WHAT HE WISHED FOR

Gerry St John Smyth was fed up of his wife.  He’d told her he needed adventure and passion, but she acted like he was part of the furniture.  It wasn’t as if Elizabeth wouldn’t have sex, but it was always in the missionary position and – well – there were things Gerry wanted to try while he still could.

There was a possibility, Carmen and Louisa were two ladies who volunteered at the same National Trust premises Elizabeth and Gerry did.  They shared Gerry’s love of history and often went with him for drinks, while Elizabeth went home to make dinner.  Gerry hoped his wife didn’t know, but he had such thoughts about Carmen and Louisa.   ‘We do everything together’, they frequently told him – apparently they met up with men on the internet and got up to all sorts ...

“I would love to do the things you do,” Gerry stated one evening, “I’ve asked her again and again, but Elizabeth won’t, you know.”
“What won’t she?” Carmen asked.
“Well, er, she won’t do ...”
“Blow jobs?” Louisa enquired
“Anal?” pressed Carmen.
“We love giving blow jobs and a bit of anal,” Louisa stated, “don’t we Carmen?”
Gerry had problems walking across the bar to get the next round in, he was about to order drinks, when Carmen came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his ample waist and suggested hiring the room upstairs for a few hours - they’d be terribly discreet. 
Gerry thought it was the chance of a life time, sex with two liberated younger women and his wife would never find out.
Upstairs in the unfurnished room he wondered how to start, would one be offended if he kissed the other first?  He needn’t have worried; Carmen pushed him down on the floor and tore off his shoes, while Louisa set about stripping off his shirt.
“Whoa!   Ladies!  Steady on!” he cried, but before he knew it, he was naked on his front and Carmen was walking across his back in her stilletos, while Louisa sounded like she was rumaging in a bag; “Found it!” she called triumphantly.
“Found what?  Carmen, your heels,” moaned Gerry, the metal caps were digging into his flesh.
Then he felt something lashing his buttocks, Louisa was whipping him!
“Gerry, turn over!” Carmen ordered after a while, stepping off.  He obeyed nervously, at least Louisa had stopped beating him.  Carmen put his half flaccid penis in her mouth and sucked very hard.
“Ow!” he yelled, “can’t you be gentle?”
“I’m too overcome with passion!” purred Carmen, her red finger nails digging into his balls.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gerry saw Louisa holding a large black vibrator in her hands; “Are you ready for your anal?” she asked him.  He pushed Carmen off him rather abruptly, leapt to his feet and grabbed his trousers, he almost ran to the door, putting them on as he went, red faced and flustered.  “You two ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” he cried, putting on his shoes and picking up his shirt and jacket.
Louisa and Carmen regarded him in disappointment; “But Gerry, we thought you wanted adventure and passion,” Louisa said sadly.
At home he sank into bed next to Elizabeth in relief.  He held her for a long time; “I love you, old girl,” he said.
“I love you too, Gerry,” replied Elizabeth happily.  When he’d fallen asleep, she reached over and took her mobile phone from the bedside table, there was a text waiting for her; “Did it work?  Carmen xxx”
“I believe so!  I do hope you did all I told you to.  Looking forward to lunch tomorrow.  Elizabeth xxx”.

PHEASANTTSSZZZ

At the end of Friday, Roger opened the office hole puncher and scattered little paper circles over the floor, lazy ass of a cleaner wouldn’t vacuum otherwise.  Strange gypsy creature, came from Eastern Europe, country was full of foreigners, didn’t feel like England anymore.  Roger replaced the hole puncher and turned, there the cleaner was looking at him.  Had she seen what he’d done?  Embarrassed he made conversation; “Ah, you’re in early.  It’s the weekend, what?  Off to do something interesting tomorrow?”
“I am working.  What are you doing?”
“Shooting, supposedly, weather’s stormy, damn birds may not fly.  They’re very stupid - pheasants,” he looked at her, thinking of pheasants with the h missing and putting her into that category.
The cleaner hesitated a moment, then said; “They’ll fly at sedaH Park.”
“Cedar Park?  Never heard of the place.”
“sedaH Park.  They need birds culled, shooting is free.  You can eat them afterwards.”

It was blowing a gale and raining at Roger’s friend’s estate.  He wasn’t perturbed, in fact the weather challenged his marksmanship, but the birds didn’t fly.  He mentioned sedaH Park to his friends, but they wanted to go to the pub.  So he drove alone as directed, down a tiny country lane that got narrower and narrower, until he reached a large entrance.  On the pillars either side were two statues of large scary looking pheasants.  As a man pulled the gate open, the window of Roger’s Range Rover slid down; “Hello there, come to shoot, told it’s free.”

The man said nothing, he pointed down the lane with a thin gloved hand, his body completely covered by waterproofs and his face concealed by a large hood.
On Roger drove, he saw a sign for a car park and pulled in; his was the only vehicle there.  Normally his chocolate labrador, Buster would come bounding eagerly out when he opened the boot, but Buster cowered whining.  “What’s wrong with you, old boy?  Fed up of the weather, what?  Out you come!” ordered Roger.
Buster emerged reluctantly.  He padded at Roger’s heels, tail still, into a field surrounded by woods, the only sound was the hoarse cries of pheasants calling to one another.
“Where are the bloody beaters?” wondered Roger, but at that moment, a pheasant broke cover and flew into the windy sky.  He raised his gun and fired, first kill of the day.  The bird fell into the trees.
“Go on!” Roger ordered and Buster loped off to retrieve the body.
Pheasant after pheasant followed.  Good old whatshername the cleaner, she’d given him an excellent tip.  “Buster!” he called into the rain, suddenly aware his dog hadn’t returned, “Buster, where are you, old chap?”
Suddenly he noticed something, the sky had blackened and appeared to be moving.  He realised what had caused it, hundreds of pheasants were overhead and flying towards him, wings whirring, to his horror he saw the corpse of a pheasant he’d just shot suddenly, awkwardly take flight and join its comrades.  He rubbed the rain out of his eyes; “Can’t be,” he muttered, raising his gun.  He fired again and again, but the enormous flock of birds kept on coming.  “What the ...?” the first one swooped at him, knocking off his hat and bumping his head hard; “Ow!” shouted Roger outraged, he couldn’t believe it, these stupid pheasants were attacking him.  “Help!” he yelled, but his cry was cut off, a pheasant dived straight into his face and pushed its head and neck into Roger’s open mouth, beak tearing at his throat.  Roger fell backwards, dropping his gun and they were upon him, his body a mess of pheasant feathers, blood pouring into his windpipe, he couldn’t breathe.  The last thing he saw was the beak of a pheasant coming down towards his eye, he tried to close it, but the beak tore on through the lid and the pheasant grasped its prize, Roger’s eyeball.

Once the pheasants had finished their meal, they dispersed, wandering around the field idlely, pecking at seeds, like game birds do when they’re being left alone.  Buster came back from the woods and dropped the corpse of a pheasant his master had shot next to what remained of Roger.

LIGHTS OFF

I stand on the flat roof of the empty tenement and sniff, the bleak November air is rain heavy.  I can squander the water.  The light is dying, I must hurry.  I carry the collection of large saucepans, tupperware tubs and plastic containers downstairs in several journeys.  Then I light a fire in my flat for warmth, I am freezing under layers of clothes, but fire fuel is hard to find and I’m not particularly good at igniting them from scratch.  I boil the potatoes I stole from the nearest Society commune.

I’ve survived here for eleven months since Lights Off day.  The people in the Societies say it was an electromagnetic pulse that fried everything, all the circuits, all the little chips.  Well whatever, there’s no more electricity which means no gas, no digital or analogue systems, nothing.  It’s dangerous for me to stay alone, but I don’t want to go and live in a Society - it’s funny how things revert once technology is lost, all remnants of civilisation slip away.  Men are the physically stronger so they rule and we’re a commodity.  Even though so many have died in childbirth, the urge to keep breeding continues.

I eat, the room is warm, I strip and wash myself with freezing water, the fire is slowly dying; I’ve no fuel to light another one, so I dress quickly.  I sing as I return the water containers to the roof - a popular tune from before, when there was music, office jobs, Friday nights out with the girls ...

Later I hear noise downstairs.  Someone is in my building.  I manage to get up before the door is kicked in.  From the last ember light I make out the silhouette of a man; “You have food?”

“I have nothing,” I answer.
He comes in anyway, closing and barricading the door with my furniture.  It’s completely dark now, I can hear him breathing.  “I heard you singing before,” he said, “I used to like that song.”  His hands find me in the dark, as I try to hide against the wall.  He presses his body against me, “I’ve been lonely; will you help with that?”
I feel his lips on mine and take in the scent of him, his tongue slides into my mouth.  I don’t protest, he asked for consent (I think), that’s unusual, he might be all right.  He’s tall and his body is lean, bones against my bones.  I run my hands through his thick hair and hear him moan softly as he senses my compliance.  The desire grips me then, desperation for some fierce taste of joy in these dark nights of nothing.  I lead him through the blackness to my bed, laughing a little when we stumble over stuff.  “I’ve been alone too,” I say as we lay down, him over me.  I buck my hips against his, feeling his desire for ... well, a woman, he hasn’t seen me nor I, him.

Afterwards we lay together, his arms are round me and I can hear the rain against the window, upstairs the supply of water will be replenished.  We'll drink tomorrow then and perhaps find fuel and food together.  I hope he’ll stay.  I await dawn and the weak light of the winter sun which will show me the face of my new lover.

THE WATCHTHING

How many signs do I have to put up warning people about this place?  A mile up the road at the top, is the first, a skull and crossbones and a simple DANGER, DO NOT PASS BEYOND THIS POINT.  The next is more explicit – DOOM LIES AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS HILL.  Drivers of cars that have passed the first sign, start thinking of turning at the second.  Most but the very curious turn round at the third – A PIT OF FIRE AWAITS YE - I have drawn a picture of a pit of fire below the writing, just in case they don’t know what one looks like.

Beyond the third sign, the slippery slope becomes steep enough to put any motorist off.  Many get out of their cars and walk down a bit, just to have a look, but usually stop when they arrive at my cabin, because I scream at them.

“DOOOOOMMMM!  YOU ARE GOING TO YOUR DEATH!  YOU WILL END UP IN THE ETERNAL TORMENT OF HELL IF YOU CONTINUE!”
Occasionally people do go on, which is why I’m wondering what else I’ve got to do to put them off.  I mean, surely my demonic appearance frightens them.  However, so many different varieties of characters pass me – curious teens being the most common.  Sometimes middle aged men suited and booted and looking as though their lives are completely on track just drive on down the slope at speed, a glazed look in their eyes.  On other occasions it’s a group of football fans drunk and up for violence all going down there on foot, picking their way at first, then sliding.  And women in party dresses and heels, tiptoeing carefully, looking shocked when I see and shout at them, but continuing anyway, sometimes saying entreatingly to me ‘Sssh!  I know’.  Other times it’s a more quirky crowd – philosophers, depressed artists, beatniks and the terminally bored.  They go down there and they don’t come back.  It’s really irritating.  I mean why do they do it?  Should I put up more signs?  Is the wording wrong?

Here comes one now careering down the hill, on a bicycle of all things, legs stretched out in front of ... her?  It’s a woman!  Good God!  A woman cycling down a slope only the most adventurous extreme sports people would attempt.  She’s flinging off her helmet and letting her bright hair catch the rays of the setting sun.  “Wooo hooo!” she cries as she catches sight of me.

“DOOOOOMMMM!  YOU ARE GOING TO YOUR ...”
There isn’t even time for me to finish my sentence, she’s gone without hesitation.  I can hear her laughter.  One of those women of spirit no doubt.  Well, that’ll teach her.  I languish in my cabin, replaying the moment she flashed by in my mind.

Time has passed, it’s night now and all is quiet, no-one else has come down here today.  The full moon is shining on the road and the hedges cast dark shadows.  My ears prick up, I can hear someone walking slowly, but they are coming from the wrong direction, surely?  Nobody comes up the hill, because no-one ever comes back!  In panic, I race out of my cabin and stare.  It’s her, she’s standing right in the middle of the road, in broad moonlight, her bicycle is gone, her feet are bare and black and she’s smoking a cigarette.  Her face is pale, the eyes red rimmed; “Well, that was character building,” she says to me.

“But – but,” I search for the words, I’m so used to only saying the one sentence, that I can’t remember the language for what I want to ask and end up saying it all in the wrong order; “no-one alive there gets out of!”
She laughs softly; “Who says I was ever alive?”  She turns and saunters up the hill, swinging her hips and dragging on her cigarette.  I watch her until she is out of sight.

SPACE INVADERS

They line up above me, row upon row of aliens, moving slowly from one side to the other, looking rather menacing, gradually getting further down and closer to me.  No problem.  I have a gunship and there are battlements to dive behind to avoid the laser fire.  Don’t worry Player 2, I’ll handle everything, it’ll all be OK.  Woo hooo!  Shooting them is fantastic, these aliens are dying.  I’ve even destroyed one of their faster moving flying saucers – 500 bonus points for me!  Slight problem, as there become less of them, they move faster and this last one is pretty pesky – ah, got it!  Game over.

Wha-aa-aat?!  Another set of aliens, exactly the same?  No way!  Oh my God, they are moving faster.  Where are you Player 2?  You want to sit this one out as well?  OK, I’ll give it my best.  I’ve got plenty of energy and ammunition ... yeah, it’s not too bad, I’m destroying them.  Didn’t get the bonus points this time though, saucer was too fast and I was kind of busy.  The aliens got a bit closer too, especially that last one at the end who went mentally fast, but hey, I did it!  Phew!  Problem solved.

NOOOO!!!  Another bunch of those fucking aliens!  Where the hell are you Player 2?  You’re seriously leaving me alone to deal with this?  I don’t have much ammunition and my enthusiasm is waning, this is so monotonous, once more the same problem, same aliens, same solution – bang, bang, bang!  Oh they’re getting nearer faster and don’t even mention the flying saucer, there’s no way I’ll even get a shot at it.  I’m so tired!  Nearly there.  If I can just get that last one, but he’s right on top me.  Wow!  That was close, I only just made it, the battlements are crumbling too, there’s little cover.  Still, I’ve done it right?  Are we OK now?

Oh shit!  Aliens!  Thousands of them! Same thing a-fuckin-gain!  I’m exhausted, I can’t do it, not on my own.  Player 2 has gone God knows where and I’m left, cowering behind what’s left of the battlements, dodging the laser fire raining down on me.  I can’t do this anymore.  They’re moving so fast, even if I had any ammunition or energy left to shoot my guns, I’d miss, I’ve no confidence.  They keep coming back.  I give up.  I’m going to sit here and let them come down and destroy me.

WOLF! WOLF!

I run down the main street, making my presence known, letting them see me.  I stop in the town square, point my nose to the sky and howl out of sheer frustration for the secret woods and dark trees that used to be my hunting ground, where you could have a nice private moment to make your kill.

They stare, these women in red and their woodcutter husbands.  Their old adversary is back.  They thought they could make their world safe by cutting down the forests, by setting up cameras in every private room and by arming their women with smartphones, but I’m here in their city of surveillance now, I’m hungry and I will rise to the challenge.  I'll find a nice, private place to slay Red Riding Hood.

THE ROLLING NEWS

“And we turn again to our breaking top story this hour of the Tory peer Lord Farquhar walking on the grass at Kew.  As you can see from the pictures, the sign clearly states ‘Do Not Walk On The Grass’ and there he goes, strolling across it ...”
“Do you think he realised, Charlie?  I mean, it almost shows spectacular arrogance or at the very least a lack of consideration, trampling over those young grass shoots.”
“Well this is it, Suzannah, I don’t know how he can expect to get away with it.  There you are, there it is again, pictures of Tory peer Lord Farquhar walking on the grass at Kew with the sign clearly in evidence there ‘Do Not Walk On The Grass’.”
“In the studio with us are Dr Elizabeth Fescue, an expert on grass from Kew and one of Lord Farquhar’s associates, Lord Juglan.  Welcome to the studio.”
“We turn to you first, Lord Juglan – as we watch there the Tory peer Lord Farquhar walking on the grass at Kew and the sign that clearly states that he’s not allowed to do so.  A catastrophic mistake?  Or a complete and utter lack of respect for young grass?”
“Well, well, Charlie, I’d say it’s a mistake really.  Lord Farquhar as you can see isn’t really looking where he’s going ...”
“But shouldn’t he be aware of where he’s going?  Isn’t it important that someone as high up as Lord Farquhar watches constantly where he’s going?  How can people have confidence in ...”
“Now, now Suzannah, dear, it’s impossible to expect high up Tory Peers to constantly watch where they are going at all times.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Lord Juglan, as we show you the pictures again of Lord Farquhar, walking across the grass at Kew, that young, tender grass and Lord Farquhar’s feet crushing it with the sign clearly in evidence there – Do Not Walk on the Grass.”
“Dr Fescue, how does it make you feel?”
“Well, Suzannah, it’s awful, really awful.  We were delighted to receive him at Kew, but then, then he tramples on our grass shoots in that arrogant way, I mean for Lord Juglan to claim he wasn’t looking where he was going, well I’m sorry, it’s not an excuse.  I’m devastated and sickened by this – this betrayal of our trust and ...”
“Lord Farquhar is a peer, a busy man with a busy life, you cannot expect him to know where he’s going at all times, let alone watch where he’s putting his feet!”
“Lord Juglan!  Please do not interrupt me!  ...”
“I think our viewers feel very strongly about this, as we show you the pictures again of Lord Farquhar walking across the grass at Kew with the sign, clearly in evidence there.  Suzannah, we have viewer’s texts on this, don’t we?”
“Yes, Charlie, we do.  We have one from Jane from Kent saying it shows breath taking arrogance, one from Clive from Hertfordshire stating that he should resign immediately and one from Matt from Scotland saying why the bleep are we reporting ...”
“Ah, sorry to interrupt, Suzannah, new pictures of Lord Farquhar the Tory peer walking across the grass at Kew, the sign is even more paramount in this – you can see clearly, it says ‘Do Not Walk On The Grass’.  Now, we’ll come back to this story straight after the weather.  Good grass growing weather, is it, Carol?”

THE MONSTER

If you must wake the monster, you’d better feed her.  She isn’t the type to take one chocolate biscuit from a packet, put it on a plate and nibble it while watching Countdown, she’ll wolf the whole packet back within half an hour.  The monster won't stop at one glass of whisky or one cup of tea, she can’t play her music softly, if she gets on the dance floor she’s there all night and you must be too.

Don’t expect to make love to the monster, you’d better fuck me, hard and properly, don’t you dare prop yourself up on your elbows and give me half of your attention.  I’m not going to settle for that.  I don’t want a part of you, I want everything and you’d better be your whole self or you’ll end up with the scratch marks of frustration down your back.

We’re standing naked, facing each other.  You’re in the corner of the bedroom looking at me rather nervously; you didn’t expect to find an aggressive, demanding monster inside such a fluffy, sunny natured woman.  Well this is your fault, you woke me and now the question is; can you cope?

THE EMOTION VAMPIRE

Monday - I was confident in Jo, she’s sweet and positive with boundless energy.  So, I didn’t see a problem when Mother invited herself down for a whole five days.  It was time Jo met her and I was convinced she’d survive.  My work as a systems engineer is paramount, it takes me round the country and involves long hours; I couldn’t take time off to spend with Mother.
“Don’t worry,” said Jo smiling, “I’ll take her round Hampshire.  It’ll be fun!”
Mother arrived on the train from Scotland, her face pale and drawn, her hooded eyes dull.  She dawdled through the door, without complimenting our new house or introducing herself to Jo.
“Such a long journey,” she complained, “you live so far away.  Somebody sat in my reserved seat.  I had to stand for ages.  The train was so noisy.”
Mother’s moaning washed over me like toddler’s prattle.  Jo, on the other hand, sympathised.  She made Mother a lovely meal, Mother took one spoonful, pulled a face and pushed the rest of it round her plate.  This didn’t surprise me as Mother doesn’t eat, but Jo was disappointed.

Tuesday - I returned from work to find Mother looking a little better, she was complaining of course, about the amount of litter in Portsmouth docks and the customer service in the restaurant, apparently they’d had to wait ages, but there was a little more colour in her cheeks.  Jo’s smile was rather strained, her welcome home kiss brief.  “It’s been a long day,” she whispered.

“How did it go?”
“Oh, it was fun,” but her voice lacked conviction.

Wednesday - Jo took me aside.  “I’m not feeling too well,” she stated, “I think I’m coming down with something.  Is there any way, you can take some time off?  I need to rest at home.”

“I’m sorry, love, but I’m really busy,” I answered, “just send Mother off on her own tomorrow.”
“I can’t do that, it’ll spoil her trip,” Jo replied gamely, “I’ll manage.  It’s strange she doesn’t eat anything.”
“She doesn’t need to,” I remarked as I went through to the sitting room, Mother had overcome her listlessness of earlier days, she was sitting upright, examining a purchase she’d made.  Apparently they’d trailed round shop after shop at West Quays looking for a particular jumper in a specific size.  After hours and hours, they’d found it.  “I think I’ll take it back tomorrow,” she complained, “the wool isn’t very soft.”
Jo shot her a very nasty look and I was surprised, it just wasn’t like her.

Thursday - Jo stood in the hallway, as I came through the door.  “I can’t do it!”

“What do you mean?”  I stared at her pale face, there were dark shadows under her eyes.
“She’s draining the life out of me!  The constant moaning, I can’t stand it!  I’m going to say something, I really am!”
“Don’t you like my mother?” I asked.
She gave me an anguished look; “I want to.”
“Try harder,” I advised and went through to the living room.  Mother was looking so well, glowing cheeks, bright eyes.  Jo was doing a great job, if only she could hold on for just for one more day.

Friday - Mother greeted me in the hall.  She was brimming with cheerfulness and positivity; “It’s been a fine enough day,” she smiled, “we went round the New Forest.  It’s so pretty.  Shame about those manky, scraggy ponies.”

In the sitting room, Jo was lying on the couch, she didn’t want to eat and could barely speak.  I left her to it and shared a takeaway with Mother.  The next day, Mother returned home in a whirl of energy, leaving me with Jo, who like all my previous girlfriends, has changed, from a lively, positive, energetic person into a negative, moaning old bag.  I am so disappointed in her.

DEATH BY CAKE

“Where’s the cake come from?” cried Laura, as she waltzed in Monday morning.
I pretended not to know, but I was rewarding them for going on a night out without inviting me, because I was fat and they were embarrassed to be seen with me.  I’d made a wonderful sticky chocolate cake, its smell pervaded the office.  I intended to put them on a diet.
Later, Mandy circled the cake, deliberating over calories and fat content, but she was the office fittie, she’d go running later and work it all off.  Secure in this belief, she tucked in and the others followed.  Later in the afternoon, there was an unfortunate accident, Mandy tripped over a heater that had been left in the way of her desk by someone and twisted her ankle, poor thing, no more running for six weeks.  On Tuesday they came in to find cookies.
“Where are these from?” asked Greta, sniffing them and making appreciative noises.
I shrugged; “Boss, I guess.  It’s a Tuesday morning pick me up!”
I’d made them the night before and I’d ground some weight gain supplements into the mix.
So, it went on, it’s funny how habits form, they soon got used to their daily treats – cupcakes, chocolates gateaux, cream slices, cookies, biscuits ... They stopped asking where they were from and took it for granted that there’d always be a tempting indulgence on every desk.  Pretty soon, they couldn’t drink their morning coffee or afternoon tea unaccompanied by something sweet and if anyone was stuck, I soon provided a justification.  “It’s been a hard day”, “Mandy needs comfort food for her ankle pain”, “Surely you need something to get you through that nightmare meeting”.

I watched their bodies changing.  Adding huge quantities of sugar and butter, plus the weight gain supplements to my baking really did the trick.  As they got bigger, they became miserable and ate more, two or three treats a day, while I stuck to my salad.  Mandy’s beautifully toned legs became flabby, her thighs chafed as she walked, she didn’t fancy going back to her exercise regime when her ankle healed, she was too embarrassed.  Greta could no longer get into her midriff exposing tops, because there was too much midriff to expose.  Laura got bingo wings at the tender age of nineteen and Clare, poor Clare, Clare’s chair collapsed.  They stopped going on their nights out and started talking about diets.  Oh, they tried to be healthy, but they just got hungry and the baking I brought in smelt so good.  My weight fell off and they noticed, they envied my will power and my wardrobe.

It’s been months now and I find myself the thin one.  I’m bringing them cream cakes today at 7am, I’ll leave once I’ve arranged them round the desks and return just after they do, so they won’t suspect me.  I’ll leave the chocolate eclairs next to Mandy’s desk, they’re her favourite ....

“I thought it was you,” a voice interrupts.  I turn, Mandy is standing there; “girls, I was right!” she’s glaring at me.  In come Greta, Laura and Clare, their pudgy faces furious, eyes narrow.
“You did this to us!  You made us fat!” accuses Greta.
“Look what you’ve done to our bodies!” shrieks Clare.
“Let’s get her!” suggests Laura.
“It’s time for you to eat!” Mandy snarls.
Before I can run, they surround me, cream cakes in hand, I try to push passed them, but they grab me, slamming me down on a desk.  Greta forces open my jaw and Mandy shoves the first cake in, an iced doughnut.  I can’t escape from all their combined weight.  I try to tell them I can’t breathe, but a cream horn from Clare follows and Laura is pinching my nose closed.
“Eat them!” orders Mandy, but her voice is from far away, I can’t breath, the room is darkening, there’s cream in my lungs, sugar up my nose and pastry in my mouth ... it’s been so long since I had a treat, it feels really good ...

WORK LIFE BALANCE

One day I picked up a pen and couldn’t put it down.  It stuck to my fingers, my mind was invaded by the thoughts I used to have when I read ghost stories by torch light.  They shoved everything else aside.

So, I took some paper, sat down and began writing everything down.  Suddenly this was all I wanted to do, I no longer wanted to go to work, do the housework or go out with my friends.  I called in sick, I sat and wrote, stopping only when I was exhausted or hungry.  Around me the world turned, the dust fell on the previously immaculate shelves, the cats left hairs on the carpet, they mewed for attention and rubbed themselves against my legs, but I didn’t notice.  The phone started to ring, at one point someone came to the door, I didn’t answer.  Dishes piled up in the kitchen, the date of my exam came and passed, letters went unopened.

I had to get the thoughts out, had to set them free and this was the only way I knew how to do it, but the more I wrote, the more ideas I had.

One day I stopped and looked round.  All was silent, the cats had gone, there was water coming through the ceiling, it was bitterly cold because they’d cut the electricity and the gas off.  My boss had stopped phoning, they’d found someone who could concentrate on her work.  I thought maybe I should do something about this, start off small, open a letter or wash a plate ... but when I tried to get up I realised the muscles on my legs had decayed and I couldn’t move, couldn’t shake the pen from my fingers.  So, I carried on writing.

A WINTER'S PARTY

I met you at some random party.  It was so warm inside, loads of people, all crushed up together.  Alcohol, food and talk, talk, talk, much of it boring.  I guess if you go to enough of these doos you hear the same conversations over and over again and they all morph into one.  Money, mortgages, property prices; the things that stick us to our commitments until we’re paralysed.

I was happy enough until you touched me.  I can’t remember when or how, but I looked into your face and that was it.  I saw amongst that talk of work and wealth, the freedom of winter - you changed the season in my soul.

“Come and play in the snow,” you said or maybe I did.

We left the warmth of the house and crossed the road, just the two of us.  The black ice made the going treacherous; I had to hold onto your arm.  The Church was opposite us, you kissed me under the lych gate.  I glanced back at the house, afraid my husband had come out to look for me, but he was still inside, no doubt he was engrossed in discussing his pension plan.

The cold was bitter, it was snowing in the graveyard, the flakes made a shroud that concealed us as we made love on a tombstone.  I was scared to look at the name on it, in case it was mine.

THE ROBOT

I am a loathsome, repulsive, ugly, self indulgent individual, nobody likes me and I hate people. Obviously you socialise or you don’t survive, so many years ago I had an idea. I would create a robot who I could live inside and the robot would be pretty and frivolous and fun and nice to everyone, while I sat inside it free to think my own thoughts and pursue my hobbies. I programmed the robot with three basic commands:-
1) Be pretty, frivolous, fun and nice to everyone.

2) Take time to listen to people, they like talking about themselves, be kind to them and help whenever you’re needed.

3) Never betray me, never tell them what I’m thinking.

The idea was that the robot would take over my body and go to work or wherever and be my social face. This worked really well. The robot was universally loved by everyone. I was lost in awe over how she could be so unfailingly positive about everything and so amazingly nice. I wondered why people didn’t want to throw up all over the robot, she was so fucking lovely. She helped people when they needed her and genuinely seemed to care about them. She was invited to all the best parties - the in-crowd which had shunned me thought she was fantastic. When I came home, I could dispense with the robot and be myself, but time for this became shorter and shorter, what with all the people phoning, visiting etc, there was very little time left for me. She stuck so faithfully to that third rule; I could never express myself at any time, except when I was alone.

The robot fell in love and got married to a really nice guy. Would I have fallen in love with him? I don’t know. A guy like that wouldn’t have even looked at me. Besides, it didn’t really matter, the sort of men I fall in love with have always been unobtainable; so the robot may as well get a chance for happiness, while I indulge in dreams and fantasies of others ... Everyone said how gorgeous the robot looked in her wedding dress. She shone that day, going round smiling at all of them. I wanted to vomit.

Now, the robot is a popular, successful business woman with a wonderful husband and friends. Obviously, he’s always around now, so there’s no time for me. I am trapped inside her, looking at the world through her eyes, watching her be such a saint and going through her motions. There’s no escape, because like I say, she never betrays me. She’s done such an amazing job and I hate her for it. No-one knows who I am. I may as well not exist. I am ... lonely.

TEXTUAL RELATIONSHIP

Well, that was a lucky escape, wasn’t it?  I never would have guessed you were so squeamish, such a prude, that you’d be frightened off by my suggestive text.

I mean, you started the bloody conversation in the first place; all I was doing was entering into the spirit of it.  Is it that you’re the only one who’s allowed to be rude and lewd, that as soon as you hear it back from a woman suddenly you’re scared?  Sorry – was I supposed to act all embarrassed and give a feminine giggle?  Well, that’s quite difficult by text.  Perhaps I should have sent you an emoticon, a yellow face with red cheeks and a shy smile.  Would that have been what you wanted?  Well, it’s all academic now, isn’t it?  I didn’t send you an emoticon, did I?  I sent you a picture of my tits.  It’s been ages now and you haven’t replied.

SHOOOEEEESSSSZZZZ

“My weekend?  Sweet of you to ask.  Dinner Friday, shoe shopping all Saturday.  I love shoes, I have quite the collection” Monica crammed her lunch box into the office fridge.  As she did so, a carton of milk toppled from the top shelf and fell onto the floor.

The cleaner eyed it in dismay, she’d just finished, now she’d have to start again, the milk was running everywhere.  Teach her a lesson for asking the office manager how her weekend was.

Monica continued regardless; “I do love Louboutins, don’t you?”
“I prefer Irregular Choice, but I’d be lucky to own a pair of those,” the cleaner answered, mopping up in efficient movements, gypsy hair concealing her disgusted expression.
“They’re the cheap funky ones, aren’t they? I own a pair of Loubies, they’re the best!”
The cleaner hesitated, then said; “I heard nataS did the best, most expensive shoes.”
“nataS?  Haven’t heard of them,” Monica’s face darkened, “do you have a pair?”
“Only special people can own nataS.  Indeed, most people say that nataS owns them.”
 

The conversation preyed on Monica’s mind all day.  She couldn’t find any reference to nataS on the internet, luckily the cleaner directed her to a boutique that sold them.  When she stared into the window, ignoring the Big Issue seller nearby, she realised she’d found her new Mecca.  Shoes of all colours and persuasions; platforms, wedges, courts, boots and a beautiful pair of red heels, bejewelled with what looked like diamonds.  To.  Die.  For.  “Mon Mon gotta have,” she breathed, a bit of drool smudging her lipstick.  She dived into the shop; “Mon Mon gotta have!” she repeated desperately to the blonde assistant.

“Well of course,” the assistant replied smiling and brought the very shoes from the window.
“How did you know it was those?” Monica asked.
“I could hear them calling out to you!” the assistant laughed, “you’ll find they’re your size.”
They fitted perfectly and, like the best designer shoes were easy to walk in.  The price was astronomical, even more expensive than Loubies, but Mon Mon gotta have and Mon Mon decided to meet her friends in the coffee shop wearing them.
She walked out of the shop with a cheery goodbye and tried to turn right, back into town, but her feet turned left and she started marching the wrong way.  “Oh!  Help!” cried Monica, but only the Big Issue salesperson heard and having been ignored earlier, wasn’t inclined to help.  On down the street the shoes took Monica, then another left turn, into a dark narrow street.
Leaning against the wall was the cleaner from work.  Monica nearly cried out in relief; “Oh!  Won’t you help me!  The most stupid thing is happening ...!” she began.
The cleaner simply laughed; “Like I said, nataS owns you!” she mocked.
On went Monica, the alley became constricted, the shoes stopped outside a door.  Hoping there would be someone beyond it to help, Monica pushed it open, the shoes walked her inside; “Help me!” cried Monica.
"Up here!” called some voices, “through this door.”
The shoes let her run up the stairs, allowed her barge through the entrance, then all of a sudden she was pitched forwards, she fell on her front, grazing her hands and turned to see the shoes walk by themselves out of the door, which slammed shut behind them.  In front of her were a row of scared looking faces, women like herself wearing the best designer clothes, all with bare feet.
“Welcome,” said one of them, “to the human collection.”

I WANT TO BE DRUNK

The thought occurs to me, as I sit behind my desk reading about the complexities of enumerating residents of communal establishments, that I’d like to be drunk.  I can’t concentrate on anything then, nothing can touch me, I’m invulnerable, invincible, unshakeable and most of all I am not bored.

I can chat to my mates and sound really clever, because they’re drunk too and no-one knows the difference.  The food is excellent, it lines the stomach and we can have more alcohol.  The measures get stronger.  At some point people start to leave.  If something happens, if I flirt with someone I shouldn’t or someone who shouldn’t touches me, it’s OK, nobody remembers, not my husband, not his wife, not me and I always know when to go home – I think.

When I’m drunk the music from my Ipod sounds louder and I dance round my room, shaking my body in a tipsy state of high energy, pausing only to work back some more gin.  Then the tracks slow down and I lie on my bed and drift off in a pleasant haze, surrounded by cotton wool, perfectly safe, barely alive.

Only to wake at 3am, it’s dark and uncomfortable, I’m still wearing my bra, I’m not sure if I remembered to take my coat home with me.  The world feels wrong, my husband is sleeping beside me, but I’m all alone.  My thoughts are huge, they won’t stop.  I get up and go downstairs.  I turn on the light, my coat is thrown down on the sofa; things are where they should be, except in my head, that’s all jumbled.  I saw him in a new way, didn’t I?  Something happened, didn’t it?  Fucked if I can remember.

PHONE CALL

Where are you going then?  ... Ah that's nice, I heard it's lovely there, you'll enjoy it ... Who me?  No, I don't know where I'm going ...No, I didn't bring a map, or a compass ...You can really do that can you?  That's cool!  Navigate using the sun, moon and the stars?  How cosmic!  I don't look up at the sky very much, I guess I'll have to get round to it someday.

What direction do I take?  Oh, well I just run - to one new thing, then from it to the next bright object I desire .... Well, I know, but I guess I get too bored to actually want to stay anywhere ... So what next for me?  Like I say, I don't know.  Not now that I've been everywhere, done everything ... Well, the stuff I haven't done and the places I haven't been, they're just expensive imitations of everything else I've experienced.

Where you're going, that's different, that's nice - and the person you're going with has time for you, you're so lucky ...No, it's the one place I've not been ... No, I can't go.  Only special people get to go there.  Folk who can settle down, who can afford it, characters like your good self ... No, I'm not special, like you ... Yes, you're right, I'd better make my mind up where I'm going soon.  The weather forecast said storms are coming.