A Bloodless Revolution?

1-Light Fantastic_005_Llanddwyn Island Lighthouse_16x9Flickr-001From Melanie:

It was never my intention to start a revolution – it simply wasn’t my style.  My parents were Alphas and the Betas were just, well there! We  accepted their ministrations as normal. In fact, although we were taught as children to be polite to those who served us, we really did not consider them as anything other than slaves, which in fact, was their destiny.  It was only when I was older that I experienced an incident that made me aware they were human beings and not entirely without feelings.  Our household, although it only consisted of two adults and two children, required at least ten Betas to enable us to eat, wear clean clothing and live a life free from domestic trivia.

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It was a peaceful Sunday morning at St Cuthbert’s until the quiet contemplation of the ageing clerics was fractured by  bloodcurdling screams of anguish followed by a shriek of shocked outrage from Sister Angela Elizabeth. The Reverend John Norris raised an eyebrow as he addressed the room:

“Gregory again do you suppose? ”

Their Reverends lowered their Sunday papers and those who were able made all haste in the direction whence the sounds emanated. Ivan Gregory had form: and to be fair, the elderly clerics were grateful for a little excitement in their somewhat predictable routine.

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Christmas Eve

“When it is peace, then we may view again
With new won eyes each other’s truer form
And wonder. Grown more loving kind and warm
We’ll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,
When it is peace. But until peace, the storm,
The darkness and the thunder and the rain.”

C Hamilton Sorley


Charles arrived at last as the soup was served. He brought the chill of the night with him and appeared travel weary and near the limit of endurance. He crossed the room towards her and stopped. Lavinia stood, rooted to the spot, as he apologised to her and the guests and requested her immediate presence in the library.

At the Grange, just down the road, Christmas was different this year – it was the War! Mary shook out her curls in front of the mirror and waited for Jenny her maid to arrange then in a glossy pile on top of her head, as she frantically rubbed cream onto her chapped hands. She spent most of the time in the stables these days looking after the few remaining horses. It broke her heart to see the empty stalls and she’d wept for days after most of the horses were taken away. Then her brother went to the front: the war again – she was heartily tired of it all, and sick with worry. Where was Jenny? She rang the bell again, and remembered that Jenny was helping her mother dress. She picked up the brush and hairpins and made a start. A this rate she would be late for her first grown up dinner at the Hall. She wandered downstairs having done her best. Her mother stood in the hall with an officer in uniform. Continue Reading »

Some of my readers may remember the Ballad of Brave Monty Mouse from the early days of My Telegraph. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this small rodent, well done! But he does amuse small children and even some of their parents,  so thank you, Monty for being the inspiration for this story.


Aloft at night, and on the prowl,
Softly glides this wise old owl.
The mice stay quivering in the corn,
How can they feed before the dawn?

A brilliant Harvest moon shone bright over fields of ripening grains waiting to be safely gathered in. To the small harvest mice, their small tummies distended with the results of their foraging, replete and snug in their nest, it was also a time of danger. But not tonight. They sensed the faint whisper of wings as the owl glided low over the ripe grains but with such a bountiful harvest they did not need to feed just yet. They slept contented but only Monty, their brave leader, contemplated the dangers ahead.

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Fred from an early age always had what his parents described as an unhealthy interest in philosophy. His life-long interest in subjects which have engaged mankind since time immemorial began with a weekly serialised story on the wireless. No one in the family could remember exactly what it was about but the penultimate episode ended at the point when one of the characters was about to reveal the secret of eternal life. Fred couldn’t wait. He thought of nothing else, and his attention to lessons at school that week was even more abysmal than usual.

So it was with a rising excitement his parents didn’t seem to share, Fred settled down in the front room at least ten minutes to six to listen to the denouement. At precisely two minutes to six the lights went out and the whole house was plunged into darkness.

Fred often thought back to this moment and wondered.

He left school with few qualifications and his job filling shelves in the local supermarket left his mind quite free to ponder further for about six hours during the average working day. Why are we here was a favourite subject. Fred didn’t mean why I am stacking shelves in this precise location but he supposed that was part of it. What am I doing with my life and is there life after death? Good versus evil and is heaven real? None of his fellow employees could answer these questions with any degree of certainty but it didn’t stop Fred searching. So he tried religion.

Each Sunday he visited a different church in his locality seeking enlightenment. More food for thought, no real answers, but he enjoyed the singing. Fred did glean that maybe immortality involved not living in his earthly body forever, but it was maybe a reward for living a good life. Fred’s moral compass adjusted by his parents from an early age was firmly pointing in the right direction so perhaps just needed a bit of tweaking. Good works became his reason d’etre. He became a champion of just causes, paying particular attention to the elderly, sick and the lonely.

Now this preoccupation with philosophy, and good works purportedly ceased the moment he met Gloria.

Fred’s moral compass from this moment on began slowly by degrees to rotate on its axis and point in a different but deadly direction. According to those who knew and loved him, his family that is, and because philosophers rarely have to time to form meaningful relationships, Fred fell in lust. She was, as his mother described her, a blousy bottle blonde tart with the morals of an alley cat.

It was blisteringly hot day in August when Fred was re-stocking the freezer cabinet that Gloria appeared. Tottering on ridiculously high heeled, strappy sandals, she lent over, displaying an impressive decolletage as she grabbed a some fish fingers, a box of six chocolate eclairs and four salami pizzas. He watched her as she threw them into her trolley and proceeded to the checkout, only stopping briefly en route to add three packs of lager.

Now at this point, I feel I must confess as a junior Guardian, I was accused of seriously underestimating the Evil that was Gloria. Well, it was the “swinging sixties”, and we were over-stretched. Fred was on my list but we were all overwhelmed. It wasn’t possible to assign a Guardian to every human being, so some sort of triage system was in operation. Fred was not high priority. Of course, hind-sight is a wonderful thing. I make no excuses, but I’d like to explain.

We as Guardians had targets. In this decade, the powers on high declared the world needed more philosophers. We had too many scientists and the balance needed to be tipped the other way. I was ambitious and Fred was my chance of promotion. Looking back, there were all the signs that had I looked more closely at his intellectual powers, or lack of them, it was unlikely he was going to develop into another Thomas Aquinas. But I didn’t and he seemed to be heading in the right direction until Gloria appeared on the scene.

At the subsequent disciplinary hearing, chaired by one of the senior Dominions, I gave the panel my assessment of Gloria, a barmaid in one of the local pubs. Yes, she was promiscuous, a manipulator of the opposite sex, but hardly the devil incarnate. Fred, I argued, could make an honest woman of her, thereby avoiding the cardinal sin of lust. It was the sixties, I pointed out and lust, after all was a fairly outdated concept. This did not go down well, and I was made aware of this by a long tirade on moral relativism and the dangers thereof. I was cleared of the ultimate cardinal sin of Pride, evidenced they claimed by my ambition, mistaken belief in my own judgement and my failure to consult any higher authority. I was, however, judged guilty of Sloth.

I was demoted of course and after interminable re-training courses I was thoroughly bored. It looked unlikely that I would ever be allowed to resume any Guardianship duties and heaven seemed a remote possibility with my record. I resigned, and was sent down.

I have to admit it was much more fun working for the opposition and career prospects were much improved although there was a certain amount of competition for the top jobs, but this was encouraged, and with my no holds barred attitude, I made rapid progress through the ranks.

After few decades of encouraging mankind to descend into the very depths of depravity, I began to long for the light again. I started to question my commitment to the opposition. There was more resistance to temptation than I had imagined when I reported to the Dominions, when despite everything, we always believed that good would always eventually triumph over evil. Was I on the wrong team? This prompted me to recall Fred and Gloria, although I must confess I had never bothered to find out what had become of them.

Fred must have been in his forties by now and I chanced upon him preparing his sermon in the rectory study. In the kitchen, Gloria was almost unrecognisable with glossy brown hair, elegantly but modestly dressed, preparing the vegetables for Sunday lunch. Shifting my gaze to his desk I checked out the family photos. Two little girls, who appeared to take after their mother. One was of a christening with Fred, Gloria and Fred’s parents looking as pleased as punch. You know, I felt proud of this couple, and to make my day, I discovered a book on a shelf entitled “Why Philosophy Matters” with Fred’s name on the spine. He was still young enough that one day he could make a name for himself, and change things for the better. A brief reality check, as I realised that I should be making plans to destroy this possibility and set this family on the road to destruction!

Well, it wasn’t a difficult decision. I checked the records and with a sigh of relief I discovered that Fred and Gloria were not on our list. They had been tempted, but resisted. No further attempts had been scheduled. My original assessment of the situation had been vindicated. My Guardianship of Fred had contributed to his spiritual development, and “evil” Gloria was shaping up nicely as a credible rector’s wife. How I wished I have checked up on them years ago, but pressure of work……

So should I apply to be re-instated to my old job? I was right and they were wrong, although pointing this out may not be the best way of going about it. Perhaps a little humility may be in order. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Good question, I’ll bypass the underlings and send him my undated CV.

Nil desperandum.

The Persistence of Memory



It was some years ago when she first viewed it but the painting had lodged uncomfortably in her subconscious and surfaced from time to time. These days it persistently remained in her conscious mind more and more frequently. It was partly because she could only rarely remember when or where she had viewed the original. But it was the melting pocket watches that disturbed her most, and the starkness of the setting chilled and unsettled her.

Perhaps the images had warned her of what was to come, or more likely her reaction to the picture was a recognition that the changes although unacknowledged were already starting. In her mind time had shifted, her focus on the past was clearer, but day to day was hazy and ill defined as though she was viewing the present through a gauze like veil. When she tried to recall recent events she felt like physically shaking her head to clear her vision as if the previous days happenings would fall in some sort of order on the table top in front her. She was frustrated with the need to fill in the blanks but sometimes her memory was wilfully erratic.

Sophie shifted uncomfortably in her chair, wearily grabbed her jacket, picked up the lead from the hook in the kitchen and set out with with Rusty for their morning walk.

Months later, she remembered that morning with a startling clarity. The feel of the chill October air on her cheeks and the crackle of the leaves underneath her boots. She felt refreshed and filled with energy and the familiar sight of Rusty’s wagging tail ahead, but always checking back to make sure she was keeping up. When she came home she phoned for an appointment. She needed to confirm what she had suspected for some time.

Of course she cancelled the appointment and and wandered aimlessly around the house, plumping the cushions, picking up photographs of the family and studying them as if to trying to fix the images in her mind. The place felt empty and unfamiliar although she had lived here all her married life. Rusty trailed behind her following her every move and leaning against her leg whenever she stopped. She ended up in the bedroom and Rusty paused at the door, knowing he was not allowed to cross the threshold. She knelt beside the bed and he approached her slowly. She held out her arms to him and sobbed. Once she had started she couldn’t stop, so she cried her heart out and told Rusty her fears. The loneliness, the fear of dementia, the utter devastation she felt at the loss of her husband. Sophie had felt numb since the funeral, trying to comfort her grown up children but unable to express the suppressed anger, fear and terror she felt. Rusty whined softly occasionally, but listened patiently until exhausted, she fell asleep beside him on the floor.

When she awoke, Sophie remembered the trip to New York, the last trip abroad with her husband, where they had viewed the painting by Salvador Dali. She even remembered the name- The Persistence of Memory. It was later on that day that David at last brought himself to face the possibility that his memory was failing. They coped together and it was only three years later that he died after a massive stroke. They were good years, she realised now, and through David they had both relived the early days of their marriage, and the children. She took care of the present and with David they revisited the past.

Feeling so much better, Sophie went downstairs, grabbed her jacket, picked up the lead from the hook in the kitchen and set out with Rusty for their morning walk. The dog was delighted and tactfully said nothing about his missing lunch.





My entry for this month is a work of fiction, although I did spend an unforgettable summer on Sark after finishing my finals. Like Charlotte, I have never returned – it just would never be the same, but I have visited the Channel Islands several times since, and caught a hazy glimpse of this most magical island. The house where I stayed has been turned into a guest house. It’s a shame it was a lovely family home. 


In her earlier years she wasn’t conscious of making any choices. She was a privileged daughter of privileged parents. She had absorbed their ideas of success and happiness, worked hard to please them and never questioned that they had anything but her best interests at heart. Charlotte did not disappoint. Academically able she enjoyed school, and then university. Her friends did the same: all confident and the product of an expensive private education they knew what they wanted and worked towards acquiring good degrees with dogged determination. Her only relaxation was her early morning workout on the river. Alone in her skiff she felt connected and alive, her rhythm was sure and steady, her movements co-ordinated and satisfying as she sculled. Her senses alive to the beauty of the early morning mist and the perfect solitude.

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