Pulling Myself Together

Digital World, Analogue Brain

If you've read my previous ramblings, it will probably come as no surprise to learn that when it comes to advances in technology I'm a bit of a luddite. Nothing against the march of progress per se. Not at all. Thanks to the internet I've now got an infinite number of ways to go off at tangents and waste my time, whereas previously I had to think a bit in order to idle my hours away. And the invention of email has spared me that little frisson of trepidation I used to get when I saw an unsolicited letter occasionally lying on the doormat. Who needs excitement at my age. No, my main objection to the almost total domination of the digital age these days is that it's... well, just all too easy. Want a book? A couple of clicks of a mouse and you're away, downloaded to your slim ereader. A music track? On your music player in seconds. Information on how to put up a shed? Well that just yeilded about 38 million results when I just took the easy way out and googled it.

I'm as guilty as the next person (or shed builder) of course. I use a mobile phone and computer and sitting in my armchair and letting everything come to me via some deft key presses is an attractive proposition. But is it good for me? Well it's not good for my waistline or fitness levels, that's for certain. There was a time when serendipity was just around the corner on every shopping venture outside. Searching through record shops for a certain  LP or cassette, or a dusty old bookshop looking for...well that was the point. You could come across almost anything. And physical books are just so multi-faceted. When you've finished reading them, they can come in handy propping up that wobbly table leg or pressing that flower your loved one presented you with on your anniversary. Try doing that with an ebook.

Anyway, before I start twitching and shouting 'Eee, when I wer a lad,' it's probably best to move on. 

I have published a collection of Five Tales of Unease called 'Dark and Deep'. Being the dutiful husband I am, I dedicated it to my wife. She read one story, said that it kept her awake and I've noticed the book has mysteriously disappeared from her bedside cabinet. Charming.

Anyway, here's an excerpt from the one that kept my good lady wife up all night. It's called 'Echoes'.

 

ECHOES

 

Slate-grey skies stretched down to meet a stormy sea of similar colour. The coastal path was deserted, save for a lone figure muffled up against the elements progressing slowly along its course, pausing occasionally to gaze down from the cliff at the rough waters rolling onto the rocky beach below, their movement accelerated by a strong wind.

Rough steps cut into the cliff face led down from the path to the small beach, but such was the forbidding aspect of the shore as he watched that Taylor decided to continue his ramble along the cliff top and on this occasion not descend to the seashore.

He had only gone a few feet more when something below on the beach caught his eye and made him stop again.

 The figure of a man was standing quite still at the water’s edge, gazing out at the turbulent water, arms dangling loosely by his sides. Despite the weather he appeared to be lightly clothed and as the walker on the cliff top watched, waves came in and lapped around the stationary man’s feet, covering his shoes up to his ankles, yet still the figure did not move.

 The wind gave a sudden violent gust and Taylor grabbed a fence post for support, swaying slightly at the onslaught, but he did not take his eyes off the person below on the sand.

  He watched with an incredulous fascination as abruptly the man on the beach began to walk forward into the water, the waves crashing into him as he waded deeper and deeper into the sea, spray and foam covering him from head to foot. He advanced like an automaton, unflinchingly, looking neither right or left but staring straight ahead as if his gaze was fixed on some invisible object far out to sea. The water soon reached his waist but still he continued.

 Taylor, transfixed with incomprehension for a moment at this mystifying action, suddenly snapped into motion. He cupped his hands to his mouth and, leaning over the wire fence which lined the cliff edge for safety, began to shout as loudly as he could in an attempt to catch the man’s attention and divert him from what was almost certain death.

 There was the briefest of turns in Taylor’s direction from the man’s head but he continued to advance into the grey waters, arms still motionless by his sides, the water now up to his chest.

 Taylor ran back along the cliff top the way he had come and located the uneven steps leading down to the beach. He began to descend quickly, trying desperately not to lose his footing on the stony pathway yet also attempting to keep the man on the beach in view.

 Halfway down he glanced across the sand and saw with a sickening feeling that the man had advanced further, only his head and shoulders now above the waves, appearing tiny against the massive swell of water heaving and thrashing around him.

Taylor knew that he could not possibly get to the man in time and deep down he knew that any well-meaning rescue attempt by himself once the man had disappeared must surely result in his own death as well. He was not a strong swimmer and the sea was as rough as he had ever seen in it.

 In a last ditch effort to halt the man on the beach’s progress he once again began to shout, his frantic words competing with the blustery wind which seemed to whip them away as soon as they were out of his mouth.

 “Wait! Stop! Just wait a second!” He paused on the steps, a terrible sense of inadequacy engulfing him for a second, hoping against hope that his pleas may have some effect on the figure in the water.

 Slowly, as if in a dream, the man in the sea turned his head towards the source of the shouting. On the steps Taylor saw his face for the briefest of moments, pale and ghostly in the surrounding greyness, before he turned back to face the vastness of the water and within seconds had disappeared entirely beneath the waves.

 Still shouting, his words now heard by none but the few seagulls which were wheeling overhead buffeted by the wind, Taylor ran down the remaining steps and across the beach to the water’s edge. He vaguely registered the man’s footprints in the sand leading into the waves as he reached the shoreline, still yelling at the dark water, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of the disappeared man, hoping against hope that he might yet be alive.

 The tide continued to advance and soon even the footprints had gone.

 Numbed with shock and disbelief, Taylor pulled his mobile phone from his inside coat pocket and with fingers which felt like sticks of ice punched the number for the emergency services. On the cliff top, the wind howled through the wires of the fence alongside the deserted path.

 

(Excerpt from short story 'Echoes' featured in the collection Dark and Deep available on the Amazon Kindle store).

 

 

Time, Gentlemen, please...

 

Always been obsessed with time. The passing of it, the tricks it sometimes plays, the way it always runs out just when you need more of it. That kind of thing.

I was washing what's left of my hair the other day, watching most of it go down the plughole - a bit like sand running out of an hourglass - reminding me in a very personal way that I'm getting on a bit now. That's winter for you. Makes you maudlin. This was just before the 21st December when the world was supposed to go up in flames according to some people's interpretation of an ancient prophecy. I was thinking that in that case at least I'd be dead before I was bald. Every cloud...

But it was not to be. The sun dawned on a cloudy and drizzly 22nd December (like every other day this year it seems), the world continued to spin on its axis and my hair continued to succumb to gravity. On the plus side it meant that at least my little girl's Christmas presents weren't bought in vain. 

Regarding the time thing, I love watches. Not the battery/quartz jobbies of recent times, but the proper old-fashioned stuff. Mechanical, wind-ups, automatics - the ones where little cogs and wheels are permanently in motion on your wrist, spinning time away in a very mechanized way. Look at the workings of a mechanical watch and you can actually see the passing of time, the cog teeth meshing together grinding the seconds away, the fly wheel rocking back and forth. Look at a battery movement and you might as well be looking at a brick.

Anyroad, a couple of things.

I was lucky enough recently to be asked to write a short story which has been adapted into a screenplay and filmed as a short movie. In New York would you believe. This is the link to the website which explains a bit more about it.

www.openspacesfilm.com

Also I recently released a second collection of slightly unusual short stories. It's called Sending Flowers By Interpol' and is available on the Amazon Kindle store. It's based on the regulars of a pub 'somewhere up North' and is narrated by one of them.

Here's an extract from one of the stories, 'Farmer Giles'.

 

FARMER GILES

Do I believe in aliens? You'd be a fool not to round here. I mean look at Ted over there and tell me he's not from another planet. It's no bloody coincidence he's got the letters E.T. in his name. And you want to see his wife and kids. Dear God. Talk about restricting the gene pool.

To be honest, I have an open mind about it. Yes, there probably are little green men somewhere out there but unless they're going to come in here and buy me a pint of bitter with a whisky chaser, I'm not going to dwell on it.

But that's just reminded me of something. Before your time, but there used to be a bloke come in here called Farmer Giles. Well that's what we called him, though he wasn't a farmer and his name wasn't Giles. But he had a bit of land and he'd bought a tractor to drive up and down in. Thought he was something because he owned a few fields. You know the ones, just past Posh Tom's council allotment. Think Giles had been left the fields in a will, or won them at a card game or something. Anyway he stuck a couple of sheep in them and thought he was landed gentry.

Except he was always looking for easy ways to make money, get rich quick schemes and the like. A bit of a wide boy, wheeler dealer. Never really made anything from them but it didn't stop him trying. He held car boots sales on the fields, summer fairs, agricultural shows, all that stuff. Just trying to make a bit of brass. He even grew crops every now and again. Yes, you're right. Unusual use for land these days.

Anyway, one night we see him in here reading a book. All quiet in the corner, keeping himself to himself. Well that's not like him. Usually you can't shut the bugger up. We'd heard he'd been having money problems though, so we thought it might have something to do with that and we didn't want to pry. Well, not so's he'd notice anyway.

With a bit of ingenuity (Windy Mick dropped an empty glass on the floor next to him) we managed to get a look at the book's cover. 'True Stories of the Unexplained'. Not his usual reading material. More often than not he had a copy of some glossy country magazine tucked under his arm for effect. Even then we knew he only looked at the pictures.

Anyway we didn't think much more about it till a few weeks later on a Saturday morning I picked up the local paper.

'CROP CIRCLES BAFFLE AUTHORITIES'.

That was the main headline, above a picture of Giles standing at the gate to one of his fields, pointing over it with an expression of surprise on his face as genuine as his Rolex. And then there's another photo next to that, this one taken from the air, showing his field from above. And in the middle of the corn he's been growing are all these weird shapes and spirals, like someone drunk has been driving around with a lawnmower in there, which perhaps wasn’t too far from the truth.

Well the article goes on, telling how Giles had gone down to his field a couple of days before and found these bizarre shapes in there. No idea how they could have got there, he says. The gate had been locked and there were no tracks or other clues. How strange. Very Twilight Zone.

Straightaway I remembered that book he'd been shiftily reading that night and made my way down to the pub. A few of the gang were already there talking about it and Windy Mick said it had even been on the local radio stations.

Well by now we've a pretty good idea what all this is about, so we drink up and head down there.

(Extract from the short story 'Farmer Giles' in Sending Flowers By Interpol by David Heaton available on the Amazon Kindle Store).

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

Insomnia In Summer

Sleep.

It unknits the ravelled sleeve of care and all that business. It's said that in general you spend a third of your life asleep. If that's right someone must be getting my share because I've won a tenner on the lottery more often in the past few years than I have had a decent night's sleep (approx 3).

I know it never used to be like this. Me and the arms of Morpheus used to have quite a decent understanding once upon a time. Then we must have fallen out because somewhere along the way I seem to have hacked him right off.

Falling asleep's not the problem - it's staying there. Waking up and staying awake only two or three hours later is the norm now. And the approach to summer's the worse. Lying awake for hours watching the bedroom get lighter earlier and earlier, listening to the dawn chorus kick-starting the day and knowing any chance of nodding back off is receding faster than my hairline.

It's the stuff that goes through your mind in the wee small hours, when your body knows you should be asleep that fascinates me. My mind clicks into a different zone and I find myself thinking about stuff I haven't thought about for years. What was on telly when I used to get home from school in 1974. The theme tunes to obscure films. Why the go-karts I used to make fell apart on their first outing. (They were held together with packing tape) What became of the really good  Spiderman mask I made when I was eight? (I suspect me mum threw it away because it set my eczema off).

Sometimes I put the radio on and listen to the shipping forecast in the early hours, then things get weird as the radio info and my retro childhood thoughts start to get mixed up.

"Tyne, Dogger, Fisher, South-East 5 to 7, occasionally gale force 8, Vic's Vaporub, becoming variable later, TCP  and Spaghetti Hoops for tea."

Anyroad, back to the Top Secret Files from the 70s.

This time it's the blueprints of the HyperFighter. Note the detachable atomic warhead. Invaluable if you actually want to fire it at something. And the landing skis. Just pray you weren't coming down on tarmac.

The external self-destruct button was a godsend to bored passers-by.

More Top Secret Stuff next time.

I've just finished a short story called 'Love Among The Parsnips'. It's available on the Amazon Kindle Store and here's an extract from it.

 

LOVE AMONG THE PARSNIPS

She thought she had done with sex by the age of 70.

Her marriage had developed into one of those relationships where forbearance was the chief characteristic between the partners. Her husband, when he did bother to look up from his copy of the 'Racing Courier', did so only to ask if his dinner was ready or to enquire if his shirts had been ironed. The sole physical exercise he seemed to indulge in these days was to move his ever-increasing bulk from his favourite armchair to the dining table at meal times - and back again. And this was only because, despite his pleas, Emily flatly refused to serve his food to him on a tray. If she had, she knew his next logical slothful step would have been for him to ask to be drip-fed. If it wasn't for the fact that he continued to be waited on hand and foot on a daily basis he would probably have forgotten about the existence of his wife in the house altogether, so absorbed in himself and betting on horse-racing had he become.

Things had been like this for some time. Their two children had long since grown up and moved away, visiting only a few times a year and staying for ever shorter amounts of time. If it hadn't been for her council allotment, Emily would have had little to stimulate her. And if it hadn't been for the sudden appearance of Tom on the neighbouring allotment, Emily's stimulation might have remained purely at vegetable level – and in this she included her husband.

The previous occupant of the allotment next to hers (a laid-back nonagenarian who had done little over the past few years except conceal himself furtively in his shed while his vegetable patches began to resemble the far reaches of the Amazon) had been found dead there a couple of months previously. He had apparently passed away peacefully in his sleep, one of the reasons for his mellow approach to life explained by the variety of unusual plants found in the shed with him.

It was a lovely afternoon in late September when Emily's life changed.

 

Love Among The Parsnips

available on the Amazon Kindle Store @ just £0.77

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lost in Translation

Somebody gave me some speech recognition software last week which I thought would take the strain out of writing. Any ideas I had of me sprawled out leisurely on the settee dictating into a microphone while my bestseller appeared magically on screen soon gave way to the reality. It's crap. (Not my bestseller hopefully, just the software.)

'Folate long is a closed ports on hire villanelles,

Swollen sore throat most grand slams.'

That's the first couple of lines of Wordsworths 'The Daffodils' - as if you needed telling - as per the software. Now if you could get software to decipher the gibberish that comes out when you use it, you'd be on to a winner. Time to phone Bletchley Park.

Watching the Chilean Miner saga unfold a few months ago I was delighted when they all emerged safely at the end thanks to human determination and engineering excellence. If you recall from my last blog, top secret files made by myself back in the 70s have recently been released under the Freedom of Information Act. I mention the miners here , because back in 1974 I designed a machine which has the potential to assist in such dramas.

So, for the first time on display, I give you the blueprints of The Case Core Tapper.

 
 

A  machine capable of drilling almost to the earth's core on a 9v battery. Tell that to some people and they wouldn't believe you. (I actually made this and soldered a screw onto the arm of a motor out of battery operated fan, burning a hole in my bedspread in the process. Mother was not impressed). More Top Secret stuff next time.

Anyway,  enough nostalgia. Here's an excerpt from my short story 'Skin Deep' from the collection 'Trinity - Three Tales of Unease' available on the Amazon Kindle Store.

 
SKIN DEEP

The day had been horrendous. I was beginning to realise what a poisoned chalice the promotion had been. Stuck in a no-man’s land between staff and management, I was starting to feel like a rag doll being tossed from one petulant child to another, fielding daily complaints about lack of production from my superiors and moans about too big a workload from those who were now under my charge. No wonder nobody else had wanted the job. No one in their right mind would have touched the supervisor’s position.

Which, of course, said a lot for me.

I unlocked my front door and headed straight for the kitchen and the fridge, throwing my soaking wet coat on the floor en route. I flicked the top off the beer bottle, walked into the living room and flung myself down in the armchair so hard that it moved slightly along the scuffed wooden floor.

Outside the rain was still pouring down in what was turning out to be a wild night, the drops hitting my living room window at an angle, like the slashes of a frenzied knife. I took a few deep gulps of the beer straight from the bottle, enjoying the familiar cooling sensation as it passed down my throat, thanking God that the late shift was over.

I sat there for a couple of minutes, listening to the sound of the rain lashing against the side of the apartment building and slowly felt the craving for a cigarette begin to build up within my body. I fought it for all of thirty seconds. I was giving up once again, and this time I was doing pretty well but right now nothing else was going to take the bitter taste of the day away – not even the beer.

I had stopped taking cigarettes to work with me in my attempt to quit – new smoking regulations made it practically impossible to light up there anyway – but I still kept half a packet at home for emergencies. This was one.

I drained the bottle and walked to the drawer where I kept them but as soon as I opened it I knew that the packet wasn’t going to be there. I’d suddenly remembered that I’d had a similar ‘emergency’ last week and had forgotten to replace the empty packet. I swore loudly and slammed the drawer shut, cursing my increasingly unreliable memory.

Then a tiny glimmer of hope shot through my nicotine-starved irritation. I looked at my watch – 10.53pm.

Fortunately the store at the corner of the street didn’t close until 11.00. Even more fortunately I knew the guy who worked there.

I picked up the phone and located the store’s number on the speed dial. This wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened. The ringing tone seemed to go on for an interminable amount of time. I was afraid it was just about to click onto the answer phone when I heard the familiar voice.

“Late Store. Andy speaking.”

“Andy, it’s Nick from up the road.” A moment’s pause then,

“Nick! Let me guess. Beer or cigarettes?”

I laughed. “Cigarettes. I’m really sorry, Andy. I’m on my way, honest. Just don’t lock up before I get there. I’m a desperate man.”

Andy sighed. “Go on, then. You’d better get a move on though. I was just getting ready to shut up shop. I want to get home myself. Might just catch the wife before she goes to bed for a change.”

“Cheers, Andy, you’re a mate. Be right there.”

The rain was pounding down even harder than before as I hurried along the deserted road to my destination. In the distance I could see the illuminated sign outside the shop proudly proclaiming its name. The light suddenly went off when I was still about fifty yards away but I wasn’t worried. If Andy said he’d be there, he’d be there.

I made it to the shop, my hair dripping wet and water running down my collar and glanced at my watch.

11.02.

Andy was waiting patiently behind the glass-fronted door. He had already turned the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and had turned off most of the lights inside the shop in readiness for his departure. I was going to be his last customer on what had been a long day for both of us.

He grinned on the other side of the glass as I appeared then turned the latch on the door to let me in.

“You must be desperate, coming out on a night like this,” he said, shaking his head in mock sadness as he opened the door and I stepped in. “I can’t understand…”

His words were interrupted as I felt myself being pushed violently forward into the shop from behind. I staggered and almost fell but managed to keep my balance as I turned round to face my attacker.

A man had appeared in the shop doorway and was now pushing Andy towards me, propelling my acquaintance roughly back into the shop. In his right hand he held a gun which was pointing in our direction.

I said nothing as Andy stood next to me. We looked at the man as he came fully into the store, kicking the door closed behind him with his foot as he kept his gaze fixed on the two of us. I heard the latch click shut, locking the door to the outside world.

(Excerpt from 'Skin Deep' from 'Trinity - Three Tales of Unease' by David Heaton, available on the Amazon Kindle store @ £0.70. http://www.amazon.co.uk/TRINITY-Three-Tales-Unease-ebook/dp/B004RPMZNE )

 

 

Watching the Detectives

The 70s. Three day weeks, goitres, power cuts, Bazooka Joe bubble gum and Clackers. And, if you're of a certain age - and I am - all the cop programmes that saturated the telly during this time. Columbo, Cannon, Kojak, McCloud, Macmillan and Wife, Starsky and Hutch etc etc. But there's also some stuff that isn't as well remembered though it lingers in the dusty memory vaults of my brain.

The Gemini Man.  A diver exposed to radiation finds he's become invisible and this invisibilty is stabilised by the wearing of a special watch. Like you do. Mind you, he could only make himself invisible for a maximum of 15 minutes a day or he'd snuff it. There's always a catch. Typical.

Anyway, for the first time in nearly 35 years, secret documents made by myself in connection with this programme at the time have become declassified and are available under the Freedom of Information Act. So, for your eyes only...

 
 
The schematics are, quite simply, unbelievable.

Stay tuned to this blog. MORE PREVIOUSLY CLASSIFIED DOCUMENTS FROM THE SEVENTIES ARE DUE  TO BE RELEASED SHORTLY.

In the meantime, as I said previously, I like to do a bit of writing. Here's an extract from a short story entitled 'The Golden Calf' which is in 'Offbeat - A Collection of 10  Quirky Short Stories' available on the Amazon Kindle Store.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Offbeat-collection-Quirky-Stories-ebook/dp/B00413QNCQ

 

  

 

THE GOLDEN CALF

Victor Blatherskite, owner and sole operative of his own debt recovery company, was a man feared by most people who knew him. Outwardly full of slap-you-on-the-back bonhomie to those who stayed on the right side of him, he was equally full of slap-you-round-the-head nastiness to those who didn't. His methods for collecting outstanding monies were, like himself, crude but effective. He enjoyed his work immensely, operating entirely within his own (and nobody else’s) guidelines, and little did the local casualty departments realise that if it hadn't been for Victor's very physical and unorthodox enthusiasm for his job, they would have been able to put their feet up much more often.

The pursuit of money leaves little time for rest and relaxation, but when he wasn’t working Victor had one abiding passion. Coverdale Rovers Football Club and all things related. It was his proud boast that he had missed only two matches in more than twenty years of fanatic following. Once on his wedding day and once when a diminutive elderly gentleman (whom Victor was trying to ‘persuade’ to repay a small gambling debt) had unexpectedly proved to be rather good at self-defence. In a rare occurrence of role-reversal, Victor had found himself first in surgery and then in a hospital bed taking liquids through a straw for several days. Of these two instances of soccer deprivation, it was the wedding day which annoyed Victor most. Being beaten up in the line of duty he could accept, but he always felt that if he'd just put a bit more effort into the timing of his marriage, he could have made the match.

His collection of Coverdale Rovers artefacts, memorabilia and general paraphernalia was second to none. Hundreds of programmes, (several signed by the big players of the times), scarves, banners, autographed photographs, T-shirts, football strips, key-rings, mascots, press-clippings and anything else which bore the club's name or insignia, took up a whole upstairs room in his house.

Pride of place of these possessions was a signed football which bore the name of every member of the team who had taken the club from the second to the first division in the dramatic promotional play-off in the late eighties. (Result: 1-0 to Coverdale in extra time, courtesy of a highly controversial penalty). This football took centre stage in the room, residing on a specially made marble plinth on the mantelpiece, two small spotlights trained on its inscribed leather exterior. Mrs Blatherskite was allowed to enter this room for the sole purpose of cleaning the football once a week. Her instructions were clear. Remove from the plinth, three times round with a dry duster (lightly), then replace.

One Friday afternoon Victor returned home after having had a particularly successful day at work. Three considerable debts safely recovered - three debtors unlikely to recover for some considerable time. His wife was out of the house, having taken the bus into town to do the shopping.

Victor poured himself a large whisky and, humming to himself, went upstairs to visit his sanctuary, as he always did at the end of a week's work.

He opened the door to his homemade shrine - and his world turned upside down. The room was empty. A memorabilia void. Everything was gone - programmes, flags, the lot. A small whimper escaped Victor's lips. His eyes flicked in horror to the mantelpiece. The marble plinth now supported thin air and nothing else. His previous thrashing at the hands of the small elderly gentleman was nothing compared to the sickening feeling he felt now. He staggered into the room, his mouth opening and closing like an alcoholic's at the end of drinking-up time. He felt a crunching beneath his feet and looked down. Glass. The window was broken and a gentle breeze lazily stirred the curtains. Shaking, Victor lifted up the rug in front of the fireplace as if he might somehow find everything safely tucked underneath. He replaced the rug, sat down on it and started to cry.

This was how Mrs Blatherskite found him when she returned home from the shops some time later.

(Excerpt from 'The Golden Calf' featured in 'Offbeat - A collection of 10 Quirky Short Stories' by David Heaton available as an ebook  on the Amazon Kindle Store @ just £0.71).

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Offbeat-collection-Quirky-Stories-ebook/dp/B00413QNCQ

 

Let Me Try Again

 

   Starting off with a whinge. Funny how things change. Has anyone noticed that you can't go into a chemist's (sorry, Pharmacy) for a packet of paracetamol these days without being given the third degree about your intentions by the person dispensing? Are they for yourself? Are you on any other medication? Are  you taking any other products containing paracetamol? (Some chance with this vetting procedure). If you didn't have a headache when you went in, you probably would by the time you left. The grilling for buying Plutonium is probably less strict. It always makes me feel like Gordon Jackson in 'The Great Escape' when the German officer says 'Good Luck' to him as he's boarding the bus to escape and Gordon replies automatically in English 'Thank You'. Game over. 

     It's only a matter of time before I give the wrong answer myself one of these days and those little white pain relief tablets are quietly withdrawn back behind the counter and the panic button pressed...

    When I'm not sweating in pharmacies I like to do a bit of writing - especially short stories. Here's an extract from one called 'Automotive' from my anthology 'Offbeat - A Collection of 10 Quirky Short Stories'.

  

  
OFFBEAT - A Collection of 10 Quirky Short Stories

 

    Edward stood on the garage forecourt and stared at the £1000 price tag displayed in the window of the old car. In his pocket he squeezed a rolled-up bunch of banknotes till they squealed.

    He walked round the car, running a finger critically over the paintwork, examining the exhaust with pursed lips and kicking the tyres sharply with his down-at-heel shoes. The dull thud of rubber changed to a metallic clank as he missed the last tyre and kicked the wheel trim by mistake. He didn’t really know what he was doing but he’d seen other people do it when choosing a car and hoped it would fool the salesman who was fast approaching, weaving his way like a homing device through the maze of cars.

    The salesman, with one of the most honest faces you could ever hope to see, smiled warmly at him. He knew Edward hadn’t a clue.

    “Interested in this one, sir?” Even the voice was sympathetic and for a split second Edward wondered if the man did counselling part-time.

    “Uh, just looking. Not really my sort of car.”

    The salesman nodded and mentally spent his forthcoming commission.

    “What are you driving at the moment, sir? If you don’t mind me asking.”

    The nearest Edward had ever come to actually owning a car was to have once entered a Prize Draw with a Mini as the main prize. He hadn’t won.

    “Oh, nothing special,” he said. The real problem was he couldn’t afford the £1000 price tag. With a slight feeling of worldly-wise sophistication he decided to haggle.

    “I can see a few dents in it,” he remarked, staring at the car.

    “Yes, I saw you kicking it as I came over,” said the salesman. Edward coughed. The man smiled and looked at his watch. Lunchtime winked a beery eye at him. With the weary air of a teenager’s parent he decided on the direct approach.

    “How much have you got, son?”

    Edward blinked at such forthrightness and the battle was lost.

    “Seven hundred,” he blurted.

    The salesman’s arm was round his shoulders in a flash, gently steering him towards the showroom. “I’m sure we can work something out,” he said.

(Excerpt from story 'Automotive'  featured in 'Offbeat - A Collection of 10 Quirky Short Stories' by David Heaton, available on the Amazon Kindle Store @ just £0.71)

OFFBEAT - A Collection of 10 Quirky Short Stories by David Heaton