The next morning dawned bright and clear, with the crispness of May in England.

K was already awake when C woke up. In fact K had not slept all night. The wounds Mrs. Finnegan had inflicted were painful enough, but it was the mental scars that hurt the most.

There were no sounds coming from downstairs. C prayed silently that a V2 had hit the house in the night and taken Mrs. Finnegan with it, leaving them safe. But in her heart she knew that God would never deliver justice with such a crude instrument. No, Mrs. Finnegan’s day of judgement would come. But C prayed that it might be today.

Then, quietly at first, a humming sound approached the house. It was Mrs. Finnegan. She was still alive, after all.

Downstairs the sound of a door slamming shut sent shivers through both girls, as they expected a repeat of the previous night’s brutality. They could hear Mrs. Finnegan pottering about and making noises for what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps she had forgotten they were there.

Footsteps on the stairs. She was climbing them fast. She was coming for them. As C cowered in the bed K took up a position standing over her, protecting her little sister, no matter the cost.

The door opened.

The sight of Mrs. Finnegan chilled K to the bone. She was smiling at the girls, carrying a tray of breakfast.

“Come on now, lazy heads! Time to be up and having breakfast. You have to go to the local school this morning. Here, have this first and then get dressed and come downstairs. Bring the plates and tray back with you.”

Turning without a word, she walked quietly out of the bedroom, humming gently.

It was a trap. It must be. A cruel trick to get the girls to leave the safety of the bedroom.

The humming continued, but it was clearly downstairs, probably in the kitchen. Mrs. F. wasn’t waiting outside the door to get them. She was downstairs.

Trembling, with fear as much as with hunger, the girls reached out for the breakfast. It was a simple meal of a boiled egg each and 1 slice of toast. But to two, frightened and hungry girls it signalled a form of sanctuary. In their hunger the breakfast only lasted a couple of moments.

Cleaning up the crumbs as best they could, the girls collected the plates together and went downstairs. K was in the lead and C followed like a little lamb behind its mother. Neither girl dared speak. Neither girl dared make any noise.

“Bless you girls, that’s saved my old bones another trip up the stairs. Just put the plates over there. I’ll see to them when I get back. Now, let’s get you to the school.”

The rest of the day was a blur of memories. Being paraded in front of one teacher after another, reciting personal details to anyone who asked, each class being another gauntlet run of the jibes of the ‘girls with the funny voices’. But it felt more like normality than the night before and by the end of the day the girls had begun to relax a little.

As they walked back to the farmhouse neither girl spoke. Neither girl wanted to break the silence. To break the silence would be to admit that the previous night had not been a bad dream. But at least it seemed to be over.

The smell of cooking wafted through the door as they walked in, to see Mrs. Finnegan stirring various pots. The shortages of war were not being felt as severely here, as they were at home.

After the meal there was even a pudding, of sorts. A few slices of bread, cooked in milk – a luxury! – with some dried raisins. There was sweetness there, which made the simple meal feel more like a feast. The felling of full stomachs caused the girls to become drowsy and they nodded off on the couch.

……

“So she kept her secret for 40 years, because she thought we’d all be ashamed of her.”

It was hard to take in what I’d just heard. A bit of a shock, really. In so many ways I wish they hadn’t told me. But once the genie is out of the bottle it’s too late.

And it was late. Exhausted by the events of the day I could only stay awake for a little while longer. Sleep came in fits and starts and was interrupted with dreams. Perhaps our dreams are real life and what we think is waking is actually the real dream. Who knows?

What I knew was that my past was unravelling in front of me and re-forming, just like every cheap time-travel movie shows at some point when an event changes the future. Who we are is made up of so many things. But if the fundamental thing alters, can you ever say you’re really you again?

The next morning was just more activity. Why is there so much to do when someone dies? We rarely focus that much time and energy on anyone when they’re alive, but death has a way of making time revolve around them.

Inevitably there were lots of phone calls to make. People to invite to the funeral service, vicars to talk to, funeral arrangements to make. Very professional and sympathetic, funeral directors, but how do you look someone in the eye when selling them a coffin for their dead realative is how you make your living?

The body – what a cold and impersonal phrase – would be in the funeral chapel of rest later that day. We would be able to visit in the late afternoon.

I was the only one who felt at peace visiting her dead body. The others couldn’t face the prospect. S couldn’t even talk about it. But then she’d been the one who’d done all the caring. As a medical professional she had the skills, but it was obvious that it had taken its toll on her. Truth be told we were all glad it wasn’t us who had to do the caring. And S must have been very close to the edge of a nervous breakdown by this time. In fact it’s hard to say that she hadn’t tipped over.

When I visited the chapel of rest to view her body I was slightly apprehensive. Would I be scared? I didn’t know, but I wanted to see her.

Not as bad as I thought, actually. In fact, she looked like she’d just been caught mid-snore while she was sleeping. I only stayed a few minutes, talking to her with the knowledge of what she’d told the others. Her hands were very cold – of course – but I held them, just the same. I think it’s the deathly cold that strikes you about a dead body. It’s a cold beyond cold. An emptiness. I wonder if space feels like that?

When I got back to her house I heard raised voices. Anger was rearing its head.

“What’s going on?”, I asked.

My story was called Alchemy.

I’ve just had another look (and listen) to it today because I’ve been fixing the feed for iTunes podcasts. I updated my version of Podpress a while back and it stopped working properly. Well, I’ve updated it again and it now works beautifully.

In testing it I listened to a couple of the stories I’ve done as audio versions. I must say it’s actually quite enjoyable to make a little podcast, but when I listened to Alchemy I wanted to know more about the story. Frankly, the hook at the end was designed to elicit that response. Well it works on me, at least.

So I’ve decided to continue from where I’ve left off and I’ll post the result as my Friday story post.

At this stage I don’t know where it will take me because – and I’m surprising myself here – I’ve never actually gone back to something I’ve written and done anything with it, whether editing or adding. It should be quite an interesting process for me.

I’ve also had a look at the statistics that Podpress gives you. What’s fascinating to me is that the first podcast I did, several months ago, has been downloaded/listened to in iTunes far more times than it’s been viewed on the blog. The numbers for the other podcasts are rising too, but it’s clear that a little bit of time allows the podcast to be discovered by more people.

We’re still not talking huge numbers, about 468 last time I looked, but that’s a respectable audience even if they never come back for more. And I think having a good title and a good opening line will certainly help with that.

For anyone who has the time and equipment to do it, podcasting might be a very nice way of introducing more people to your blog.

Why me?

What did I do to deserve this?

Of course I blame my parents. It was their fault really. Sometimes life deals you a lousy hand and you just have to go with it. Sometimes your life’s over before you begin, really.

But none of this would have happened if my parents hadn’t done it. It was the biggest mistake of their lives, but they couldn’t see it.

Time’s ticking away and I’m going to have to hurry. That wretched busy journey; it makes me feel sick every time. I hate the way people stare at me. Really hate it.

I loved my parents really. But I knew that all the pain was their fault. They’d raised me that way and even after they divorced moma kept telling me. I just couldn’t help it any longer. It’s funny when I think about it, but they were just trying to do their best. And every day they tried to make me feel better, telling me I was just as good as all the other kids. Why didn’t they tell those other kids? Why tell me? I wasn’t the one causing all the trouble, was I?

Never should have let it get to me and swell up inside me like a raging river. I’m only one woman so how can I change the world? I can’t do it, I tell you.

I’m even arguing with myself to talk me out of it. But I’ve lost the argument. I know I’m going to do it and I can’t stop myself. My parents were right, you see. I am every bit as good as all those other kids. And grown ups.

Maybe if they’d known what was coming they’d have done it anyway. Maybe they’d have taught me to mind my ways more. Maybe. Always maybe. I’m sick of maybe. I can’t live life like this anymore. It’s crushing me. I have to be true to my parents. What they taught me is true and it’s no use denying it out of fear. But just four days ago poor Emmett paid the ultimate price for not being afraid. I’m scared.

I’m scared of doing something, but I’m more scared of doing nothing, I guess. I have to know for once and for all what rights I have as a human being and a citizen of Montgomery, Alabama.

Today I’m going to refuse to move if the white driver tells me to. I’m going to sit where I deserve to sit. Where my parents knew I deserve to sit.

I’m going to tell that man my name and he’s going to hear it.

“My name is Rosa Parks and I’m not moving.”

====
Author’s note: This is my idea of what Rosa Parks might have been thinking on that famous day. I have no idea what really went through Rosa Park’s mind to result in her famous refusal to give up her seat to white passengers, although she’s written of some of the motivation. But when it came to the moment itself, I’ve speculated about her thinking.

Belief in yourself is a blessing, even if it can sometimes seem like a curse if it gets you noticed in ways that are difficult. In the case of Rosa Parks, a young woman changed the world with a single moment of self-belief.

“Blast. We needed him in for this meeting. I’ll have to cover then. What time are we meeting them?”

Such a casual comment barely intersected with the reality that somebody had lost a loved one. Of course, eavesdropping isn’t exactly the most moral of activities, but that never stops me.

Sitting enjoying my lunch I couldn’t have missed what these two were discussing. They were right behind me and – as we say in this part of the world – fond of their own voices.

Very fond.

By now I’d got their measure. Serious minded career men: that’s how they’d like to think of themselves. Shiny suited used car salesmen with limited imagination and even less humanity is how I thought of them.

“Yeah. Cancer, I think. Anyway, that proposal he was working on needs a lot of tidying up, Tim. You up to it?”

“Of course. You can count on me.”

It was hard to listen to this. Somewhere, not a million miles away, some guy was mourning the loss of his father. In one moment his life was changed forever and his work colleagues were measuring that loss in the number of minutes’ extra work they’d have to do.

I did my best to forget about their comments and concentrated on the serious business of chowing down. It didn’t take much concentrating, to be honest. As the two used car dealers – excuse me, businessmen – stood up to go, I felt a wave of relief come over me. Their careless attitude towards human life seemed callous. Never once had they discussed how Geoff might have been feeling. Never once did they express any empathy for the guy.

“I’ll bring the car round, Tim. You wait here. It’s absolutely foul outside. No point both of us being soaked.”

“Right. I’ll take care of the bill then – Bill”

The slightly forced laughter suggested that little joke had been played out many, many times in the past.

I was tucking into dessert when there was an almighty crash outside. There had been a car crash right outside the restaurant.

Ghouls. That’s what people are. Still, I can talk. Carnage and destruction and a crowd appreciating the unfolding drama. I have to admit I was one of the crowd. Ghoulish spectators.

Of course, the accident involved Bill. He’d lost control in the rain and ploughed into a parked truck. Died instantly they say. Wouldn’t have felt much, they say. Notify his family, they say.

Tim just nods wordlessly. He looks shocked.

When he takes out his mobile I feel sorry that he’s going to be the one to deliver the awful news. I imagine that Bill’s wife is a caring wife and a good mother. His children will take it hard. I wonder if they will take time off work?

“Martin? Tim. I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid. Bill’s had a car crash and – well – it’s bad. No. No, he isn’t. He’s dead, Martin.”

I can only imagine how Martin is coping with that news over the phone. The shock will probably make him numb for a few minutes.

“No, of course not. I’ve got all the paperwork with me. Don’t worry; I can cover the presentation with my eyes closed. That account is as good as ours.”

So, not talking to Bill’s relatives then.

“Martin. If it’s not too soon to ask; after I bag this account can we schedule a time to discuss where I go from here? You can count on me. I can handle all of Bill’s accounts. No problem.”

The phone call is interrupted by the police officer who needs a little more information. Tim puts his phone away.

I realize there is nothing more to hear. My own pager is beeping. I’m needed for my next appointment in about a week. I always get plenty of notice. It gives me time to get to know my clients. Learn a little about them. Sometimes even eat with them. Or near them. Eavesdropping is so useful, sometimes.

Watching Tim drive off in a taxi I smile. There are times my job makes me sad. But my next client was going to make me very happy. Very happy indeed. Tim didn’t know it yet, but he was my next client. Unfortunately for him.

Call me an old softie, but as the angel of death I don’t always want to take people. Not always.

But taking Tim would be my pleasure.

===========
Author’s note: I haven’t posted many stories for a long time on here and I thought it was about time I started posting a few more. This particular story started out as a commentary on just how callous people can be when someone dies (the conversation was a real one I overheard).

But I couldn’t work out where to take this and after letting my mind wander I decided to make the narrator the angel of death. Probably because I’ve seen a film recently called Click, which has a shop assistant who turns out to be the angel of death.

When he first told me I’d be taking a trip across the Atlantic, alone, to spend four weeks with relatives I could hardly believe him. I mean, the guy barely let me out of the house alone, he was that scared that I’d come to some harm.

Silly really, that he felt like that. I was 12, not some little kid. Although of course I was a kid, really. I realize that now I’m older. But still, at the time it felt like I was being punished for growing up.

Those four weeks were wonderful. I got to do what I wanted, pretty much. Of course I didn’t equate that freedom with being on holiday: it was being away from dad that gave me that freedom. At least that’s how it felt.

Four weeks of being in charge of your own destiny can really change the way you see things. I knew that when I got back home my relationship with my dad would change. I wouldn’t put up with him telling me what to do anymore. I’d show him who was boss.

Inevitably, the four weeks passed much faster than I wanted and it was time to go home. I felt like I was stepping out of a dream back into reality. And I wanted the dream to last a while longer. Boarding the plane felt so oppressive. I knew I’d be going back to discipline and structure and boredom. God, why did the old man have to be so strict?

Arriving was hard work. All the queuing and waiting. I’d be glad to get home, really, and get into my own bed. The overnight flight had left me very tired and irritable.

Scanning the faces I looked for dad’s tired face. The stewardess wouldn’t leave me until she’d officially handed me over to him and of course she didn’t know what he looked like. So I had to find him. But I couldn’t.

My aunty was there, looking concerned. Didn’t really make a lot of sense, but maybe she’d come down for the ride? Anyway, we walked over and the stewardess and talked to her. They moved away from me to talk, but I didn’t mind. Old women weren’t very interesting. They must have been at least thirty.

The stewardess walked away, looking back at me. She must have had some kind of crush on me because she looked kind of wistful as she moved into the distance. Well, I was kind of grown up for my age.

‘Hi Tom. Your dad couldn’t make it so that’s why I’ve come to collect you.’

Ha! Typical. The guy was always putting work first. He probably had something important to do, like staple a report together. Anyway, at least it meant I didn’t have to see him just yet so there was some justice in the world.

When we got home dad’s car was in the driveway so at least he’d got back from work early enough to see me return.

Inside mum was sitting red-eyed and looking very small. She’d been crying.

‘Tom’, she cried, as she rushed over and hugged me.

Something wasn’t right.

‘Tom. Love. I’m afraid dad was very ill last night. He was rushed into hospital.’

‘Why? What’s happened? Is he ok?’

I didn’t know that I cared that much, but my face felt wet and I realized that tears were running down it.

‘Oh, son. I’m sorry, son. Dad’s gone, love. Dad’s passed.’

I could hardly make out the words through the thick sobbing. I wasn’t quite sure what mum had said. Where had he gone? Had he gone off with another woman?

‘We’ll go see him in a little while. You can see him.’

The enormity of what she’d said began to drift through my brain like a rolling fog in winter. It was a cold, icy presence that moved slowly.

I don’t remember much after that. I was too numb. I know we visited the morgue and I felt his forehead. I’ve never felt such terrible icy cold before. There was a total absence of life, of warmth. It was a dread chill that was shocking in its depth.

The next few days went quickly. I don’t suppose anyone got any proper sleep, but I found it very hard because I was still jetlagged. Strange how quiet the house was without him. I always thought he wasn’t around much, but now he wasn’t there I felt his absence. Literally felt his absence.

I’m sure I was shielded from a lot of the detail. Adults think they have to protect children so much, don’t they? Massive heart attack. I heard that by eavesdropping. Wouldn’t listen. I heard that to my face. Overweight. I knew that from just looking at him. It was easy to piece together what had happened. When you’re grieving you can’t help leaking information. It comes out like little bullets in random sequence. For years he’d been unwell, but still worked the long hours and ate to excess. He was an accident waiting to happen. That’s what I heard them say. How right they were, all that time. And how glad that they were now proved right.

For my own part there was sadness tinged with relief, quite honestly. He wouldn’t be able to run my life now. At least I could make some of my own choices. I was sad he was gone, of course, but that nascent part of me that wanted independence was glad. And of course I suffered tons of guilt for feeling that way. I could never share it with anyone. Can you imagine how they’d have reacted?

It’s only now, 25 years later, that I actually understand. My own son is 12 now. The day he was born I knew just how much my father loved me. And, like my father before me, I’m letting my son visit relatives across the pond. Only this time he’ll be visiting my cousin and her family. And I won’t sit and tell him what a sacrifice it is to send him there. I won’t burden him with the knowledge of how I have to work overtime to pay for the trip. How I have to sell my soul every day to provide for my family. Because that’s what fathers do. He’ll never know how much fear I have in my heart that something might happen to him while I’m not there to protect him.

No, he won’t understand any of those things until he has children of his own. I didn’t.

And I’ll make sure he has a father to come back to. I saw how my father’s lifestyle killed him and I was smart enough not to follow in those footsteps. No danger of a sudden heart attack for me.

When I look into his eyes I can see the same contempt I sometimes reserved for my old man. In my childish arrogance I thought I always knew better. And dad was wise enough and loving enough to let me, sometimes.

My father used to watch his favourite film constantly. It drove me crazy. He loved it, but it was always an irritation to me. There was a line in it, though, that I keep remembering. The father in the film speaks to his wife.

‘One night of tending a sick child of their own will tell them more about love than any words of mine.’

How wise. And true. One night of tending a sick child of your own tells you more about a parent’s love than any words can ever do.

My reverie over, I place the flowers on dad’s grave. I’ve come here every year for the last 12 years to learn about love and fatherhood.

I can never be a better son than I was, but I can be a better father than he was. That’s his true legacy to me.

==========
Author’s note: This isn’t autobiographical, but a couple of elements were inspired by real life events. I certainly understood in the most intuitive way what a father’s love is when my own child was born. That was the first time I truly understood that I would die for – and kill for – another human being. A bit dramatic, that last statement, but I think parents will know what I mean!

13 summers ago – how short a span of time that seems. And yet how remote. But the memory of that summer was as fresh as the grass in the meadow.
Gabrielle had been every boy’s dream in school, so when she agreed to go on a date with me I was in shock. I only suggested a walk in the forest because my family were poor and I had no money. Gabrielle thought it was very romantic. That first time we went she gently slipped her hand into mine. Floating on gossamer I squeezed, gently, and smiled at her.

For six weeks we would visit every day – sometimes spending the whole day together. Gabrielle made my heart soar in a way I could never understand.
I was 12 and Gabrielle was 13, but in many ways I was much wiser than she was. Funny to think that we never even kissed that summer. But then real love has so many other ways to express itself.

It was a difficult thing, seeing the clearing again. The day Gabrielle died I vowed never to come back. But never is such a long time. I was 13 – I thought my heart would never mend.

I place the single rose in the centre of the clearing with my hand-written note.

“Forever, Gabrielle. Forever”

=============
Author’s note

This is my entry for the Clarity of Night contest.

An audio version is available here. I thought it might be interesting to show how I *hear* the written words in my head.

I never thought when I started my journey that I would end up a prisoner. Incarcerated for no reason other than I look different from my captors, who are all dark skinned and malign. My journey began with the hope of an innocent abroad: this was to be my big adventure; my defining moment.

And now I know the truth. It was always a bad idea from the start. I didn’t take the precautions I needed to take. How could I? Nobody could have warned me about this. Shortly after arrival here I was abducted from the safety of my home from home. I don’t know how long I was unconscious, so they could have taken me anywhere. I don’t think they wanted to hurt me, strangely, but I struggled so hard I suppose they had to calm me down somehow.

They probably managed to prevent me injuring myself by…wait, I know about this. This is the Stockholm syndrome. I’m starting to feel sympathy for my captors.

…

It feels like it’s underground, anyway, and there’s a constant hum of some kind of machinery. I’m trying to remember as much as I can for when I’m – if – I’m finally released. I gave up hope of rescue a long time ago. It’s hard to reckon time when you can’t see outside, but I guess I’ve been here a couple of years now. In the early days I wanted to be rescued in a blaze of glory. Then I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. Now, I just want to record as much as I can in case anyone ever gets to read this. Maybe some lessons can be learned.

They’ve tortured me when I couldn’t give them information. It wasn’t physical torture. More like them crawling inside my head. Very clever they are, with their mind games. But I can’t tell them our strategic weak points because I don’t know many and the ones I do will have changed in my absence. Still, they probe.

…

I sense something is different today. There’s an air of anticipation. I allow myself to hope that perhaps today will be a day of release.

…

I was wrong yesterday. There was nothing different about the day – just my futile hope that release might be at hand.

…

Six months since I’ve had the will to write my last entry. I think they know I’m no use to them now. I think they will kill me. They no longer look at me and the gaps between feeding are growing. I’m weak.

…

So, this is it. This alien cell that has been my home for so long – how long has it been now? – is to be vacated today. I sense it in my bones. I feel their presence before I can hear or see them. There is a malevolence that permeates the very air.

…

The blow to my head takes me by surprise and stuns me. But I remain conscious. Conscious of being dragged in an upward direction. I pray that the end will come swiftly and that my writings will be found, one day, by another of my own race.

As the huge doors open I see that my captors are already wearing what look like gas masks. Helmets. Some kind of protective device. Figures. I won’t need one where I’m going.

With a sudden jerk the two holding me throw me through the doors into the exposed and lifeless surface of Mars. I know my time is brief, even as the fire in my lungs spreads. I’ll be dead within two minutes.

…

“I’m afraid there is still no sign of the crashed vehicle, Ladies and Gentlemen of the press.”, said General Curtis.

“After three years, all attempts to locate the Mars-Intrepid 1 have failed. Major Proberty is considered lost, missing in action. He will be remembered as a hero.”

“General, does this mean there will be no more attempts to send a man on a solo mission to Mars?”

“That information is classified. No more questions, please.”

And with the turning off of the lights and the dispersal of the crowd, Major Proberty’s place in history began at once to fade.

In a hangar a few miles away Major Steve Robson began his preparations for his journey to Mars. His solo journey to Mars.

Didn’t know what to think about them, really. All staring towards me. Some of them looked kind, but even with a smile a lot of them caused me anguish. Silly really. It’s not like any one of them is going to get up and hurt me. Why would they? How could they?

Feeling somewhat self-conscious (so preferable to feeling scared), I cleared my throat to address the bullies in the school group. There were only two or three, but that was enough to make life miserable.

“I want you to know what you’ve done. You’ve destroyed another human being. I can’t take it anymore.”

Silence.

Cold smiles made even colder by the lack of human warmth within the shell curling the lips. That’s what they seemed like to me: shells, rather than people. How could they be real people when they had no compassion, or humanity?

“I’m going to end it all now. I can’t live like this anymore.”

Silence.

What can you expect? My friends, such as they were, could never do anything about this. Some of them had suffered worse than I. Strange, really, that so few could bring fear to so many. Even though we had the advantage of numbers we didn’t have the instinct to gang up on another human being. That was our weakness; our downfall.

And after considering long and hard what I could do about this, I had decided the only thing to do was to end it all. Violently. Permanently.

There was no fear left. My decision was made and it was time to end things.

With a steady hand I took the lighter and applied it. The flame sputtered into life and took a few seconds to catch hold. For a brief moment I doubted what I was doing, but now it was too late and the flame was well underway, growing, taking on a life of its own.

“What are you doing, honey?”, my wife asked, as she came into the room.

“I’m burning that blasted school photo. It’s haunted me ever since it was taken. Too many memories of the school bullies.”

“Well, I’m glad you got rid of it at last. It’s been hanging on the wall bugging you for so long. You should have got rid of it ages ago. Look at the mess you’ve made!”

And with that simple act of vandalism I was free of the haunting memory of the schoolyard bullies who had made some of my schooldays so miserable. I had witnessed the funeral pyre of a life that no longer existed. I had risen, from the ashes, like the phoenix, as a new creation with a new job.

Being the new headmaster at my old school wouldn’t seem so bad now.

Note from author:
I wrote this with a fairly flippant ending in mind, but it was inspired by a news story recently of a tragedy in which a young boy who was bullied at school took his own life. He was only 12 years old. A terrible tragedy. But the story and the human tragedy of that were far to heavy to carry over into this short piece.

Bullying at school is a terrible thing and for those of us who didn’t really suffer it, it may be hard to understand just how bad it can be. Well, it’s at least bad enough for one young soul to have taken his life.

Well, over the years I’ve been very fortunate to have done jobs that I would have done for virtually nothing. Indeed, as far as my wife is concerned sometimes I did! Working evenings and weekends just because you like doing something is hard for some people to understand. They don’t always get that a vocation is not the same as a job.

I’ve always earned more money, much more, when I’ve followed my passion. The only times I’ve been badly paid have been in the jobs I hated anyway.

So I’m quite pleased with the results of what I’m doing now. I’m now an internet marketer, selling various stuff online and also doing technical work for a bunch of people. Things like script installations and Wordpress installations. A lot of the stuff is easy to do, but here’s the thing.

I am losing count of how many people know it’s easy to set up a script, but just don’t want to.  They’d rather spend their time doing the things they do enjoy.

To me, the idea of paying someone to install a script for me would just never enter my head. First, because I can do it myself, but perhaps more importantly, because I enjoy doing it.

Luckily, I’ve made some good online friends doing this and they all have different characters. One of the chaps I’ve met is a journalist and a fiction writer so it’s natural that we’ve discussed writing.

We think we have a simple way for fiction writers to put their work out there, via the internet, and perhaps make a little money. For so many writers the recognition of being read is what the work is really about and any money is secondary. Welcome, but secondary. And I’ve read the advice so many times that you should follow your passion and that’s where the money is, that I’m beginning to believe it.

Another thing I’ve noticed for myself is that I always work harder for a client than I do for myself. Not that I’m lazy, I’m far from that. But somehow, giving value to a client always seems more important to me than finding a better way to make some extra money for myself. So one of the best ways for me to learn something is when somebody needs a job done. I’ll move heaven and earth to find out how to do it and give the client a good service.

To my way of thinking that’s win-win. I get to learn and the client gets a great service at a cheap price.

When we open the online bookstore I’ll have to learn fast how to make it work well. And when it works well amateur authors should be able to make a little money from it.

So pretty soon I hope to be enabling amateur authors to sell their work online in an easy way. And you can bet my stuff will be in there too! Even if I have to sit down finally and start doing the writing I’ve been promising myself for so long!

Something happened this morning and I’m going to tell you a tale about it.

It involves a middle aged man, a beautiful woman in a doctor’s surgery and an encounter that was to change the life of one of them forever…

The Kindness of a Stranger.

Oh god, the tedium of waiting for a blood test.

It’s bad enough to be punctured by shiny bits of metal, wielded like ancient sabres by an old battleaxe, but boredom beats me every time.

Tick tock.

8.42 am

Twenty minutes pass by. Tick tock.

8.44 am.

What? Surely it’s been more than two minutes? I can’t bear this.

As I look around, desperately hoping there’ll be something to take my mind off the waiting, I see her walking towards me. I try not to stare, but she’s not aware of me so it’s okay. She reminds me of someone. Someone famous.

Yes! That’s it; Halle Berry. She even has the famous hairstyle from the Bond film. The one where she comes out of the sea, oozing sexuality.

Oh god, she’s looking. I glance away quickly, pretending that I wasn’t staring. I don’t think she’s noticed.

I can only see her back now. I keep hoping she’ll turn around so I can see her face. She is, quite simply, stunning. Everything about her is captivating.

Tick tock.

8.45 am.

Please, if there’s a god in Heaven make it 8.50 am.

She’s looking to the side: I can get a clear view of her profile. She looks lovely even from the side. I realise it’s a bit rude to stare so I tone down my curiousity and look away. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to go up to a stranger and tell them you think they’re lovely. To kill time I imagine what her personal story is. What kind of boyfriend she has (rich, famous and devilishly good-looking) and what her job is. I wonder whether we’d be lovers if we’d met in a different world, where I was 20 years younger.

Tick tock.

8.47 am.

Nearly time. I have to keep an eye on the notice screen to see when I’m called. I don’t want to lose my slot. But then she moves her head to the side again and I stare. She’s not smiling much, but I’ve noticed very few people ever do in the doctor’s waiting rooms. I’m not sure I do. Ah, my name. It’s my turn to be treated like a pin-cushion. I pull myself from my reverie and walk, like a lamb to the slaughter, to the consulation room. It’s only a routine test for cholesterol, but it still intrudes into my day and reminds me that I am, after all, not immortal.

Not immortal. I have a limited life-span. And this far I have done nothing adventurous; nothing out of the ordinary. Just lived that life of quiet desperation to which so many of us are kin.

‘All done. You can go now, but ring up for the results in about a week.’

‘Yes, thank you nurse.’

I wanted to say that I hated being treated like an inanimate object: just one in a long line of inanimate objects. But I didn’t. I was too busy thinking about the beautiful stranger outside.

She was still sitting there, looking stunning. There was something about her expression that made me think of a princess. Haughty, regal, proud.

Tick tock.

8.52 am.

I wanted to reach out and tell her she was stunning, but fear rooted me where I stood. Besides, she must know she has this effect on men. She’d only have to look in her mirror to know that.

What the hell, I’m going to talk to her.

“Excuse me, I don’t normally talk to people like this.”

No reply: just a level gaze directed straight at me. I couldn’t tell whether she was contemptuous, or just plain uninterested.

“I wanted to tell you that I think you are absolutely stunning. You’re a beautiful young woman.”

There was the faintest flicker of emotion in her eyes. I felt my own eyes begin to moisten a little with humiliation, so I beat a retreat as quickly as I could, trying not to look like a fool.

I’ll never forget how she made me feel that day: utterly worthless. The indifference of a stranger made me feel bad.

…

“Come in, Susan. Sit down.”

“Now, how’s your new anti-depression medicing doing? Are you feeling any better?”

Susan took a while to answer. The doctor knew that was normal for her. The serious depression that Susan lived with had twice brought her close to death. Allowing her time to answer was a small thing to do, but it gave her a safe space in which to be.

“Well, yes, I am. I’m feeling quite…happy.”

Difficult words to say. Unusual feelings.

“Good, we’ll stick with this medication then.”

“Oh, the pills don’t make me feel any better. But a man outside just said something to me. No-one’s ever spoken to me like that before. He said I was stunning.”

The rest of the consultation was just a blur. Susan was too busy thinking about the stranger outside.

…

As Susan left the doctor’s office a smile worked its way from her eyes to her mouth. She felt better than she had done in a long time. As she stepped outside into the sunshine she thought to herself, “I’ll never forget how he’s made me feel today: utterly special. The opinion of a stranger has made me feel good.”