturday morning waiting for the doors to open.

The regular librarian, Mrs Hardy, was a formidable woman in her fifties with perfectly coiffed hair and a pair of thin spectacles that hung on her large bosom from a gold chain. She saw this scrawny boy waiting every Saturday to be let in, eyes averted. Despite her stern demeanour, something about Franklin drew him to her. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t any children of her own. The first day she had seen him she saw him looking shell-shocked in the science fiction section, staring at all the titles.

“Are you looking for anything in particular young man?” she asked quietly looking down the slope of her bosom.

Startled, Franklin pushed his glasses up his nose and mumbled something.

“Speak up boy, I can’t hear you,” she said not unkindly.

“Um…”

She noticed a book in his hand.

“Ah, A Princess of Mars, 1912 edition. Good choice. Edgar Rice Burroughs at his best. John Carter and Barsoom. A good old swash-buckler.”

Franklin studied the cover. A Conan-esque character with a giant sword battled a monster with a scantily clad female in an alien landscape. “Can I borrow this one please?” Franklin held the book to his chest as if the giant librarian would snatch it back from him.

“Of course you can, this is a library,” and then Mrs Hardy did something she had never done before with a child. She showed some kindness. Her features softened and she bent down to Franklin’s level. “You can even borrow up to twelve books at a time.”

Franklin gasped in wide-eyed wonder. And then smiled; a smile that transformed his whole face. Mrs Hardy smiled back.

“Why don’t I help you choose some books - what do you like to read?” And so an unlikely friendship was formed.

From that day forward Franklin was hooked. He loved the smell of the books and he would curl up in one of the window bays and would soon be shiny-eyed with wonder as he read epic science fiction sagas written by Arthur C. Clarke, Brian Aldiss, Robert Heinlein and Ray Bradbury. He revelled in the books by Tolkien, Stephen R Donaldson, CS Lewis and Orson Scott Card. He would stagger home under the weight of the tomes bursting with excitement, knowing that he could be lost for days in the larger-than-life stories, locked safely away in his room.

That evening at nine o’clock, when he was sure that his mother was too sozzled to move off the sofa, sitting in a cloud of cigarette smoke with the TV blaring in front of her, Nathan made his way quietly down the stairs into the kitchen. Keeping the lights off he used what light came through the door from the hallway. He found some bread, peeled two slices from the squidgy packet and then found a plastic tub of baked beans in the cupboard. It was out of date, a fact he knew without looking at the expiry date because all the food in the house was always days, weeks or even months past its ‘use by’ date.

The microwave had broken months ago and he wouldn’t have used it anyway because he didn’t want his mother to hear him banging about in the kitchen and then she would feel she had to come in and make awkward conversation with him. There would be equally awkward silences and eventually she would reel back into the front room and collapse onto the sofa while reaching for a drink and then suddenly start to get angry over some minor thing and start shouting. Sometimes her anger escalated into his mother hitting him, usually a slap around the face, comparing him to his father, or she would get a shoe and hit him with that. She was always sorry afterwards, sometimes crying over what she had done ― and Nathan endured it stoically because he had no choice, and then it became normal.

Nathan peeled the film from the plastic pot and poured the cold baked beans onto his slices of bread on a plate and wolfed them down with his hands, as quickly and quietly as possible. As he put the plate carefully into the already full sink, the kitchen was suddenly flooded with white neon light as his mother came in to get more tonic water. Nathan jumped. It took her a few seconds to realise that her only son was there.

“Oh, Nate, you frightened me! What are you doing creeping around the kitchen in the dark?”

Nathan looked at the floor. “Nothing really, just making some dinner. I didn’t want to waste electricity and give you a big bill.”

His mother stood there swaying gently in her dressing gown, cigarette in one hand; drink in the other, a perplexed look on her face. “Have you been fighting?”

“No,” said Nathan quietly.

            “Well, you’d better get that dirt off your face then.”

Nathan gave a start and put a hand to his cheek under his glasses where he knew it was bruised. Mrs Franklin went over to the fridge and got a small bottle of tonic out and poured it fizzing, into her glass that was already half full of gin and ice. She added some more gin for good measure.

“I have some good news,” she said brightly, only slightly glassy-eyed, “Next week is the start of the summer holidays and your dad has booked us in for a week in a luxury caravan park in Cornwall. You’ll love it. It’s only a five-minute walk to the beach and me and your Dad will have some time for ourselves, try and mend some fences, me an’ him. What do you think?”

Nathan thought he’d rather be roasted slowly over a Cradatian lava pit by Ortoid savages and then fed to their beast-like Vorsatiles. He was floored. A week! Seven excruciatingly long days cooped up in a caravan with his parents, drunk and screaming at each other!

His mother continued. “I thought you’d be pleased,” mistaking his look of horror for happy gratitude.

Part 2 next week!

The Future is Bright – not really.

I bumped into an old friend of mine this week and we went for lunch. He’s a dashing 71-year-old and recently divorced. The divorce has meant that he still has to work but it’s an outdoor job and he is remarkably fit for his age. I thought about this and realised that the way things are going with the cost of living, we’ll all be working until our seventies. The British government want to raise the retirement age to 68 but experts say that realistically it should be raised to 71. The following is from The Guardian newspaper 5^th February 2024:

The retirement age will have to rise to 71 for middle-aged workers across the UK, according to research into the impact of growing life expectancy and falling birthrates on the state pension.

The UK pension age of 66 is set to rise to 67 between May 2026 and March 2028. From 2044, it is expected to rise to 68.

But the research suggests that this is not enough and that anyone born after April 1970 may have to work until they are 71 before claiming their pension.

This age limit may need to be set even higher, say experts, thanks to the high rate of workers exiting the workforce before they reach state pension age, predominantly due to preventable ill health.

In the US NRA, or Normal Retirement Age varies from age 65 to age 67 depending on your year of birth.

In France, they had riots when the pension retirement age was raised from 62 to 64. There is no escaping the fact that anyone born after 1970 is going to be working for longer and paying into their pension for longer – but with the added complication of the rise of the cost of living, their pension sum could be well below the amount needed to live. I have told both my adult children that they have to make sure they save and carefully invest if they want to be comfortable in their retirement.

Climate Change – the real deal.

Climate change is real! I knew that a long time ago. I know there are many people who don’t believe it and just as many who say that it is just a natural global weather cycle that happens every few thousand years. I can understand that but, there is no way that weather has not been affected by human activity, especially the Industrial Revolution in the last 100 years. Many European ski resorts in the last decade have annually had less snow, especially resorts at the 1500-meter mark. Canada has had less snow than usual, while places like California and Nevada are having blizzards now, more snow than they usually get which is closing ski resorts. I can remember being in Switzerland in the early 80s for three years and they were already commenting back then that the snow was getting worse every year. I skied through slush and mud in 1983 in March when the snow should have been 10 feet deep. I’m not a pessimist but I do think that we have genuinely passed the point of no return with climate change. Any efforts now will be too little too late - or is it? Every little helps!

Scouts and Risk

In the UK news recently has been the tragic story of a 16-year-old scout, Ben Leonard, who lost his life in a fall in 2018 on a scout expedition that was inadequately prepared for by the leaders. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-68320590

I’m going to put my tuppence worth in here. I have been a Scout leader for 20+ years and a Forest School leader for five years and we have taken our young scouts away on many adventures, all of them meticulously planned with safety in mind. I have seen first-hand the amazing young adults these scouts have turned into over the years, in no small part, due to Scouts and the taking of risks. I firmly believe that we now have a generation of children raised by a generation of adults who no longer take risks. There are many complicated reasons why, but the main ones are social media and kids not being allowed to play outside.

We have rules in place to say that children are not allowed to climb trees, schools are hog-tied about the play equipment that they can provide, and children are given computers, consoles, phones and Ipads to placate them. All extracurricular activities are heavily monitored and regimented so kids aren’t allowed out to play by themselves. Parents instil a fear of the ‘outside’ in their kids from a young age. I place the blame squarely at the feet of social media and sensationalist new media.

I think kids taking risks is absolutely essential to their physical and mental well-being. I teach children as young as four to use a whittling knife (or vegetable peeler if they’re worried). We use saws, axes, drills and ropes. I encourage children to climb a tree to the height of a human’s head, higher if they’re older. We make rope swings, build and light fires, learn about nature and with my Scouts, we sleep under the stars, we go on hikes, climb mountains, ford rivers and learn to work as a team and discover that we can do things that we never thought possible despite someone saying that it wasn’t allowed.

In the case of Ben, the blame lies with the Scout Association UK because his leaders were not adequately trained or prepared. What a lot of people do not realise is that all Scout leaders are volunteers, usually parents of one of the Scouts. I started this way when my kids joined, and this is where the problem lies…being a volunteer. The Scout movement in the UK has steadily declined in numbers over the years because a) children are spending more time indoors on their electronics and b) the Scout association now makes many training modules compulsory – that many parents/volunteers don’t have time for. I have lost count of the number of times parents and members of the public have asked me how much I get paid to be a Scout leader.

My solution? It’s not popular but I think it is the only way to save the Scout movement, and that is to make it a business. Parents pay to have their children looked after and provided with adventures. Scout leaders become paid members of staff who have to complete a minimum number of training modules complete with continuous development targets. The UK has some amazing Scout centres that are all feeling the financial pinch. Once the Movement becomes a business model they can get support from the government. It’s a ‘no brainer’. There, I’ve burnt my bridge and I’ll no doubt have people wanting to challenge me, but hand on heart I think it could be the change that we need regarding our children.

Anyway, that’s my rant for the week! I shall see you all next Monday with the second part of the short story, Djinn.

Dyb, Dyb, Dob

Simon

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