When Rose Fidelity returned home she felt guilty, but, in a way, ecstatic. She had never done anything like that before, and being nearly midnight, she couldn’t even remember a night when she had been home so late. Approaching forty eight years of age, Rose suddenly realised a new woman was emerging from over twenty five years of marriage.
As she entered her living room, Roger, her husband, said: ‘You’re late,’ a hint of worry in his voice. And his alarm was heightened when Rose took off her coat, revealing her, and Roger’s, favourite plunging neckline.
Roger was taken aback by this. Rose had kept her youth well, and was still a desirable woman. ‘What on earth have you been doing, dear?’ he asked, puzzled.
Rose thought of an easy way to say it, but was suddenly lost for ideas. Holding her head up, she said: ‘I’ve been with Bradley. ‘
‘Oh, I see,’ said Roger. ‘And what do you mean by with?’
‘Having sex, husband, dear,’ said Rose. ‘I’ve been having the most exciting lay of my life.’
It took several seconds for the news to sink in; and perhaps a couple more for Roger’s first-tear to flow.

In a way, he’d been expecting it. Things hadn’t gone right for some time now. It was the next morning and Roger Fidelity tried to think it all out as he walked to work. He even knew what the final straw was …
‘I’m moving out,’ Jonny, their youngest, had said a fortnight ago.
Roger had been rather pleased by this declaration. Their daughter, Amanda, had already gone, and was happily married and heavily pregnant. Now that Jonny had felt the need to fly the nest, he and Rose could finally get on with their lives.
Rose had felt different, of course. ‘But all the bills, the responsibility. You’re so young.’
When Jonny had finally left, he’d kissed his mother on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry mum. You’ll still see me a lot; and I love you. ‘
But no matter how much Roger tried to instill a feeling of new life, Rose simply looked around an empty house and thought: ‘What now … ‘
Well, thought Roger, we know what, now, don’t we? Bradley, that so called family friend ….
‘How could you?’ he had asked the previous night, as the news sank in.
Rose stroked her husband’s face. ‘I never wanted to hurt you,’ she said, ‘but I have needs.’ She walked to the cupboard; took out the family photo album. ‘Look through it, Roger. Tell me what you see.’
Roger flicked through the album. ‘I see a loving family; a family happy with itself, and with life.’
‘And that’s true,’ said Rose. ‘But the family’s gone now. And take that away and what’s left?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Roger objected.
‘There is not one single picture in that album that says we are a couple. That went when we had kids. And I’m not sure, after all these years, we can recreate it.’

Roger was approaching work now. He was a successful office manager, and had a boring, normal life to go with it. Until now, of course. But then again, could it be that Rose was right?
‘Morning, Mr Fidelity,’ said Jessie, his secretary, as he walked into his office.
Roger returned the greeting, aware of the look she always gave him; aware of what this not unattractive woman thought of him. After all, she had played up to him enough. And it was to his eternal shame, he thought, that he often fantasized of actually having her.
But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? He was getting on; the body was beginning to fail … he couldn’t. He was happily married. But suddenly he remembered that he wasn’t. And because he had had these fantasies, perhaps he hadn’t been happily married for some time …
‘Jessie,’ he called, ‘can you come in here, please, I’ve got something for you.’

Roger and Rose fidelity packed at the same time that night. What the future held for them both, neither of them really knew. Perhaps they were both too old to begin again, but it was clear to them that neither could continue as they were. There was a huge vacuum in both their lives, and even Roger, as he made love to a girl twenty years younger than him, realised this in the end. Indeed, he had never performed so long, and so frantically, in his life. As the slowly developing pain in his groin testified.
Of course, Roger and Rose kept in touch over the following months - they were still good friends - but they had new lives now; lives which they were determined to enjoy. But to every dream of happiness, there is a cloud …
‘Well I think it’s disgusting,’ a heavily pregnant Amanda said as she slumped in her father’s new flat. Jessie was hovering about, picking up the hostile glares from her lover’s daughter.
Roger limped over to his daughter. ‘But our marriage is over, dear, please understand. And try to be happy for us.’
Amanda snarled. ‘Happy? You must be joking. Look at you?
You’re not a young man, and you’re wasting away in front of my eyes.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Amanda, and you know it.’
‘Don’t come that tone with me,’ Amanda retorted. ‘Your life is pathetic, and no way do you get the respect for a father from me.’
‘And do you speak to your mother like that?’
‘Mother?’ queried Amanda. ‘Some mother, rushing over to see me to check that her make-up is alright. For God’s sake, you’re both nearly fifty. Start acting like it, and not a bunch of twenty year olds.’

She was, of course, correct.
When Rose had raced to her daughter for help, it had not been the whim of a twenty year old Amanda had thought. She had known Bradley to be a smoothie, but that didn’t matter a damn, at the time. He took her on a roller-coaster of ecstasy, and that was all that mattered. But now, several months down the line …
‘I’m getting bored, Rose,’ he had said. ‘I don’t how much longer we can go on. ‘
And to stop boredom, Rose Fidelity sold her soul to the devil. And she rung every ounce of desirability out of herself that she could.
Roger was having problems of a different kind. Jessie was demanding, and despite the doctor squeezing his testicles and advising a truss lay in the future, he knew what he had to do to keep her. And even the Viagra only worked for a while.
The lies had come out on the afternoon they had bumped into each other and decided to have a quick drink. ‘How’s life,’ Rose had said to Roger.
‘Brilliant,’ he replied.
And vice versa, the lies continuing as Roger limped away and Rose hid her face to sniff back the tear.

But to every sad tale there must be redemption.
The sounds of Amanda’s screams filtered into the waiting room as Roger and Rose sat expectantly. Rose said: ‘It’s going to be a girl, you know.’
Roger wasn’t having that. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, ‘it’s so obviously a boy. Listen to those screams.’
They both laughed at that, and both were touched by a familiarity of old. Somehow it seemed so right. But how could it be other than a stupid, temporary feeling? After all, they had been through so much of late.
Within hours they were stood by Amanda’s bed, greedily passing the new born amongst themselves. Finally, the midwife came in. Said: ‘Time for mother and baby to have some rest now.’
Roger and Rose Fidelity walked out of the room awkwardly. Outside the hospital, they stood, not knowing, really, what to do. Finally, Roger said: ‘Your car or mine?’
Rose smiled, and said his. Gran and Grandad drove home, the vacuum filled by their grandson; and another new life to begin.

© Anthony North, April 2008

Fiction Page

He said it was playing with fire. Bannister - the Government man - said that. Right from the beginning, when I first proposed the project, he was against it. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘it’s safe; it’s only cyberspace; it isn’t real.’
‘You don’t know what it is,’ Bannister said. ‘Nobody’s ever done anything like this before.’
‘Look, Bannister, I’m Merlin Jones, the greatest computer wizard in the world. And I know. Believe me.’
And I won. And in an isolated part of the Yorkshire Moors the Virtual Project went ahead. I built my project, and Flash and Gem Pearl came with me to run it.
‘This is magic,’ said Flash, a young, skinny, bespectacled protege. ‘We can do anything in here.’
Gem flicked her blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘Well don’t get any ideas, spotty. Leave my electronic vibes alone.’
I could see Flash was thinking, now that’s a thought, as he ran his adolescent eyes down her body. ‘I can see I’ll have to check for unauthorised input,’ I said.
Gem flashed her accusing eyes at me. ‘So, it’s built. What we going to do with it?’
I smiled. ‘Well, Bannister said if the government was going to put up the money, then we have to have ideas to help the government. ‘
‘Which means what?’ asked Flash.
‘Which means waffle. Do the odd job for THEM, and then play and learn ourselves.’
But Bannister soon came up with a whole load of jobs for us. And one of the first was to see if our new form of cyber¬space had predictive qualities. It was a simple idea, really. Plugged up to most of the nets around the world, we had a massive input of data. Hence, Bannister suggested, use that data to create cyber situations and see if we could predict what was going to happen.
So that is exactly what we did. And to get a feel for the game, I fed in a perfect plan of Westminster. Then, walking into the chamber, I immediately felt the electromagnetism - it kind of tingled the skin until you got used to it. And then, whoosh! - there I was on a nice sunny day walking up Whitehall, surrounded by tourists and government officials busying themselves.
‘This is so real,’ I said, and Gem’s voice immediately pulsed in my head. ‘So let me in there to beat up Flash.’
Ignoring her comment, it was, however, clear that not everything was sweetness and light. The government - was unpopular, and as people walked by the net fed this loathing, with everyone having something derogatory to say about the government. But then, through the corner of my eye, I noticed the one man who seemed calm.
He was about six foot tall with short-cropped blonde hair and he was dressed completely in black. For some reason the net wanted me to focus on this guy. Why, I had no idea. But I was soon to learn why.
The Prime Minister’s official car came gliding down Whitehall. I could see the gates to Downing Street opening, and as the car disappeared inside, I saw the black clad man disappear through a door. Quickly, I followed.
It was, of course, easier than I thought. After all, this was a cyber world and here, I had special powers. Such as walking through walls, and all that. And eventually I found myself in a small foyer somewhere in 10 Downing Street. And as a door opened, and the Prime Minister walked in, the black clad man raised a gun.
Maybe it was a natural instinct, as if I really was in the real world. But I grabbed that guy, raised his arm high and the gun fired into the ceiling. And it was at that point I decided to cancel the game for the day.
‘Well I don’t understand it,’ said Flash. ‘It worked out an assassination attempt on the Prime Minister.’
‘That’s right. I think I’d better let them know. ‘
Hence, I picked up the phone and asked to speak to the Government man. Eventually, he came to the phone, breathless.
‘What you want, Jones,’ he said, ‘I’m kind of busy.’
‘I just thought you ought to know,’ I said. ‘The game has just predicted an assassination attempt on the Prime Minister. It may sound stupid, but he was about six foot tall with blonde hair and dressed in black.’
There was an intense silence at the other end of the line. ‘Bannister?’ I said, ‘you there?’
He was. But he was reeling. So was the whole of the security service, busy hushing it up, but at the same time investigating the dark clothed assassin who appeared from nowhere, and vanished just as quick.
‘So it works,’ said Gem. ‘I don’t know how, but we really predicted an assassination attempt.’
Flash and Gem were elated. As for me, I wasn’t so sure. As for me, I wondered what I’d created here. And for days after the game I couldn’t help thinking, had I predicted an outcome, or had we, in some not-yet-understood way, caused it?

© Anthony North, March 2008

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Philosophy is the greatest achievement of man. Throughout history it has created the society in which we live, confirming our ability to think - to rise above the animal kingdom. And perhaps the lack of philosophising today heralds the death of thinking.
So does this mean we are returning to the instinctuality and amorality found in the animal kingdom? Even this possibility should be seen as a warning that it is time for philosophy - for thinking about our situation - to come back.

WHAT IS PHILOSOPHY?

The first person thought to have used the word ‘philosophy’ was Pythagoras, the discoverer of mathematics at the dawn of Greek history. The word comes from ‘philo,’ meaning ‘love,’ and ‘sophia,’ meaning ‘wisdom.’
Thus, a philosopher is a lover of wisdom. Traditionally, philosophy was the first practice to break up the world into specialisations with specific branches of philosophy. There are four main branches.

BRANCHES OF THOUGHT

The first is epistemology, an understanding of what knowledge is. Then we have metaphysics, concerned with the nature of ‘being’ and reality. Third, we have ethics, or how man should behave in the world. And finally, we have politics, or how man should organise his world.
But in the history of philosophy that follows, we will see how the specialisations were nothing more than an easy way to explain specific areas of a wider, holistic knowledge. This fundamental fact of knowledge - that things are really holistic, or as one - has been forgotten today.
I hope to achieve at least one post per week in this series.

© Anthony North, February 2008

See History of Philosophy on sidebar/pages for more posts in this series

It was a small ship, but as it rounded on the small planetoid and fired, it was obvious it packed a powerful punch.
‘We’ve got to stop them,’ said Ulrika Fayn as she guided B-mover 14 into scanning range.
Hercules Brown agreed, wishing he could get more out of the sonic drive.
There were six ships in all, constantly pounding the planetoid, and from previous reports of their journey, and from what they could see from scanners, it was obvious they were Envin.
‘I hope they put up a fight,’ said Tox, raising his bald, blue head. ‘I’d love to kill lots of Envin.’ He was making final adjustments on the sonic cannon, his favourite toy.
Brown sighed. He was aware of the Envins; had come across them before. Small, avaricious aliens, their elf like faces hid the ruthlessness of these space pirates. ‘Easy, Tox,’ he said. ‘There may be a good explanation.’ Then, to Ulrika: ‘Any sign of habitation on that planetoid?’
‘Negative,’ said Ulrika. ‘They seem to be bombarding a barren planet.’
As they came closer to the Envin fleet Brown opened channel. ‘This is the Space Rangers, cease your attack immediately.’
An Envin appeared on the monitor. His elf featured grimace was different to how Hercules Brown knew them. The arrogance, the cynicism was gone, replaced by what appeared to be stark terror. ‘Leave us, Space Ranger,’ he said. ‘This must be done. You must not interfere.’
At that the screen went blank. Meanwhile, time after time the ships came in line with the planetoid and fired.
‘I think it’s time we acted,’ said Tox, feeling comfortable in his firing position.
Brown thought a moment. ‘They’re frightened,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Tox.
‘No. I mean really frightened. Turning to Ulrika, Brown said: ‘Scan the planetoid again. There must be something on there. ‘
‘You’re right,’ she said, shortly.
An image flashed up from the surface. The mounds were unusual, about a metre high and round. The whole surface seemed to be covered in them.
‘What are they?’ Brown asked.
Ulrika accessed the ship’s computer. Seconds later, an analysis appeared. They were horrid little creatures, ten legged, two centimetres in length, and capable of surviving deep space drift. But most important to Brown was the fact that they were deadly to Envins.
‘It’s obviously a Nest,’ said Ulrika.
‘Yes,’ agreed Brown. ‘But not just any nest. According to this, the Envins are sure there’s just one, from which they all migrate. They account for about 30% of Envin deaths, and it looks like they’ve found the centre of the whole species.’
‘No wonder they’re determined to destroy them,’ said Ulrika.
Tox sighed. ‘I suppose that means we can’t destroy the Envins,’ he said.
Brown didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he said: ‘Ulrika, scan their ships for lifesigns.’
‘Oh Overmind,’ she eventually said. ‘The bugs are in space, chewing into their ships. About half the Envins are already near death. It’s a life and death struggle out there!’ she said.
At that moment, alarms went off around the ship. ‘What’s that?’ asked Brown.
‘They’re on our hull,’ said Ulrika.
Moments later, the first of the bugs bore through into the ship and began moving towards the crew.
‘They’re disgusting,’ Ulrika said as Tox and Brown despatched them with low level sonic blasts.
‘Well that’s decided it,’ he said. ‘Ulrika, we’re going to help them.’
Tox sighed once more, but realised where his duty lay. And with their superior weaponry, they soon pounded the nest to extinction.
Later, the Envins gone, Tox said: ‘Such a shame.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Brown.
‘We could have had a weapon against the Envins,’ he said.
As Tox finished, one of the bugs crawled from a corner, still alive. The crew turned to look at it. Tox continued: ‘Here’s our chance. Think about it, Brown. A real weapon to frighten them into stopping their piracy.’
Brown took one look at Tox before taking out his sonic gun and blasting the bug away.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Tox.
‘Because if I have the choice between the occasional irritation of pirates, or using biological weaponry to cause genocide, I’ll choose irritation every time.’
At that, Ulrika Fayn engaged sonic drive and B-mover 14 cruised away. Yet, as the devastated planetoid disappeared from view, Brown couldn’t get rid of the thought that he had done exactly that.

(c) Anthony North, January 2008

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WARNING: Some stories may contain disturbing scenes

Is the world we see about us real or illusion? Is the world a hard, material fact, or does reality bend to how we want the world to be? Philosophers and theologians have grappled with this question since history began and never have they provided a satisfactory answer. But in our day to day lives we need not worry about such things. Or should we?
When James Berford came to see me I can only describe him as terrified. ‘I need help,’ he said as he sat in front of the desk.
I was immediately on edge as he said this, as his voice had that shaky hysteria of unpredictability. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me the problem,’ I said.
‘It’s that clown. It’s evil, pure evil. I know it is. And I’m sure it’s going to kill my son.’
I offered as serene a smile as possible, although I must admit my anxiety was rising by the second. ‘The clown?’ I asked.
‘That bloody toy. It’s demonic. It is, I’m telling you!’
It took me a long time to settle him down; to get from him the facts in as calm and logical a way as possible. And the facts seemed to be these: Four months ago baby Paul had been born to James and Jenny Berford. And for the first week or so everything had gone exactly as had been expected. But then, as they were passing a toy shop, Jenny Berford had had an impulse to rush into the shop and buy a toy clown as bed mate for her baby.
‘And ever since then,’ James continued, ’she’s changed. She’s no longer happy, but goes around in a daze. And the only time she seems right is when she’s holding that clown. It’s as if she’s got a relationship with it. And both me and Paul are ignored.’
The explanation seemed obvious enough to me, but I decided it would be best to see what was going on for myself. Hence, under the pretence of being a friend and business associate I was invited to the house. And whilst I had decided that it was a simple case of post-natal depression with all emotions transferred to an inanimate object, the second I stepped into the house, a deep chill seemed to descend upon me.
This sense of unease infected everything in the Berford household, with even James losing his sense of the terrified and instead becoming almost comatose. Jenny, herself, was clearly depressed. But I also sensed in James that everything was not quite right. Could I have been wrong in my initial hypothesis? Was it a simple case of post-natal depression, or could James, himself, be exhibiting a form of paranoia, perhaps based on the jealousy of his son, his wife no longer giving him the attention he felt he deserved?
I knew from that moment on that it would be a difficult case; but a case I had to get to the bottom of quickly, for it was clear that baby Paul’s life could well be in danger.
Conversation during my visit was strained, even melancholy, and the oppressive nature of the house would simply not go away. And when, after asking to see their son, I went upstairs, I can only report that the eerieness of the place intensified.
Baby Paul slept peacefully in his cot, but even this most beautiful sight could not lift the mood, for beside him laid the clown, and I knew how easy it was to be delusive about such things.
The clown was a simple stuffed toy, about two feet long with yellow trousers, red and white stripped shirt, a huge bow-tie and blue jacket. But there was something about the clown’s face that stirred in me my appreciation of evil.
I knew it was inanimate, but somehow the hint of animation was upon that face, as if it somehow knew what was going on; perhaps even playing a part.
As I left the house I tried to dismiss this feeling of unease as a by-product of the psychological mess the family was suffering. It was hard enough figuring out whether the problem laid in James or Jenny, without having to add a further, demonic angle to the case. Finally managing to put these fears to the back of my mind, I knew, of course, what I had to do. The lot of a psychotherapist is a heavy one. Anyone can set up as a psychotherapist, for it requires little in the way of training, and absolutely no qualifications. I am not a psychologist or psychiatrist, who
are professionally trained. Rather, I am simply a man with an interest in the mind and the nature of evil. Hence, with a baby’s life in possible danger, I knew I was out of my league. Drugs and professional help were what James and Jenny Berford required, and I resolved to phone social services the very next morning and hand the case to them.
But if only I had done it straight away, it may not have ended as it did.
The phone rang at two o’clock that morning. Sleepily, I picked it up to be confronted by James Berford’s manic voice. ‘You’ve got to come quickly. It’s Paul. He’s dead!’
I rushed to the Berford household as quickly as I could. As I entered the house, the same eerie feeling gripped me, as if as soon as you passed the threshold, an altered reality came into being. James Berford was sat, stiffly, on the settee, shock having gripped him and unable to communicate. Jenny was not to be seen, so I rushed upstairs and into Baby Paul’s room. He laid there peacefully in death, yet the horror of seeing the slight bruising on his neck was too much for me. With a heavy heart, I picked up my mobile, resolved to phone the police. Yet as I went out into the hall, the sound of quiet, but happy whisperings came to my ears.
Is the world we see about us real or illusion? I pushed open the door to the master bedroom, the hall light lancing through the dark to highlight the back of Jenny Berford sat on her bed, talking sweetly to the clown she held in her arms. And I swear to you, the clown’s arm was stroking her back.

(c) Anthony North, January 2008

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He never realised it would be so lonely. For many years he had shunned people. He felt uncomfortable near them - alien; disturbed in their presence. So it was obvious he would become a hermit, alone with his dreams, his thoughts, his wishes. But even as a hermit it was often impossible to be alone. Impossible, at least, on a planet brimming with people and approaching bursting point.
The planet had been like that for a long time, populating every piece of space available, cutting down on the wildernesses the hermit required. And eventually he knew he would have to find his solitude elsewhere.
Thought-drive had been a theoretical possibility for decades, but just as his wish to be gone from people forever arose, the principles were worked out and his dream became a possibility. And when he left the planet, it was in a small vessel. Just one room to live in - his wish room.
He wasn’t sure how long he was in the wish room before he realised that even hermits need people. Oh, he didn’t need people to interact with. He could do without that. But when all other forms of communication are shunned, we are left with raw desire. And desire requires stimulus. Even the hermit needs to observe - to watch - at times. For in absolute loneliness we become the voyeur.
The wish room allowed such things. For the wish room could go wherever your thoughts require. You just think and you’re there, watching. And the hermit had the whole universe to observe.
He watched life in all its forms. In one sense, he travelled the universe, but in another, more real, sense, he travelled the world of experience. And at every destination, the window of the wish room disclosed life.
He saw life at its happiest. He saw life at its saddest. He saw life at its most peaceful. And life at its most violent. He watched - felt - every emotion, every ideosyncracy, every foible. He was, he began to realise, a repository of life.
At first, he was happy to see life at its standard, most normal expression. But soon he became bored by this. And when that happened, he went in search of the abnormal, the bizarre. So he witnessed insanity, criminality, the depraved, the weird. And he took it all in with relish. And before he knew it he never took a rest from his voyeurism, seeing life all around him without a break.
The images swarmed into his head, filled him, gave him no time for rest, for peace - for solitude. So can we really call him a hermit?
It was a question he eventually asked himself. WAS he a hermit? Or was it that he simply lacked the confidence to experience - to interact - with life himself?
His answer came with his growing feeling of longing for involvement in this life he observed. His answer came in his growing frustration, interrupted only by deeper bouts of depression.
He wanted to partake. Of that, he eventually had no doubt. But of all the wishes he could have, the only one he could not command is for the wish room door to unlock. His wish room, was, he realised, a metaphor for so many lives. For when we move along a course of life, we burn bridges along the way. And he had wished for his wish room door to never open.
For how long the hermit continued his voyeuristic quest through life, he had no idea. But for all this time he held the one wish at the corner of his mind, knowing that he must only think it when he was absolutely sure.
But eventually he was. And the wish came into his mind. And in his last moment of existence, he saw how life was at the centre of a sun.

© Anthony North, January 2008

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Matilda Green walked purposefully out of the village post office, realising she was late. Pension day was always a problem, as Mrs Evans, the post mistress, could chat for England. Not that Matilda minded that much. Although not a gossip herself, she so did like to keep up with village affairs.
There was a slight chill in the air, so Matilda welcomed her green cardigan, wrapped around her delicate, seventy year old frame. As she approached her cottage, she noticed a visitor waiting by her door.
‘Good morning, Penny,’ she said as she closed her gate. ‘You’re just in time.’
Penny, a woman in her mid-twenties, attractive with blonde hair, smiled. ‘As if I would be late, Aunt Matilda.’
Of course, Matilda wasn’t really her aunt, but many of the young village wives had a close association with Matilda. Indeed, the villagers thought it quite wonderful how Matilda looked after the girls.
Together, they entered the cottage. Sitting down, Penny said: ‘Aunt Matilda, I think my husband is having an affair. ‘
Matilda sat stiffly, smiled. ‘Are you sure, dear. I’m sure he wouldn’t.’
Penny laid out the facts before her - the suspicious behaviour, coming home late, an obvious worry on his face. As she explained, Matilda remembered the latest gossip from Mrs Evans: ‘And young Penny’s husband,’ she had said, ‘rumour is his farm is in difficulty. Quite desperate, I understand.’
The clock struck the hour as Penny finished her story. At about the same time, there was a knock on the door. Matilda smiled once more. ‘Your eleven o’clock, dear. We’ll talk later. ‘
As Matilda opened the door, and the well dressed gentleman walked in, Penny stripped down to her sexy, silky underwear, pouted innocently at the gentleman and took him into the bedroom. Matilda sat down in her chair and began to knit, happy she was helping the girls to earn that extra cash to see them through hard times.
An hour later, Matilda laid out the facts to Penny; what the gossips were saying about the state of the farm, and her own absolute belief that Penny was wrong.
‘Well we’ll soon see,’ said Penny. ‘He’s going out at three o’clock this afternoon, and I’m sure he’s going to see her. ‘

At ten to three, Matilda Green deposited herself in her Mini and drove off. Just catching the errant husband as he drove from his farm, she followed at a suitable distance. Driving into town, he parked his car and walked over to a nearby cafe. Going inside, he ordered a pot of tea and waited. Matilda, of course, did likewise, secreting herself just round the corner so that the husband could not see her.
A short time passed before the rather attractive woman of forty entered and sat by him. Matilda pricked back her ears. For a woman of seventy, she was remarkably good of hearing - a fact that had often come in handy. And she was soon satisfied that her faith in Penny’s husband was justified.

Later that evening, Matilda sat in her cottage, Penny looking worried in front of her. ‘It’s quite simple,’ said Matilda. ‘Some time ago your husband was quite silly and tried fiddling the tax man. The woman your husband is seeing works at the local tax office, and obviously subsidizes her income by covering up such irregularities and blackmailing the offenders.’
Penny looked annoyed. ‘The fool. I’ll kill him. No wonder the farm isn’t making much money.’
Matilda shook her head. ‘I don’t think we need to tell him anything, Penny dear. I think I’m a good judge of people. I’m sure we can sort this problem out ourselves.’ Matilda leant forward, offered her cheeky smile. ‘Now, dear,’ she said, ‘This is what we’ll do.’

Later that night, Penny entered the bar alone. Matilda had already done the groundwork, found out about her husband, the target’s habits. Noticing the woman by the bar, she approached. Sat. Smiled sweetly.
The signs, of course, passed between them without words, and less than an hour later the two lovers were in the hotel room doing what lovers do.
The following morning, Matilda Green sat in the cafe, waiting for the target to arrive. After all, she guessed she wouldn’t have to wait long. There was bound to be other suckers she was blackmailing.
As the woman sat, Matilda stood up and approached her, sitting down, she said: ‘Lovely day, isn’t it dear?’
She seemed irritated, but replied, yes.
‘A lovely day for taking pictures,’ said Matilda. ‘I do so like taking pictures, dear. Maybe you’d like to see the ones I took last night.’

Penny went to see Matilda that afternoon. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘Perfect,’ said Matilda. ‘She’ll be handing in her resignation today.’ Matilda sat back. ‘I so do like providing a service for the community.’
At that point, another of Matilda’s girls walked in. The appointment would be in ten minutes. Matilda recalled the booking. ‘Something special?’ she had said on the phone. ‘Of course, dear, you want Daisy Mae. But I’m afraid it will cost double.’
To her new arrival, she said: ‘Hello, Daisy, dear.’
‘Hello, Aunt Matilda. Mae said she’ll be along in a minute.’

© Anthony North, January 2008

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They’re taking over and it’s hard to retain my sanity.
Sometimes I think I’m imagining it all. It’s all one big, horrible dream. But then I pinch myself and I know I’m living on the edge. I know if I make one wrong move they’ll get me. They’re omnipotent, you see - like God. Or the Devil.
But they make mistakes themselves. Oh boy, do they. They make some whoppers. They’re not infallible. Most people wouldn’t realise they make mistakes. Ha! That’s a laugh. Most people don’t know they exist. But some must. One day I’ll find them and show them how they make mistakes.
I found one mistake soon after realising they existed. I’m an investigative journalist, see. And we look under the covers of society for patterns, and in those patterns we find the basis of a story, and then we dig until the story comes clean.
Well the Opera are my story and I’ll dig and dig and dig.
I can do that now, because I’ve found a pattern of their progression.
It’s quite simple, really. Their mission is to take over everything. And to do that, you need to place your people, or at least your influence, at the top. You need to control from the top down, so you need to infiltrate departments of government, and the military, the local authorities and big business. But when you do that, there’s a change in emphasis. It may only be slight, but to those who know, it’s an alarm bell. And as I moved from cyber cafe to cyber cafe, never staying on one computer too long, I soon found out how to spot the changes - realised when they’d been got.
It was a simple pattern. Usually the head man didn’t change. He just changed, as if he’d been got at. Policies varied, then, only marginally. But what did change was a number of new appointments, obviously as Opera took over every last tentacle of the concern. But of most interest to me were the changes in the head man’s private life.
‘It was as if he was a different man. I couldn’t understand him any more. And he got violent. And, well, I left him.’
‘It was when we made love. You can always tell. He was different. It wasn’t making love at all. Kind of animal. That’s why I left him.’
‘I’ve been married three times, and you can always tell when you’re intimate. We all have a smell, see. And he wasn’t the man I married.’
Omnipotent, .yes. But infallible?
Anyway, I began checking their movements before their ‘change.’ And with the help of their ex-wives, I soon found the common denominator.
It was an expensive clinic. You know, one of those major plastic surgery places. I spent several days watching the comings and goings. Some were easily recognisable - the famous. But many others were total unknowns. And as I followed some of THEM home, they went off to non-descript bedsits. Clearly, these people could not afford this clinic’s prices.
My suspicions had, of course, been confirmed by this. It was a simple ploy, if you had the know how. First, lure the man you want to the clinic for some minor plastic surgery.

Pandering to vanity often did the trick, our movers and shakers wanting to look as good as they think they operate. Then, once under, take all the samples you want - of fingerprints, of
body blemishes; take their exact measurements. And then, under intense treatment, turn an unknown Opera man into the person you want them to be. And finally, when the treatment is complete, a swift murder and a swap.
So that was their plan. Taking over by surgical stealth. But had I taken too long over this investigation? That same car outside my hotel room every night? Similar face seeming to follow me around? I knew I had to act fast.
I took out my shadow on the night I decided to act. It was the first time I’d slit a man’s throat. But it was for a good purpose, I convinced myself, and fought down the bile. Then it was a simple matter to break into the clinic, find the two plastic surgeons responsible and shoot them dead.
Oh, I know it was only a minor irritation to the Opera. They’d soon recover. Find other plastic surgeons, other clinics. Or maybe, seeing this method had been compromised, they’d move onto other ways of taking over. But if I could keep going, forever providing irritation, maybe I’d eventually tilt the tide against this Opera.
But as I read the paper, taking in the inexplicable murder of the two surgeons, another piece caught my attention and I cried.
It was all pervasive, this paranoia within me, the result of existing in a paranoid world. For there was no shadow. Hence, I would have to learn to live with the fact I’d created three orphans of an innocent man.

© Anthony North, November 2007

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NOTE: This story is written as an antidote to Voltaire’s Candide. If you’ve read it, you’ll know what I mean.

Professor Thunderstruck was a philosopher of note. As he walked down the street he turned to his pupil, Arnold, and said: ‘Now, young man, we are told that the streets are cruel and vicious. I disagree. If we take the chance, it is perfectly reasonable to meet a thoroughly nice chap anywhere.’
Arnold, a pessimist by nature, was inclined to disagree.
But it was intrinsic to the professor’s philosophy that optimism was alive everywhere in the world if we only looked for it. Hence, Thunderstruck walked over to a teenager stood on the corner and said: ‘Hello, young man, I’m delighted to meet you. Can we be your friends?’
As you can imagine, the youth was somewhat taken aback by this greeting. But as he had nothing else to do, he said, ‘yea, man,’ and he, Thunderstruck and Arnold went walking off down the road, chatting.
Several hours later, as night began to descend and shadows filled the streets, five youths with knives ran out from an alleyway and knifed the youth to death.
‘And what optimistic message can we gain from this?’ asked Arnold as he looked down at the blooded corpse.
Immediately ready for his young pupil, Thunderstruck said: ‘The philosopher, Nietzsche, said man is always governed by a will to power. And in being powerful, he places his rules on the world, making the others follow his knowledge. Here we have a perfect example of one group trying to impose their will and knowledge on others.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Arnold. ‘But what’s optimistic about that?’
‘Simply that when the majority speaks, they easily impose their will on those who did this. And with such an unspeakable crime as this, the majority will be outraged, demand a public inquiry, and the youth will become a symbol against oppression.’

The next morning, whilst he sat at the breakfast table, Arnold read about yet another Member of Parliament who had had been caught with his pants down and lying to cover up the deed. Turning to Thunderstruck, he said: ‘But how can you be optimistic about our politicians? They’re all corrupt sex maniacs, are they not?’
Thunderstruck read the report and had to agree. But rather than accepting this, he decided to prove his philosophy by immediately writing an article decrying this particular lying cheat, attempting to become a symbol of the majority himself.
‘We find against the litigant,’ said the foreman of the jury a couple of months later.
‘So how does your philosophy hold up after being successfully sued and declared bankrupt?’ asked Arnold.
‘Kant asked us to consider before doing a particular act what the world would be like if we all did it.’
To which Arnold scratched his head and said: ‘So what?’
‘So I can feel optimistic that I’ve stood up for Kant’s morality, for if everybody did what that politician did, the world would be anarchy.’
Thunderstruck thought then and added: ‘And I can be optimistic in knowing that I’ve done my bit to highlight the importance of the idea, and bit by bit the message will get over and this government will be out.’

Satisfied that he had proved his point, that night Thunderstruck celebrated with a prostitute and had unprotected sex. Three weeks later he held the result in his hand.
‘Yes, Arnold,’ said Thunderstruck, ‘it appears I’m HIV positive. ‘
Delighted, Arnold smirked: ‘And how can you be optimistic about that?’
‘I can be optimistic in knowing I’ve broken Kant’s morality and paid the price; I can be doubly optimistic in also knowing that from now the remainder of my life can be true to what I believe. ‘
Arnold considered those words to be so much crap, and was about to say so when the train they were travelling on came off the rails and crashed. Arnold and Thunderstruck found themselves surrounded by mutilated bodies and appeared the only ones alive except for a severely injured gentleman clinging for life, but blocking the only conceivable escape route from the carriage.
‘I suppose,’ said Arnold, ‘you’re going to say that this accident is fortuitous if we manage to get that poor fella out.’
‘Nothing of the sort,’ replied Thunderstruck. ‘For it is patently obvious that just moving the fellow will break his spine and result in immediate death.’
‘So we’re trapped as well.’
Thunderstruck shook his head. ‘Oh, Arnold, Arnold, always the pessimist.’ He brushed some dust from his jacket. ‘Bentham believed that a just society was one that aimed for the greatest happiness for the greatest number, and we should always have this ideal in mind.’
‘And how does that help us today?’
‘Quite simple, my boy. If this gentleman remains unmoved, three of us die. If we move him and get out, society is all the happier for just losing one.’
Arnold, to be sure, could not feel optimistic about such an act, but life was precious and the man was moved and Arnold and Thunderstruck survived and Arnold was riddled with guilt and Thunderstruck was happy in the optimism of the truth of philosophy.

Two weeks later, Thunderstruck was reading the paper when he suddenly exclaimed: ‘Good God!’
Intrigued, Arnold said: ‘What’s the matter?’
Thunderstruck threw the paper at him. Arnold looked at the indicated report of a prostitute murdered by a serial killer. ‘That woman,’ he said. ’she’s the one who gave me HIV.’
‘So at last,’ said Arnold, ‘you’ve really got reason for optimism.’
Disgusted, Thunderstruck said: ‘Revenge would never enter my mind.’
Suitably chastised, Arnold said: ‘So tell me, if not revenge, how can you be optimistic about this?’
‘I can feel optimistic in that such acts show us clearly another great truth of philosophy, which, if realised, could lead the way to banish the world of the serial killer.’
‘How so?’
‘Descartes understood that man needed an absolute axiom, or self-evident truth, in order to build his knowledge of the world. Without this, man is nothing. Which can be easily applied to the serial killer who, lacking self worth, is nothing. His acts therefore become a means to validate himself in the world.’
‘I see,’ said Arnold. ‘So what you really mean is the serial killer is saying, I kill, therefore I am.’
Thunderstruck sniffed. ‘I suppose you could put it like that,’ he said, and then descended into a mood which was only broken some time later when a comet struck the Earth and obliterated 80% of mankind.’

Following the tidal wave that drenched the Earth, the blast that incinerated a continent, and the freezing winter which followed the blocking out of the sun, Arnold said: ‘So tell me, Prof Thunderstruck, how can you be optimistic about this?’
‘Quite easy, my boy,’ said Thunderstruck. ‘Even in the face of the greatest adversity, a philosopher of the great standing has survived. Which means mankind will not descend to
a new Stoneage, but, through my knowledge, will go on to build again a great world.’
Which sadly wasn’t to be as, shortly after this conversation, Thunderstruck moved from HIV positive to full-blown AIDS.
‘I’m dying,’ he said as his wizened body became riddled with tumours. ‘I’m afraid I have to admit that I’m dying.’
Ever one to prove a point, Arnold said: ‘And what possible good can come of that?’
Thunderstruck looked into the eyes of his pupil and said: ‘Perhaps the greatest optimism you will ever feel.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘You are free from the crap I speak.’

(c) Anthony North, January 2008

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I’ve never watched Dancing On Ice before. However, like many of these new celebrity shows, you can read between the scripting and urges behind the celebs. For instance, even before any dancing began, I picked Suzanne Shaw to win.
How could I be so sure? Well, celebs only go on such shows to revitalize their careers, and I often play a game to decide who’s the most driven. Suzanne was young enough and good looking enough to make it. But there was more than this in my decision.

Out of the three girls in the band, Hear’Say, she’s the only one out in the cold.

And I don’t mean on the ice rink. Both Kym Marsh and Myleene Klass are doing very well, thank you very much, so Suzanne’s psychology would be – bring it on!
And she nearly won, beaten only by some Hollyoaks nobody who already knew how to skate. But my tip for the winner of the series remains Suzanne. However, I’m a bit annoyed by the show.

Phillip Schofield is good.

I like him – but as a glitzy celeb presenter, he’s no Bruce Forsyth. And this is the problem. Apart from the ‘kiddy factor’ – sorry The X Factor – ITV1 fails miserably next to BBC1 on Saturday evenings.
So what do they do? Move it to Sunday. And this is impinging on hallowed territory. Sunday has been a great success for ITV because it is the cosy night. A couple of SOAPs, a Yorkshire nicey nicey drama – Heartbeat, etc – and a gentle mystery or play, it’s my favourite night on TV.
But now I fear for my Sunday nights. In their relentless pursuit of ratings, and satisfying the younger audience, I do hope ITV don’t intend placing Saturday night glitz on Sunday cosiness as a matter of course.
If so, then it is just more contempt for the older viewer – you know, the ones who watch TV most.
Idiots.

© Anthony North, January 2008

From my Diary - WE’RE SPECIALIST CRAZY

Okay, so I have a medical complaint – I don’t, so don’t panic (apart from chronic fatigue syndrome, that is). I’m speaking metaphorically. Obviously, I would want this sorted out, and I’d want the best, wouldn’t I? I’d want to know that I’m in good hands. But do I necessarily need a specialist …
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