Lesson 8 – Nice Fortress

Posted on September 21, 2026 by tonyp

Aarav arrives by bus from Emory Business College at 5:15, enthusiastically enters through the front door and introduces his new girlfriend. “Dad, meet my lovely Dona, spelt with one n.” Dona is college age but dressed like an emo 15-year-old, black clothing, skinny jeans, and deep black eyeliner. I fully expect she’s a rebel at heart with the vocabulary of a street teen. Her hair is straight, black with long bangs that cover her left eye. She brushes her bangs to the side to nod while announcing, “Nice fortress. I’m starving. I can smell food.” I manage to hold a smile. “Nice to meet you Dona. Will you join us? Neha! Two more for dinner.”

Neha enters from the kitchen and isn’t phased, displaying a welcoming smile to the pair. “Hi Dona. Please make yourselves at home, supper in 10 minutes.” Aarov in his business casual attire and Dona in her rebel yell attire, now sitting comfortably on the couch. Pihu, our lap dog, sniffs at Dona, and seems to look disapprovingly at Aarov before he gets picked up and cuddled. I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on her neck, which appears to be a dagger. Suitable, at least I thought. “Where do you call home Dona?” “From out of town, my town is a dump so my parents sent me to business school here”, she explained, then laughing as if it were only half the truth, the rest was not to be shared.

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Epic Fail

Posted on September 17, 2026 by terreyb@aol.com

Lesson NINE

Lewis was restless and was hanging around my desk for a good hour, before he pulled up a chair and caught my attention.

“What do you want, Lew, can it wait?” I begin.

“No, it’s important now. I don’t ask you for favours very often”, he says. I think about it, he is right -I ask way more times than he does.

“Ok mate, what do you need?” I am already looking over his shoulder at the screen of my PC.

Lewis moves slightly, so that I can’t see the screen. Fair play, I concentrate on what he is saying. I am so definitely not going to do that!

“I don’t think I am the right person to ask those things. They are personal! Put the questions in an email.” I blustered.

“That’s a dreadful thing to do.” Blasts Lewis.

I admit that is true, but I definitely cannot ask those questions of a personal nature to a complete stranger.

Sarah has been standing behind me and clearly listening in. She says. “Lew, write them down and put them in an envelope and then Mr Cowardly here can take it to her and ask her to fill it in and then the next top model can write the answers in and you can pretend that nobody else has seen it.”

“That’s it!” shouts Lew and I heave a sigh of relief.

Later, while Lew is working on an article for deadline 9pm for the early morning version of the paper. I approach the front door of the next top model.  Actually, her name is Christina, and it looks as though she washes the paintwork on her door. Top marks from me.

I stand to one side and casually watch the birds on her bird table. Although my senses are attuned to noises coming from behind the door. She is humming, The Skye Boat song.

The door opens and she stands there. 5ft 6ins tall, in casual Fair Isle sweater and jeans, with long natural dark blonde hair falling to her waist.

I stand there, all of the breath knocked out of me. I gesture to my hand, the one that holds the envelope would have been useful. I swop over hands and indicate to the envelope. “Lewis asked me to ask you some questions. I don’t know what’s on there. I haven’t looked at it at all. Honestly.”

I know that I am burbling, but it’s important that she knows that I don’t know what’s in the envelope.

She hides a smile in her hair, not a smirk, but a gentle smile. I wonder if it is for me, then tell myself not to be so silly. The note is from Lewis, not me. Why should she be smiling for me? I’m Mr Cowardly…

She asks me in and she closes the door behind me then ushers me into a warm and bright, tidy kitchen diner. She indicates the chair at the table, closest to me, asks me if I would like a cup of coffee.

I want to say that I want anything she can offer me, but I think that is inappropriate, so I say, yes please, if you are having one. She points to a mug that is steaming and I blush. She pours me a mug of coffee and offers milk and sugar. I accept them and brush her hand as I take the mug. Oh god! I hope that she doesn’t think I did that on purpose. Sleazy, cheesy move. I move backwards and misjudge where my seat is, nearly pouring the coffee over myself. I somehow manage to sit and set the coffee, sugar and milk down without further mishap.

“Impressive juggling,” she says in a low voice. I do not dare to meet her eyes. I sense her picking up a pen and opening the envelope. I prepare to act my socks off and deny all knowledge of its contents.

But she reads the questions and then annotates her answers. I can hear her breath evenly and softly. I can also hear a cat meowing. I feel a paw on my shoulder and turn in time to see a little black cat reaching up to my shoulder, from the back of the chair. I move to make it easier and let it climb on to my neck, where it folds and curls around my collar. Such soft fur and tiny body, I think that I must be favoured, and it then breaks into body shaking purrs. I don’t dare move. I can get the coffee up to my mouth, without disturbing it and I drink slowly, refusing a biscuit, that she holds out to me. She notices the kitty. “Oh goodness, are you ok with that?”

I smile and say, “Fine thanks, I have always had cats, since I was a nine-year-old, determined to be a vet.”

She smiles widely, “What happened, for you to be an editor?”

I answer, feeling a bit self-conscious, “I learnt they had to put pets to sleep and had a month of nightmares. Funnily enough, it was that attitude that persuaded mum to let me have a cat.”

“I bet!” she said.

She stood up, her hair swishing side to side, and reached towards me. I just had time to half pucker up, when I realised that she was taking the cat from me.

I snatched the envelope, now re-stuck with Sellotape and calling thanks for the coffee, I made my escape.

Once I had got into my car, I practised the face I made when she reached out for the cat, to see if it was obvious what I was thinking. I had to admit to myself. It was as bad as I thought. Mr Cowardly becomes Mr Clown. I don’t know if I will ever live that down!

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Home is Not Always My Castle

Posted on September 17, 2026 by terreyb@aol.com

Lesson Twelve

As soon as we turned into the street, I began to recognise it. Then, as we drove slowly enough to read the numbers, I became certain of where we were going. Once we were pulled up outside, I felt that I should have a buzzer and huge red light on top of my head, and a siren screaming what was in it.

“Don’t go in! Don’t go in! Don’t go in!!

But I didn’t have a choice, I had come to meet my boyfriend’s parents, and this was going to be the deal maker, or breaker. I loved my boyfriend and was as eager as he was to start a life together. I had a new job in Cardiff, and he was considering whether he should come with me or not. Both of us knew that it was a risk. He had been in a long-term relationship with his first love since ‘coming out’ and I had been single for about a year before I met Jacob, six months ago.

But if you don’t give it a try, you will never know, my sister had said that morning. She has always been my best advocate, and she usually gave some pretty good advice. (What would she say about the travesty of where I found myself right now?)

I got out of the taxi and paid. Then I squared my shoulders and began to walk up the steps to the front door. The steps had all been carefully repointed and the front lawn was immaculate. A low fence had been erected around the perimeter of the boundary, and the flower beds were immaculately carved out, and packed with perennials and shrubs, with little bedding plants peeping through every gap. Stiff, starchy and regimented. Everything I hate about a garden.

There were three statues on a pond and a small pond with fountain and then on a plinth above, two garden gnomes. I felt sure that they weren’t meant to be ironic, which was a shame. What total suburbia.

At the door, I scuffed my feet on the door mat and rang the bell. There was no reply. I rang again and still no reply. Which was odd, very odd, as I was right on time and Jacob was as obsessed with the courtesy of that as I am.

I peered through the letterbox, it was quite gloomy, despite the lovely sunshine outside.

I heard the whistling of the kettle; somebody was in and would be in the kitchen to stop the kettle and fill the teapot. I hopped off the step and walked around the right-hand side of the house, the manhole cover had been replaced, and the clematis panel had a new backing to it. I reached the kitchen and tapped on the window, knowing that it would be Tilly Grayson there even before she turned round. Her face was a little thinner and no more lined, but she would only be, – ten years older than me, so 45. She nearly dropped the kettle in shock, but I was there before she did herself any damage, taking the two paces and two steps up to the kitchen in next to no time.

“Michael Saunders!” She exclaimed.

“So, you are the Mickey I have been hearing so much about from Jacob. What a small world! And you ended up in Bristol. I wondered what you had done, after here.”

“Tilly, it’s good to see you. Is Jacob here? I have been ringing the doorbell, and nobody was home, it seemed.”

Tilly made a face and said quietly, “Mr Rambert keeps taking the ring doorbell off charge because, well… he says we are being watched inside the house.”

She said no more, but I filled in the gaps. Was he paranoid, or showing signs of dementia? I had to ask myself if it wasn’t the house, then dismissed that as fanciful. Although I had every reason to believe in strange occurrences in certain places.

Torn between questioning Tilly about Jacob and his parents and knowing that I should not be colluding with ‘the help,’ I remained silent and began fiddling with the offcuts of pastry that Tilly was just about to sweep away. A memory struck me. Of making jam tarts with the scraps and gobbling them greedily straight from the oven. Well as quickly as I could get away with, after once scalding my mouth with boiling hot jam.

My staying silent worked, as it always does, as Tilly leapt in to fill the silence.

“I didn’t think to see you back here, Michael, after how we got you out before. You need to know that things haven’t changed and you probably should get out of here now, before you are caught and get into trouble.”

I could feel my face go white. This was not unexpected, with the address to warn me. But I felt the room tilt.

I stuttered “J-Jacob?”

Tilly said, “Get out now. I will meet you in Fratelli’s in 45 minutes, but for the love of god, go!”

She had become frantic. I had to make a decision. And I did.

I pointed, “Back door?” She nodded and I was gone.

I ran until I was sure that I wouldn’t be followed. Then I called my office.

I was a little breathless.

“Fratelli’s in 45 minutes.” I breathed.

“Yes boss, is Jacob with you?”

“No Fiona, he is not.” I could not help the misery in my voice.

“Okay, sir.” And she was gone.

I found myself a spot to watch Fratelli’s and saw Tilly arrive, she had her hair up and was wearing a smart jacket, and was less easy to identify, but my team spotted her and took her with them. I saw her looking around for me, but I was concealed well enough.

I heard, rather than saw, the police car and van turn up at the Avenue, at the house, from my recommendation, they went in through the back door and managed to pickup 11 members of the gang, who would systematically harvest organs of those who found themselves in care.

So many children could be written off for running away, another half dozen per year could be fostered by non-existent people whose details were taken from obituaries further up country and one or two died from accidents, or being too adventurous, or childhood ailments.

 And then graduation ceremonies would be held annually with big names as sponsors and actor/actresses standing in for graduates and unclear photos being affixed to the walls.

Dear Tilly came up trumps, spilling all of her secrets and a lot more besides. Of course, she couldn’t get off Scot free. She had been part of a criminal gang for more than 20 years, but I couldn’t forget the comfort she brought to a ten-year-old boy who was being fostered, before being one of the only graduates for legal adoption and by the Police Chief of Avon and Bristol constabularies, my dad.

.

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Avoidance Tactics

Posted on September 17, 2026 by terreyb@aol.com

Lesson 10

The Jamieson Savings Bank prided themselves on being the ‘bank for the ordinary people’. And the number of ‘ordinary people’s’ Christmas Savings Accounts attested to the truth of that claim.

In the Reidport branch of the JSB (Jamieson Savings Bank) alone, they had almost 2,000 Christmas Savings Accounts. With an average of £800 in each savings account, you can calculate how much money we would be paying out in the span of a couple of weeks – because Christmas Savings account holders wanted all of the money that their members had paid into over the previous year, by the beginning of November, ready to buy things for Christmas

I was totally impressed with how Mr. Yeoman managed to keep to all of his schedules, He had a rigid timetable for who would come in to collect their funds and when. The bank was always packed out at this point, with the usual customers and the nominated persons collecting their money. And of course, the money was all counted up and set aside, in the huge walk in safe, for each account. It was a particularly sociable time, because we saw everyone we had accounts with in the two busiest weeks.

The bank was a little old fashioned and not just in its typical 1970’s appearance. The corporate colours of royal blue and dark grey were set off by the grey practical lino flooring and the teak wooden desks, stools and panelled wooden walls. Light came through the bank of windows at shoulder height, giving us a welcome boost of sunshine to supplement the fluorescent lights above each till.

Of course, the first year I was a very junior bank cashier and not ready to hand over such large sums of money. The two senior cashiers, Gillian and Tracey, worked with the Assistant Bank Manager, quickly, calmly and efficiently.

My hopes of following in their footsteps, was severely jeopardised in the second week of the busiest time of the year.

Gillian and Tracey had been guarding me, with kindness, but warning me off the relationship that had left me tearful after the breakup the previous weekend. My fiancé and I had been unable to agree on a wedding date. My dad’s business was busiest in the summer months, and I wouldn’t go ahead without my dad being there, so there was an impasse.

Neither of us had contacted each other, and although the first week had been hard, it was mega busy, so I was recovering. Gillian, Tracey and I felt that I could be settled into a life without Alexander, as it was a very one-sided relationship, it was thought that I could do better.

I had no idea that my ex-future mother-in-law would venture into my place of work. Unsought, unnecessary and unwelcome. I had never seen her outside of her house, nor out of the pinny she wore in the house.

But as I sat on my stool, at the third till, with Gillian and Tracey in order, on till one and two, I caught a glimpse of Brenda, raising her hand and waving at me. I was stunned. We weren’t allowed to entertain members of family, nor friends in our workplace.

 I must admit I panicked. I dealt with the customer in front of me and then begged the next customer’s pardon, I put up my till closed sign and promptly sat on the floor, out of sight of any customer and hissed at Tracey, on her till. She reluctantly excused herself to her customer and listened to my problem.

Tracey went to the bottom of the stairs and called up to Kay, our part-time member of staff, who came flying down and set up her till, chucking all of my cash and slips into my tin for me to balance it later and taking the next customer. Meanwhile, Gillian spoke to Mr Burnes, the manager, and he agreed that I could use his office for a chat with Brenda.

I was mortified! The whole bank disrupted for my problem. I wanted to turn and run upstairs, or even better, run home and never come back.

I thanked everyone for their help and avoided the gazes of Gillian and Tracey.

But it was with these formidable ladies’ fortitude that I went through Mr Burnes’ office door and let Brenda in from the internal door. She sniffed as she passed me. I closed the door and I sat at the desk, keeping it between us.

She burst into tears, I had never seen her cry, and I think she was surprised herself. I waited for the outburst to stop and then asked her what she was there for. She sobbed afresh and told me how she had never seen Alexander so unhappy and he didn’t come out of his room. He didn’t go to the football at the weekend and had come straight home from work every day since our argument. He wouldn’t even speak to his brothers. Her sobs had become wails at this point, and I was concerned that the customers would hear her.

 I asked if he knew she was coming to see me. If he didn’t, he wasn’t likely to be grateful to her. And then, just as she usually did, she started her answer with “Oh, Alanna, Hazel, Cindy”, and then managed to insert my name into her rambles. Those names are of Alex’s previous girlfriends and their current dog.

I could feel Gillian and Tracey at my back as I stood up and said to her,

“You have had two years to get my name right. I think that you and your son are quite similar. My feelings do not matter to either of you. I would only discuss this with Alex in person, which won’t happen. Thank you for coming to see me. But I won’t be trying to change Alex’s mind. It is over.

 I took my engagement ring off my finger and handed it to her. “I don’t expect that I will see you again.”

Gillian knocked on the door and took over, seeing Brenda out and giving her some tissues. I went to find Mr Burnes, to apologise. He was kind and we didn’t speak of it again.         

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Old Miner Tom

Posted on September 15, 2026 by hilary



Tin baths, that’s what we had in my day,” said Mr Evans pointing at the woollen rug in front of the open fire, “kettle and saucepans of boiled water it took. That was before the coal board had the pithead baths installed?”

Mrs Evans raised her eyes at her husband. “I’m sure young Josie doesn’t want to hear your life story.”

“I don’t mind Mrs Evans; I enjoyed History lessons when I was at school.”

This was an open invitation Tom’s dad needed.

“Excuse Mrs Evans, can you show me the bathroom please?” Josie followed Mrs Evans into the brightly decorated hallway. Josie had noticed the large mirror that illuminated every otherwise dim corner of the overly ornate passageway. Everywhere she looked was a gem patiently waiting to be discovered.

“Use the downstairs cloakroom dear, it’s the second left. It will save you climbing up two flights.”

Josie couldn’t resist a slight touch as she admired the miniature trinkets that lined her path. Must take up most of poor Mrs Evans’ day to keep the hallway spider free.

“Oh, you gave me a start there.” Josie didn’t expect to see Tom’s mother the other side of the bathroom door. Yet there she was straightening her knickknacks and apologising to each of them in turn.

“There, there. No worries.”

“So, s-s-sorry.” But Mrs Evans carried on as oblivious to Josie standing behind her. “Let me give you a hand.”

A rapid response of a hand clutching Josie’s as Tom appeared at her side.

“Found the toilet okay I see”

Back in the dining room Tom’s dad was still rambling on about his days at the pit. “Long shifts there was back then. None of the parttime lark. Up before the chickens we were.” A different breed of man back then, friends for life we are.”

“Yes” Mrs Evans chipped in, as she rejoined them. “Still see them most nights down the club, don’t you dear?”

“Yeah, I will always be thankful to that club, it was a God send during the big strikes of 74 and again in 78. That club put food on our table. t did.”

“The community stood together back then. Like war years, pennies to live on, we had. I could get three meals from a tin of corned beef. “

“Yes mam, so you keep reminding us. Corned beef and gravy, corned beef pie and a little left to stew.”

“Excuse me?” Josie, apologised as she gave feeble grunt into her handkerchief, which was intended to be a cough.

“But always enough for the landlord.” Mrs Evans sat on the fire side chair leaned forward and opened the ash draw, sending a draft of air up through the coals, that sent blue-red flames up the chimney. She then rubbed together her hands and held her open palms in front of the heat.

“Maggie may have ground the miners down but look at us now.” Said Mr Evans offering his wife a plate. “We have a bunker full of coal, and enough money to put corned beef in a sandwich.”





















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Not Another False Alarm

Posted on September 15, 2026 by Sascha Mac


Willenna folded herself onto the huge stuffed armchair that had been her grandfather’s.

She always felt like she was wrapped in his arms when she sat in his old chair. The glass of wine in her hand tipped and a drop of shiraz splashed on her blouse. She knew there was a reason she always wore dark colours.

Pointing the remote at the tele, Willenna flicked to an old episode of Magnum PI. Tom Selleck was such a hottie. She sighed and sipped her wine.

“Woop Woop Woop. Emergency. Evacuate the building. Woop Woop Woop.”

She nearly jumped out of the chair. Oh crap, another false alarm. Bugger it, I’m not going down this time. That’s the third false alarm this week.

Willenna jumped out the chair, on purpose this time, and went out on to the balcony. Peering around the courtyard, she could see through windows that other residents were also ignoring the alarm. Good, she thought, everyone else is fed up too.

Feeling self righteously vindicated, she flopped back into the chair and glugged back a swig of wine, half choking as it went down the wrong way. She coughed and spluttered for a good 5 minutes, tears streaming from her eyes, before she finally caught her breath.

Collapsing back into the chair after her near death experience, Willenna suddenly realised the coughing wasn’t just from drowning in wine. The acrid smell of smoke was drifting in through the open balcony door. There was already smoke enough in the room to bring tears to her eyes. Panic clutched her throat and her mind went blank.

“Woop Woop Woop. Emergency. Evacuate the Building” Of course. Get out!

Smoke was seeping under her front door so she knew better than to open it. She wasn’t totally witless yet.

Dashing out onto the balcony, Willenna leaned out and screeched from the base of her lungs.

“Help, Help, I’m trapped. Help…”

The courtyard was filling with a swirling mist of smoke. People were screaming, and some of her neighbours were leaning over the bannister calling and waving. They’d all thought it was another false alarm too.

“I can hear a siren.” Was she reassuring her neighbours or herself? “The firies will be here any minute.“

Who was she kidding? They probably thought it was a false alarm too, like it always was.

Smoke was stinging her eyes now and she was coughing her lungs up. I’m nearly done for, she thought, slumping to the floor of the balcony.

Minutes later, she found herself hanging upside down over someone’s huge muscular shoulder, an arm wrapped firmly around her legs, as he negotiated a downward climb on a very tall ladder. Panic coursed through every cell of her body. She scrunched her eyes tight, keeping them shut until she felt herself being lowered gently onto the paramedic’s trolley.

An oxygen mask was placed over face, and she gratefully breathed in the pure stuff of life. Blinking away tears, Willenna opened he eyes, to find a bright pair of deep green eyes staring back with worry.

“ Miss, you are one very lucky lady. Don’t ever ignore a fire alarm again.”

“ Thank you, I promise, I won’t.” Sobs slowly wracked her body, as Willenna realised she’d just had two brushes with death, in almost as many minutes.

As her breathing settled, she thought of those deep green eyes. She could see herself drowning in those.



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An Unfamiliar Guest

Posted on September 13, 2026 by terreyb@aol.com

Lesson 8

My wife is dashing around like we had the queen coming, tidying this away, tweaking the flowers, counting the forks, (perhaps she is doing an inventory although it beats me as to why). Julian, our son has invited his new girlfriend around for a meal tonight, and we are meeting her for the first time…

I have said that we should just meet her as ourselves and not the people on their best behaviour, in their Sunday best outfits. Of course, I was shouted down. My wife, Laura saw it as an opportunity to buy a new dress as did Mabel and Elise. They got Julian and I a new shirt each, I was dreading the credit card bill, almost as much as I dreaded today, when we all look and feel like a stiff, stuffed shirt.

I nicked myself shaving – that foil is on its last legs; the replacement is on order. I didn’t get blood on my shirt, that’s a bonus.

Meanwhile, we are all wandering around, not sitting, as the cushions have been plumped, we don’t dare upset their order and position on the sofa. It’s as if we are investigating some crime and we are checking out the room, scared there might be booby traps.

Oh! At last, the doorbell.

Damn and blast, she has brought her mother with her. Ooooh whoa Neddy, I know her. Don’t say anything, ssshh. The daughter is quietly dressed, whereas mother is dressed as if a clown swapped clothes with her in the dark. Floral huge baggy trousers, (harem pants, if you are interested), a tiny striped top, which barely qualifies as a top, it looks more like two hankies sewn together and the highest, most ornate shoes that it is amazing that she can walk in them, (I imagine her daughter didn’t carry her from the car?)

Our son introduces us to June and Jasmine and Jasmine introduces her mother to us. There is no shock of recognition from June, but as we shake hands, she squeezes my hand gently in what can only be described as some kind of acknowledgement. I drop her hand like it is hot.

My wife asks if she would like a drink. Thankfully, June is on her way to a hot date with a yoga instructor, or so she says.

She walks to the door, the many bracelets on her wrists jangling like little Noddy’s head and calling bye over her shoulder. I am so relieved, I sigh/breathe deeply and one of the buttons on my shirt pops off and flies across the room, there is a ting, as it hits the mirror above the fireplace and a small crack appears in the glass.

Nobody moves for a moment, waiting to see if the mirror fractures any further, then an infinitesimal line creeps up and then along, and then up again, until the mirror is divided in half.

Jasmine offers, “Can you stop it with nail varnish?”

Mabel says, “No, silly that’s tights.”

Jasmine looks sheepish, “I just wondered, because mirrors are made of glass, which is organic. As are tights, not glass, I mean, organic.”

Julian takes her hand and tells her it was a great idea and a brilliant comparison. Laura backs him up and Elise and I say nothing.

I am asked to carve the meat and as I quite enjoy doing this, I set up the carving plate and the electric carving knife, carefully so the juices can run down the channels into the pot for adding to the gravy. I am proud of our roast dinners they are legendary. Three different meats, potatoes two ways, and four vegetables.

A small voice pipes up. “I am afraid that I am vegetarian. I hope that doesn’t put you out.” Jasmine winces as she speaks.

I can see Julian frowning and nipping his lower lip with his teeth.

“Not at all,” says Laura, “can you at least eat the potatoes and vegetables? I have a macaroni cheese, if that is acceptable?”

Jasmine is so relieved, she looks tearful, and a little cross with Julian. “Oh yes, Mrs Mott, that would be lovely.” She twittered.

I continue to carve the meat in the kitchen, so as not to disturb the gentle senses of Jasmine the vegetarian.

I am glad of a breather from the tensions in the dining room. I am very much on edge myself, some of my story is not suitable for children’s ears, so I may have to wait until Laura and I are in bed. I don’t know if I can sit on the tinder box that long, without bursting into flames.

I re-enter the dining room and we manage to distribute the meat, lamb, chicken and beef without upsetting those of a weaker disposition. We nearly get to the desert, Elise, wanting more gravy, called up the table, “Chelsea, could you pass me the gravy jug please?”

Everyone sat very still. Elise was looking at Jasmine but using Julian’s previous girlfriend’s name. A deep red blush swept in a wave of embarrassment across Elise’s face. I could see that Laura was just about to step in to save feelings, but she was saved by a carillon of laughter from Jasmine and quickly after, followed by Mabel, then Julian, Laura and Elise herself. I pretended amusement too, but it was not funny. I embarrass easily. Still, at least Jasmine doesn’t take herself too seriously.

The rest of the evening passed without further obvious mishap.

At bedtime, Laura came up to me, while brushing her hair and asked what on earth was I acting like a stuffed shirt for. I had to tell her of the time, on a work team building day, that we were staying next to a leisure centre with saunas, massages and cold baths. Jack and I had gone to have a complementary treatment. We went for massages. June was Jack’s masseuse and while I was having my head, neck and shoulders done, Jack had the full massage in the cubicle next door to mine, and I could hear him having a happy ending.

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Going Into the Basement

Posted on September 13, 2026 by terreyb@aol.com

Lesson Six

Going into the Basement

It is wrong to be scared of the bogie man at my age, but nonetheless, I am petrified. I am 38 and I am scared of nothing but ghosts, and loss and weird combinations of those things. And maybe unexpected snakes, if I know I am going to see them, I am fine.

I can hear you say, so what, why am I telling you this?

I have something to confess. I don’t want to talk about it, but I need to get it out, or it will keep me stuck. Sorry to treat you as a therapist, but I know that you will still be on my side after. I don’t trust many people in that way.

We are converting our garage into a playroom for the children. But that leaves us with a displacement of sorts, the garage is cleared, ready, but we have far too much stuff that we don’t want to get rid of, in case we need it later.

What stuff? Travel cots, roof boxes, baby clothes, highchair, pushchair, car seats of various sizes, outdoor toys, tents. They all cost a lot of money, and I do not want to have to buy it all again…

So, I have to clear out things we don’t really need. I am up for all of that, but I don’t want to go down into the basement. I am scared of being alone down there! Last time, I was overcome by the most dreadful sense of doom, darkness and despair. I felt a huge anger being directed at me with my heart being crushed in my chest. It was several days before I could even feel safe in the house!

Don’t worry, you say. Just a panic attack.

So today I am fully prepared, with my torch, a jumper, collapsed boxes, bin bags and a thumping heart

I negotiate my way down the steps and at the bottom, I reach over to switch on the light. It doesn’t work. I toil back up the steps, to the circuit breakers and sort it. Light floods the basement and I feel invincible.

Braced, I walk across and take hold of a box of my school stuff. It means nothing, so I take out a couple of bits and ditch the remainder of the contents of the two boxes into rubbish sacks.

I manage to get through eight or nine boxes like that. And then I get to the first of my dancing memorabilia. Immediately, she is there, slim, long limbed and graceful. Her expression serene and her hair perfectly swept into a bun at the nape of her neck. I pull out the cassette recorder and the case of cassettes. Turning them on to play, I hum along and imagine the exercises that went with them, hands and arms waving in the air in time with the music. Next is a pile of photographs and certificates.  Not needed on my journey – in the bin. In the next box is a leotard and a pair of pointe shoes. I slip them on, with my jumper on top. The music changes and I feel my heart lift as I follow the chain of steps that accompany them.

And suddenly there are three of us. Not just me and my younger self, but also Cathryn, with her exquisite arabesques and classical head positions. I am a little stunned that she is with me, but she seems quite at ease.  I feel her touch, gentle on my shoulder as she picks up the steps and direction of movement. The years since we have danced together, slip away and we blend our styles to match, just as we had then, “ensemble means as one” I say through my breath and she smiles at me in her cat eyed, wide mouthed way, full of charm.

Together we dance entrechats, raises on one leg and then swoop, with our back leg straight and arms continuing the deep, dipping bow. Into turns, leaps and small stepping motions and then whipping our legs swiftly and crisply, turning on the spot in pirouettes, exciting and fast, turning and turning. And suddenly there is Olga, much younger than I remember her, toes no longer twisted and painful, but with all the grace that she would have had in her youth. Her arms are gentle, soft and filled the music in a sophisticated, smooth, beautiful extension of her hands and fingers. I have never seen her dance like this. She has always been a dancer in my imagination, but really an old lady, with misshapen feet. Now we match our steps, side by side, then in a line, smiling in joyous excitement at dancing with each other.

The music cassette snaps off, breaking the mood. I scoot across to change it and am surprised that the others have not stopped dancing. I watch them and feel surging up in me again, all of the angst and hurt that I felt when I had to stop running my dance school, and when I gave up my own dancing. Then I push into the small group and continue with my solo part. I put all of my sadness and pain into it, ending with a tearful flourish and bring the other dancers into the finale, as we all sink into our end positions.

I smile across at Olga, then Cathryn, then at my younger self holding their gazes and conveying the permanence of this memory. I mouth, ‘I remember’ and as one, they speak, “I remember”.  

There is a silence at the end of the music. I realised that this time I had been accompanied by ghosts of love and such happiness. Although Cathryn? I did not know she had died.

I was feeling a huge sense of relief that the bad vibe I had before was no longer there. Perhaps we exorcised it?

Three days later, I got two cards, one to tell me that Olga had died, (of old age, at 93). And the other to tell me of Cathryn’s passing, (in a car accident, at the age of 37.)

But it didn’t stop them dancing.

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Normality Disrupted

Posted on September 13, 2026 by cliffyzman

It’s Saturday night, no task analysis for the weekend. At precisely 6 pm, he washes his hands for 30 seconds: three squirts of soap, medium water flow, dried with a bleached white towel…off to his gaming room, routine in place.

Ulysses crouches over his desk, anticipating another gaming marathon night. Gaming chair perfectly adjusted; headset slightly pinching the earlobes; Monster drink sits at exactly a 45-degree angle to his laptop. A bowl of Fritos Corn Chips, seven shakes of extra salt, filled to the container’s lip. 50 chips: no more, no less.

Opens up Minecraft, hums along to his favorite artist, Tom Petty, now playing over the Bluetooth speakers. He takes one sip of his drink and munches exactly three unbroken chips when…a text vibrates his cell. It’s best friend China:

“Uly…the open mic at the teen center has a 15-minute slot available. I got a band together–we got three weeks to practice, right before school starts. Please, please, please join us as lead singer. We’ll cover all those Petty songs. We’d be Free Fallin’ without you.”

Two more sips, six more chips devoured. Uly rocks in place, remembering the last and only time he sang in public…

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Lesson 1 – Normality Disrupted

Posted on September 11, 2026 by andrea.l.anderson18@outlook.com
Olivia nestled into the chair, glad at last to take the weight off her feet. Balancing the plate of nibbles on her pyjama clad knee, she reached for the remote and prepared to indulge herself in her regular Saturday night routine.
After a busy day on her feet in the local bakery shop, she relished her Saturday evenings. No early get up tomorrow, a luscious long lie-in and therefore a night when she did not have to watch the clock to ensure she got her required beauty sleep.

Clicking on the remote, the screen blinked into life and she deftly manoeuvered her way to her recordings. Time to catch up with a few old favourites. Oh how she loved her Saturday nights in.

Curtains closed, lamps lit, the candle on the fireplace flickering shadows up the chimney breast, Olivia breathed in deeply.

As the familiar theme tune to her weekly medical drama filled her cosy lounge, she was oblivious to the many blue flashing lights dashing along the road. A real medical drama was unfolding only metres away. As she munched on her cheesy bites and sipped on a glass of red wine, she immersed herself in this weeks storyline. Collapsing scaffolding outside a supermarket was ensuring that the local accident and emergency team were kept on their toes, as stores unfurled about the shoppers and supermarket staff, the ups and downs in the lives of the hospital staff continued too. Always gripping she had watched it from the very first episode. It dealt well with topical subjects within its punchy scripts, and the hardworking staff felt like friends, she had known them so long.

A knock on the door startled her. Pausing the TV she listened before moving from her cocoon. Living alone, she did not like unexpected callers. Pulling the curtain back in an attempt to view the doorstep she was alarmed to see the whole street filled with flashing blue lights. Pulling her dressing gown straight and tightening the cord, she moved swiftly to the door.

A young police woman was stood before her, holding her identity badge before her. “so sorry to disturb you but we have a major incident on our hands and wondered if you could assist with hot drinks and maybe some blankets. We have numerous walking wounded and could do with a few more hands to help out.

Olivia agreed at once, throwing off her dressing gown and covering her pyjamas with a fleecy jacket, she set to work boiling the kettle and dashing upstairs for the throw that lived on the spare bed. In a instant she felt like she had been thrown into an episode of the favourite medical drama, and she was glad to help.
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