The Rift at the Medusa Cascade

It is over two weeks now since Kyle asked for my number. I gave it to him but it has not been used. In addition, Kyle has gone missing. He has not been seen since the 23rd September. The police will keep me informed and are 'doing all they can' but right now they say he is 'scared' and they want to talk to him quite urgently.

Best case scenario? He's got himself into terrible trouble and is hiding somewhere. Worst? The people who made the attempt on his life had another go and were successful .The police are unable to reassure me on the latter count.

I am going out of my mind with worry.

Having not heard from Kyle following his bitter and unfounded attack on me in March, I received a message from him last night. I don't know how to deal with it, to be honest. He wrote to me contritely and to tell me that he was the victim of an attempted murder six weeks ago and that it is in the hands of the police.

I need to write back to him but have no idea, no idea at all what to say. I mean . . . I was out with friends, read the message and left in shock. Am still in shock. Someone tried to kill my boy? Why? How close did they come to succeeding?


Can someone send me a copy of the Life Manual with a bookmark in the relevant chapter dealing with situations like this?

Oh, I thouht of one in time yesterday. My colleague at work told us she was shopping with her daughter. My colleague looks so young she could easily pass for her daughter's elder sister. She was telling us how this guy had been watching them all the time in this shop they were in, obviously revelling in the attention. I left a small pause and said 'That was the store detective, you realise?'

;-)

'Look at the people. Look at them.'

'Erm. Yeah. People. So what?'

'No. you're not listening. Look at them.'

'What am I looking at?'

'Them. What they're doing. Their expressions. Their body language. Everything.'

'You're freaking weird. It's a load of people. So what? They're just normal. They're doing normal things.'

'Yes! Yes, absolutely! All of them, doing things they do every day. And that's what's extraordinary!'

'What's extraordinary about reading a paper? Or falling asleep on a train? Or barging through the crowd cos you're late? Show me someone hopping along on one hand, or leaping the road "with but a single bound!" or, oh I dunno . . . playing a glockenspiel on wheels while maneuvring through the rush hour traffic while being chased by rabid rhinos, that'd be extraordinary.'

'Ok. Let's look closer. See that man?'

'The one with the black jacket and the white shoes?'

'No, thr man next to him in grey.'

'Oh. I didn't notice him.'

'I didn't think you had. Ok. Look at him. What do you see?'

'I see . . . a man in grey. He looks grey himself. He's sat there, on the bench, doing a crossword or something . . . he's, uh . . '

'go on?'

'He's frowning . . . in concentration, I suppose . . . oh, hang on . . . he's finished writing, it looks like . . . he's smiling!'

'So what does that tell you?'

'He's finished his puzzle. He's happy. He's standing up. Oh, that's weird.'

'What is?'

'He doesn't look grey any more. He looks more - visible. He's still got grey clothes on but the guy himself looks more . . . oh I dunno . . alive. He's walking off with a spring in his step. I like that!'

'Good! Now. Look at that woman. The one pushing the pram.'

'Woman? She's more of a girl. Can't be much out of her teens, if that. She's pushing a pram along, she looks tired . . the baby is crying, I can hear it from here. She looks on the edge there. '

'Yes, I'd say she does look like that, yes. Can't be easy,can it?'

'Being a teen mum? No, I suppose not. Still, she's putting one foot in front on the other, jiggling the pram as she walks along. Maybe it'll soothe the baby back to sleep.'

'Maybe. She looks like she's done it before.'

'I see hundreds of teen mums just like her and they're just . . . you know. Just another teen mum. Some girl who got herself knocked up and is bringing up a kid on state benefits. But looking at her, she's doing her best, you know? She's getting on with it.'

'That she is. Now look at him.'

'Who? Who're you pointing at - oh him?'

'Yes, the guy in the flourescent green tabard.'

'Oh those lot annoy me. They try to stop you walking along to tell you about this charity or that charity and get you to donate blah blah blah. They annoy the hell out of me.'

'Well, maybe but look at it this way. It's his job to get out there and tell people who don't want to hear all about the charity that's hired him. But this one is trying something different. Watch.'

'Ok . . . hey. He's drawing a cross on the pavement . . . he's talking to that girl - pointing at the cross - she's standing on it! He's giving her a broad grin and she's laughing! Ok, he's good, I'll give him that. He's talking to her now, showing her his clipboard and all the stuff he has but she's open, receptive, cos he broke the ice and made her laugh.'

'Yeah. He'll do that a lot today. He's not jsut trying to stop people wlaking along, saying "excuse me!", he's engaging with them and making them happy. Not a bad thing, eh?'

'No. Not at all. Look, I have a question for you.'

'Fire away.'

'Do you do this a lot? Watch people?'

'Yes, I do. Because although these people aren't top sports stars of actors or tightrope walkers or anything like that, if you look closely enough they all have a story to tell, all have something going on if you only look closely enough.'

'Neat. Hey. do you think anyone's watching us?'

'Well, yes. There's a girl over there who's been watching you for a few minutes now. She's hiding it but - little bashful glimpses every so often.'

'Wow. I'd totally have missed that!'

'People watching. It's a skill you should learn.'

'Thanks. I will! But right now, I have a girl to go and talk to!'

The last of his kind. That's what he was - standing alone, the wind blowing through his hair, spots of rain hitting his face. He felt as though there should be some sort of thoughtful, nostalgic, yet heroic music playing in the background. You know the type . . . depicting the hero's sensitive and tortured side, the horrors he had wittnessed, and his courage and tenacity in overcoming it all.

A hero.

He didn't feel like one. After all, he was the only one left. No one else had made it. What was the point? He couldn't breed (even though a few people had told him to 'go fuck yourself!' plenty of times), there was no Eve to his Adam - it was game over. No monuments to his bravery, no speeches, no one even to remember him or his kind. How awful. How dreadful. How . . . lonely.

For he was the last person alive to still drink his tea out of the saucer in the town of Bletheringstoke-upon-the-Naze.

His grandma had passed it down to him - the ancient and revered ceremony. The tea was carefully selected. None of that expensive rubbish - PG Tips, Tetley's or Typhoo were the preferred brands. The kettle would be boiled, the teapot filled and the teabags (or tea leaves if you were a traditionalist) swirled around, before the pot was left to brew. On with the tea cosy - Great Aunt Ethel's multi coloured knitted affair , of course, which also had doubled as a garish yet warm hat on cold days - to keep the pot warm.

Next, the cups and saucers would be brought out. Chipped ones were best, though the handles had to be intact. Anything else just wasn't proper. Chipped tea sets were at a premium in Bletheringstoke-upon-the-Naze, with perfect, non-chipped sets being offered at knock down prices due to 'lack of damage'. It was a sign of social status that you could afford the pre-chipped sets.

The milk would be poured in along with hideously heaped spoons of sugar. Then out would come the tea strainer - if leaves had been used - and after a strictly-observed five minute 'brew' period the tea would be poured. Care would be taken to slop the tea about so there were drips down the side of the cups but this betrayed the true purpose of the cup - as a mere staging point for the tea. For grandma would carefully raise her cup, pour a little into her saucer and slurp the tea down. She would replenish the saucer at intervals and merrily slurp the rest of the tea down, a little at a time, and often.

Thus was the ancient ritual observed, handed down from generation to generation. Timjohn had been taught well by his grandma and his mam and was a strict adherent to - one might say master of - the ceremony. For years he had happily drunk his tea this way, seeing other family members, friends, neighbours, even priests and slaughterhouse men, drink their tea in this time-honoured tradition. Then it all changed.

Timjohn was walking down the high street one morning, whistling a tuneless tune. He passed by the crockery shop, stopped, and frowned. There was something not quite right about the window. Something out of place. Like when an orchestra is playing a piece of music and the tenor sax is out of tune, or if you'd put your playlist on 'shuffle' and that Jive Bunny record you'd downloaded in a quiet lonely moment came on to embarrass you in front of your friends. Timjohn went back to the window and immediately found the source of the discord.

A big cup.

Called a mug.

WITHOUT a saucer.


Timjohn gasped at this blasphemy. A cup without a saucer? What next? Newspapers in full colour? A female Prime Minister? A T-Mobile phone that actually got a signal? Timjohn was outraged. He pulled up a cobblestone and hurled it through the window of the shop, shattering the mug. The shopkeeper rushed out, shouting and gesticulating and tearing his hair out. Well, tearing his wig off, anyway, but since it was a bright ginger curly wig he was probably better off without it, anyway.

Within moments the local constabulary had arrived to cart Timjohn off to the local nick. 'You can take away my saucers,' he yelled, 'but you can never take away my freedom!' A crowd had gathered and the saucer-slurpers harangued the coppers as they bundled the martyr into the police van. As the van sped off they turned their attention to the crockery shop, where the (now bald) owner was attempting to hide the other mugs. The crowd went berserk. They charged the shop, smashing the stock to pieces in an orgy of destruction. They set fire to the place and, lighting conveniently-placed torches and brandishing pitchforks which had been even more conveniently-placed next to the torches, went on a rampage through the town.

No house was left untouched, no office canteen was left unabused, no workman's morning left unmolsted and un-inspected. The new-fangled blasphemy of the mug must be purged! Timjohn was freed from his cell by the mob and proclaimed their leader. In a rally in the town centre they waved their saucers defiantly at the townsfolk screaming ululating war cries.

There was, inevitably, a backlash. The people of the town actually quite liked drinking out of the larger mugs and found the idea of drinking out of a saucer rather archaic. They mobilised, organised and fought back against the saucer slurpers. It was a long, bloody war and Bletheringstoke-upon-the-Naze became something of a no-go zone for outsiders. Families were split, years-long friendships forgotten, a whole community divided.

Of course, the muggists wore the slurpies down by sheer weight of numbers. You can't stop progress and presently only Timjohn was left, much as we found him at the beginning of this sorry tale. He thought back ove the war he himself had started - of the friends he had lost, of the terrible moment the muggists had burnt Great Aunt Ethel's tea cosy - with her still wearing it - of the carnage, the senseless waste and destruction. He couldn't live with it any more. It was time. He stuck his jaw out squarely, firmed his resolve and he performed the final act of a Bletheringstoke-upon-the-Naze saucer-slurper.





He took a swig from a mug.

And it was good.

who fancied a fight with a polar bear. The bear had to be named Kevin or it just wouldn't be the same, now would it. I'm surprised I had to remind you all of that. Don't you read National Geographic? Very well up on fighting polar bear names, is National Geographic. I know that and I'm British. Anyway.

The penguin, who was called Arthur, also read National Geographic. Well, he did sometimes as his subscription didn't always arrive. Those cheeky robbing albatrosses would nick his copy before he'd had chance to read it. They're bad for that. Just because they have that biiiiiig wingspan and those evil looking beaks they think they can do anything they want. Talk about attitude! Arthur didn't like albatrosses. Not even the cute one who wore the pink mini skirt and the heavy mascara. He was a traditional penguin and he considered such gaudy displays the sign of a trollop.

So. Arthur lived at the opposite pole to polar bears. BUT he'd read about them in National Geographic and so, he packed up some fish in a bundle and set off on his long journey.

Across the antarctic ice he went.

Into the antarctic ocean he glided, and swan and swam and swam.

Onto dry land at Tierra del Fuego he stumbled, clambering and hopping over rocks (for he was a rock hopper penguin, dontcha know) until he reached a road. He thumbed a lift. Well, that's not true, it can't be, can it? Penguins are not well known for having thumbs. There's a reason for this: they DON'T have thumbs. Hence them not being well known for it. Instead he had to flap a wing as only penguins can, in that stunted, barely flapping way of theirs.

Three weeks.

THREE WEEKS.

That's how long it took Arthur to get a lift. It was in an ice cream van driven by a cross dressing man named Gertrude. Conversation was, understandably, on the light side. There was Arthur, a penguin, and there was Gertrude, a man wearing a lovely gingham dress. Different people. Different worlds. They had nothing in common. Gertrude didn't even like to go fishing. The horror!

Arthur's journey took many, many months. He braved untold dangers. Dense jungles, crocodile infested rivers, freeways, byways, my ways, McDonalds, canyons, canons, cantons and cartons. None of these perils deterred our plucky, up-for-a-ruck bird. The only moment of doubt he had was when a girl scout attempted to sell him a cookie. The girl scout, in her uniform, resembled a vision in the penguin race memory of their Creator, Grandus Penguinus Kickarsius. So filled with terror was he on seeing this representation of his God that he considered going back home. But no. The vision of Kevin the polar bear was too large in his mind, the impulse to fight the beast too strong.

At length, Arthur noticed that the weather was turning colder. He had crossed into a country that the humans called 'Canadia! Home of the Mounted Beavers!' (Or was that 'Mounties and beavers? Arthur's english wasn't too good.) Thje cold winds came and the frozen tundra replaced the softer, more forgiving soils of the more southerly countries. It was polar bear country!

Arthur set to work. Mark I eyeball. That would do it! He walked and walked. He looked around him. He stopped for one of his (now smelly and very old) pre-oacked fish. He walked again. And carried on until CLONK! He walked inot a big warm mound of snow. Hang on. WARM? He stepped back and saw the mound of snow rise to its feet. It was a polar bear! A real, live, genuine polar bear!


Arthur pulled himself up to his full height and looked the polar bear dead in the eye.

'Oi, polar bear! Is your name Kevin?' he saisd in his high-pitched, penguin language.

'Blimey, this penguin's making a right old racket,' though the bear, 'I'd better shut it up fast or I'll never get to sleep.' He reached out with a huge paw, plucked Arthur up from the ground and ate him with a single gulp. Poor Arthur. If only he had known that this was Kieran the polar bear, and his cousin was named Kevin!


FIN

My dear Entwhistle,

I was distressed upon reading your letter to me that you have had a dose of, ah, shall we say 'the dreaded lurgy' and leave it at that. Some things must remain unsaid and this, my dear friend, is one of those things. Suffice to say that it is my earnest hope that the cream proves an effective remedy – and at least you have the consolidation that the affected areas are not visible to others. Though I realise that sitting down must be somewhat problematic.

I write to you from the afore-mentioned trading post at the mouth of the N'congo. We had suffered months of traipsing through the dense jungle, afflicted with flies, wild animals, cannibals and a lack of any alcohol of any kind – my last case of single malt scotch was dropped down a ravine after a porter was knocked for six by that old fool Carruthers. The whisky fell to its doom, watched helplessly by myself and the party. We had thought the porter safe; alas, the vine he had grabbed onto turned out to be a huge snake and there was no rescuing the poor chap.

So, we take our ease here, resting our weary bodies and re-provisioning before we set out once again. As I sit in my wicker chair my mind drifts back to an expedition in West Bengal when I went tiger hunting. I had equipped myself with a stout gun capable of felling an elephant. Dryden contented himself with a lighter rifle which, though accurate, was possessed of a calibre distinctly on the small side. Utterly-Bassingthwaite, though, had armed himself with the most outlandish weapon of all of us; an ancient Chinese firing piece decorated with gaudy gold and red scroll work. I feared that the weapon was as much a danger to him as it was to any tigers we may encounter.

We set out early one morning, with a party of beaters fanning out to scare the beasts from their lairs. One would imagine that such men, setting out to deliberately provoke such a fearsome creature, would be either brave or fools. They were neither; for the right amount of rupees, the men were ours and they went about their business cheerfully, without complaint. Tigers were known to be present in the mangrove swamps, so we skirted the edges of the swamps, remaining on dry ground.

We went on in this manner for some hours. The sun was high in the sky and the sticky heat required us to take regular draughts of water from our canteens. We had relaxed into a state of casualness when all of a sudden we heard a tremendous crash, accompanied by a huge roar. A beater had found a tiger!

We hurried in the direction of the noises and upon rounding a dense clump of tall grass, we saw the unfortunate beater being mauled by an enormous, ferocious tiger. So intent it was upon its helpless, screaming victim that it did not see the three of us approach, brandishing our firearms. Dryden fired first, with his little pop-gun. He hit the tiger on its hind quarters with the effect of maddening it and nothing more. Utterly-Bassingthwaite raised his gun with alacrity – alas, my fears proved entirely warranted as the gun backfired into his face. Entwhistle – I know you have seen some sights in your time but rest assured, once seen, Utterly-Bassingthwaite's scarred and, it has to be said rearranged face, is not easily forgotten.

The tremendous noise of the gun backfiring further enraged the tiger and it eyed me hungrily, seeing another victim before it. I calmly raised my gun, aimed, squeezed the trigger and fired. I hit the creature smack in its chest, killing it in a second. It fell, quite dead, onto the beater it had mauled. He appeared to be waving at me – I had to admire the sang froid of the man. I shook his outstretched had as he gibbered at me in his own dialect. I assumed he was congratulating me on a good kill. I was not to find out truth of this however, as he died shortly thereafter. Ah, those were the days, Entwhistle. I bagged more tigers on that trip and mounted their heads on the wall of my study. Though one wonders quite how many tigers one could bag using one of the new maxim guns!

Pip-pip and God Save Queen Victoria.

. . . is Matt Smith.

Terry has been knighted.


Superb!

My dear Entwhistle,

felicitations to you. I do hope the carbuncle on tthe part of your body that you will not name (I suspect your nose to the site site of the affliction) is responding to the ministrations of your physician. Carbuncles can be nasty things and a man of your social standing should not be seen with a carbuncle-afflicted physique in public. Stout heart, Entwhistle, stout heart.

For my part, I am very much afraid that we have lost Frobisher. He was taken in the night by parties, or agencies, unknown to us. Not a sound was heard, not a soul was disturbed. One of the bearers told mem in his pidgen english, that local tribes of cannibals infest the jungle in these parts and we greatly fear that it was the fiends that were responsible for the abduction. If that is indeed the case, then poor Frobisher has long since been boiled in a cooking pot and thence devoured. One trusts, however, that Frobisher did his duty as an Englishman to the last and gave the bally rascals severe indigestion.

We pressed on, eager to be away from the area. Our native guides led us expertly through the dense undergrowth, though one occasionally thouht one discerned dark faces with bright eyes peering at us through the trees. Most disconcerting! We kept our firearms at the ready, yet if any cannibalistic coves entertained ideas of eating the rest of us they seemed too timid to attack. For that, we were grateful.

We made for the trading post at the mouth of the N'congo. From there we aimed to rest, resupply and gather ourselves for the next Great Leg of our expedition: to find the legendary Elephant's Graveyard! Given the widespread nature of the elephant population one supposes that there must be several of these graveyards. It is said that when an elephant nears the end of its life some unfathomable instinct draws it to an ancestral home, a hallowed place where the creatures lay themselves down to rest. The jungle creatures, it is said, give these places a wide berth, shrouded as they are in mystery and a powerful sense of reverance.

Imagine it, Entwhistle - a whole pile of elephant bones, undisturbed, with all those tusks! Ivory galore my dear chap, ivory galore! This expedition becomes more lucrative by the minute. On that note, I shall close this letter. Night is falling and we must set a close watch upon our camp lest we are visited again in the night. I tell you, Entwhistle, if some bally cannibal chappie attempts to eat me he will find himself on the wrong end of my elephant gun!

Pip-pip and God Save Queen Victoria!

I would like to make it clear that I was in despair at Humanity in general, not anyone in particular - and certainly not anyone on my friends list here. I apologise if anyone did take it personally; that was not my intent.

Entwhistle my dear old thing,

It is my earnest desire that this missive finds you in good spirits, considerably better spirits than your humble correspondent. As you may recall, I have been exploring the Dark Continent for some months now and along the way have encountered a good many Very Strange Things, Thrilling Adventures, Perilous Dangers and the odd bout of 'Jungle Tummy'. As we have traipsed and hacked our way through the dense foliage, our trusty porters and bearers accompanying us and ably carrying our supplies, we have made Amazing Discoveries. Alas, though, of the Lesser-Spotted Gryphon there is not a sign.

The incident of which I write to you occurred two days ago. A near-disastrous calamitous occurrence and, as one would have been willing to wager, it was that old duffer Carruthers again. The bumbling nincompoop lost his footing and slipped. Unwilling to slow our progress, I sent the party on ahead while I remained to pull Carruthers to his feet. As I reached down my hand to assist him, he grasped hold of it and promptly slithered further down the slope onto which he had stumbled. The buffoon took me with him and in no time were rolling and cartwheeling downwards towards the N'congo river. As I tumbled I noticed the avaricious eyes and mouths of crocodiles awaiting us at the bottom. I cursed Carruthers for a fool and made my peace with our Lord.

Just when all hope seemed lost, when the crocodiles' teeth loomed large (and when - I am ashamed to have to report - Carruthers soiled himself) a strange yodelling manifested itself. Yet the sound came from a yodeller unlike any I have yet encountered. Instead of the usual paraphernalia one would associate with yodellers, this chap was sporting only a loin cloth. He swung on a vine and grabed hold of myself and Carruthers with one hand and swung us to safety. What phenomenal strength! What athletic prowess!

We owed him our lives. We attempted to thank him, yet he could not speak the Queen's English - not a bally word. Naturally, we shot the blighter in the foot, bound him and sealed him in a cage. We intend to return him to London and show him in a travelling fair. Should make us a pretty penny or two, what!

Pip-pip and God Save Queen Victoria.

In my experience, even the seemingly nicest of people with no ill intentions are capable of being utter cunts. This has led me to the conclusion that there is little or no hope for the human race and the sooner our species destroys itself and surrenders the planet to what is left of the flora and fauna the better.

First time in a while. It was very wet, the rain came bucketing down all of a sudden. The road was being resurfaced and I lost it. Role call this time: grazes to leg, shoulder and arm, bruises to thigh, arm and back, busted helmet, bad limp as my right leg is pretty much in agony whenever I try to walk.

The point of this post (apart from a blatant attempt to gain sympathy! ;-) ) is this. The side of my head hit the deck very hard. My helmet took the impact, all I have is a mild headache. If I hadn't been wearing the helmet my head itself would have hit the road and I'd have been knocked out at least - bearing in mind my temple would have been the impact area maybe it would have been worse. If you cycle - WEAR YOUR HELMET. They are not simply an accessory - they can prevent injury. Mine has - twice.

Jay Z, of all people, put it in a most poetic and apt way:

'Rosa Parks sat so Muartin Luther King could walk. Martin Luther King walked so Barack Obama could run. Barack Obama is running so we can fly.'


It is indeed a shame that Dr King could not witness this moment, to see a black man electred as Preseident on a ticket of uniting all the people of America. I wish him luck in his task and hope that he manages to live up to some of the hype.

'nuff said.

David revelaed thid evening at the National Television Awards that he is to leave after the four specials next year. He said:

"When Doctor Who returns in 2010 it won't be with me. The 2009 shows will be my last playing the doctor.

"If I don't take a deep breath and move on now, I never will."

Speaking about his time on the show, Tennant added: "It has been the most brilliant and life-changing time. But it's not over yet, I have a whole other year to go.

"Thank you for being so enthusiastic about the show, for watching it, and loving it."





:-(

It snowed this evening. I took a photo from my bedroom window.

16th July 1944 - 17th October 1994


"I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain."