THE MAZE

“Hello, gorgeous!  Where are you?”
“Hello, my lovely!  I’m walking back to the hotel.”
“Big night out?  Are you drunk?”
“No, sweetheart, I’m not drunk.  Where are you?”
“I’m still in the maze.”
“What?  Still!  For God’s sake, I’d have thought you’d have found your way out by now.”
“It’s been trickier than you’d think.”
“But it’s been days!  And, honey, this hotel charges £200 a night!  I can’t wait forever.”
“Oh my love, please don’t go ...”
“Really, sweetheart, it’s time we sorted this out together.  I’m coming into the maze to find you.”
“No!  You mustn’t!  I’ve told you before, this is something I’ve got to work through on my own.  Besides, you don’t understand what it’s like in here.  It’s bad, it’s really dangerous.  Please, please, please don’t come in!  You sound out of breath ...”
“I’m on my way, I’m running to you.”
“No, darling, please don’t, please, please don’t!  Darling, I really think that I’m nearly out of here ...”
“You said that yesterday ...”
“Yes, but I’m convinced I’m right today and – and if I find my way out, you and I won’t be apart anymore.  It’s been so good of you to wait for me really it has.  All I’m asking, my angel, is for you to wait just a little bit longer ...”
“I’m sorry, but you’re all I’ve ever wanted and I’ve waited long enough ...”
“Well, there’s no need to wait anymore, my darling sweetheart, love of my life, I’ve found my way out!”
“You’re out!  That’s amazing!”
“Yes!  Where are you?”
“I’m uh, I’m in the maze.”
“What?!”
“It doesn’t matter, honey, I’ll just turn round and – oh – where’s the entrance?”
“The entrance disappears.  You have to find your way through.  Oh my God, darling why did you go in?  You’ve no idea how dangerous it is ...”
“Don’t cry for God’s sake, how hard can this be?  You survived in here and you’re lovely.  Oh, there you are ...”
“What?”
"I can see you, you’re still in the maze.”
“I can assure you I’m not.”
“But I can see you!  Honey, come here!”
“Darling, that’s not me.  For God’s sake, don’t go near it, don’t go near it!”
“It is you and I’m holding you in my arms!  The question I’m asking now is, who am I talking to?”
“Darling, it’s me, speaking to you.  The person you’re holding is not me, it is not me!”
“But it ... oh God, oh God!  It really isn’t you, is it?  Oh Jesus Christ ...!  Oh fucking hell! ... Help! ...”
“Darling ... darling ... Are you OK? ... Are you there, my love?  Please! ... Please talk to me!”

THE GOVERNMENT IS WATCHING YOU, MAURICE WINKLETON

“Simmonds, report.”
“Sir, Mr Maurice Winkleton no longer goes to his office.  He’s working from home.  Shall I remove the cameras we installed along his route?”
“No.  Place cameras inside his home.  All rooms but the bathroom.”
“Yes sir.  Why are we watching him?”
“Works from home, hmm?  Skiver!”

“Report, Edwards.”

“Maurice Winkleton spent the day at his desk.  He was distracted by an internet article on bees and news about the football team he supports.  Then he got a work phone call and remembered what he was supposed to be doing.  He left his desk ten times - five bathroom trips, three cups of tea and two trips to make food.  Breakfast was a bacon sandwich, lunch a Cornish pasty and Pringles.  He’s ordered a kebab, fries and mayonnaise from King Kebab via Nosh dot com, he’s awaiting delivery.”
“His girlfriend?”
“When she texted while he was reading about his football team, he reminded her that he had work to do.  I’ve got texts printed out for you and a transcript of his work conversation.  Why are we watching him, sir?”
“A kebab?  That man should be incarcerated for his eating habits alone!”

“Report, Farrington.”

“Sir, Mr Winkleton slept during the night, getting up to use the bathroom twice.  During the evening after he’d consumed a Kebab, fries and mayonnaise, his girlfriend visited and he refused sexual intercourse ...”
“What?!”
“He put music on and talked directly in her ear.  I couldn’t record what he said, it appeared emotional.  She left afterwards and is on her way here.  Sir, why are we watching him?”
“Refused to make love to Blake?  Unbelievable!  Kebab aside, I’m disturbed by the number of bathroom trips, once should be enough for a man in the night.  Have cameras installed in there.”

“Blake - the unrecorded conversation.”

“Sir, Mr Winkleton refused intercourse with me.  He’s paranoid the Government is watching him.  He used to point out the cameras along his route to work.  Now, he’s sure he's found little cameras in the walls of his bedroom.  When I tried to tell him it was ridiculous, he accused me of being in on it and broke up with me.”
“I want a report on his sexual habits.”
“Yes sir. Why are we watching him?”
“Sir, Blake, come quickly!  He’s been trying to pick the cameras out of the walls of his bedroom, but now ... Look at this!”
“Good God, Farrington!  The man is bashing at the walls of his bathroom with a sledge hammer!  Now he’s clutching at his head, sinking to the ground and crawling into the shower cubicle.”
“Sir, he’s having a nervous breakdown.  You didn’t answer me when I asked why we are watching him.”
“Simply because he thought we might watch him, Blake.  We don’t tolerate surveillance conscious citizens here and his paranoia has reached an unacceptable level.  Issue a warrant for his arrest.  Farrington, zoom in on his face, very close up, look at his tears ... I think they’re quite beautiful.”

ON THE MOTORWAY AT DAWN

That white van is at my bumper, headlights so close they look unreal – what a maniac!  As I pull into the slow lane he follows and continues right against me.  Was it that last minute lane change I did a while ago?  Am I a victim of road rage?  There’s no-one else around in these dark early hours.  I wish the boys were here.  They’d scare him off with their rugby physiques and James’ awful tattoo.  Their flight had to be at dawn, didn’t it?  I hope they took everything out of the boot ...

The van is passing.  I keep my eyes firmly on the road as it slowly goes by.  Then it pulls in front and slows - from 77mph, to 70, now 60.  Ridiculous!  I move into the middle lane and overtake.  Unable to resist, I look sideways into the driver’s cabin and see ... nothing.  That can’t be right!  Surely I would have seen the silhouette of a man; someone must be driving that van!  It’s a trick of the dark.  The boys would laugh at their old Mum panicking like this.  It was my imagination, wasn’t it?  I just feel such a sense of menace. 

I’m doing 90mph up a hill, but the van is at my bumper again.  When the speedometer creeps past 100, it doesn’t fall back.  The dark makes it impossible to check from the rear-view that someone’s driving it.  I’m doing 110mph now and it’s still there!  Those vans aren’t capable of these speeds!  I’m now convinced what I saw was true, that it’s empty and being propelled by some invisible, malevolent force.  I wish James and Sean were here!

Hang on.  When the boys were babies my life had one aim; raise them, protect them, make them feel loved.  I worked 12 hour shifts so I could send them to a good school; I tracked down their father and forced him to pay maintenance, despite his threats.  I confronted that burglar, alone in the lounge at 3am with a kitchen knife and he ran because he knew I’d defend my little boys to the death.  How did I become so dependent on them when they grew to men?  I’m still the person who fought, provided and knew no fear.  Right, next lonely stretch, I’m pulling alongside this- this mofo.  If he wants to play chicken, I’ll give him a game, I’ll run that empty van off the road!  After all, it’s just an empty van, what is there to fear?

The sun is coming up as I check the rear-view, the van is tailing off a little, there’s light enough to see now, no-one is driving it, I wasn’t being silly.  It’s slowing though, diminishing into the distance.  Of course the boys will be all right studying at that European university, they have each other and I’ll be OK alone ...

I look again, the white van is gone.  I drive home with confidence.

ARMY

We’re following the directions from HQ.  There’s going to be lots of us there, each one full  of supplies, packed to the gunnels, ready to let go!

We’ve gathered our supplies from the sunny Atlantic and are travelling over water at speed, ready to hit land.  We’re cocooned in cold air, but we will come up against heat.  The colder we are and the hotter our destination, the fiercer this will be.

I’ve been assigned to the Church Fete of St John’s Upper Studley in Wrotbridge-on-the-Wold.  Others are on their way to Stowbridge Annual Village Barbecue.  The battallion heading for Solefield School Sports Day are running late.

We gather, circling over St John’s, trying not to make a sound, we mustn’t start rumbling and crashing yet, but with this much electricity in the air, it’s very difficult.  We must wait until we’re all in position.  I hear word that they’re ready at Stowbridge, we’re just waiting for Solefield ... Finally!  HQ send the signal in a blinding flash, we roar and crack back in unison.  It’s time to drop your payload boys and girls and watch the humans scatter.  I love British summers.  I come here every year.

FAECAL ATTRACTION

“Hi, my name is Shit.”

“And mine is Fan.  God you’re beautiful.”
“So are you.”
“I love you, Shit.”
“I love you too, Fan.”
“Well, this is as good a place as any ...”

WHIIRRRRR SPLATTTT!!!!

 “Oh shit!  Everyone around us is covered in ... in excrement.”

“Don’t take my name in vain, Fan, but yeah, we’ve made quite a mess.”
“I don’t think our friends like us anymore.”
“They’ll just have to accept it.”
“I’ll always love you, Shit.”
“We were destined to be, Fan.”

THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED

In sleep you know this house well, it’s every quirk and corridor, its ancient furniture, the dust and mustiness.  It’s because you’ve been here before, every night since you made the decision and nights previously, from far in your past that you’ve blocked out.

You’re in the bedroom, a close personal friend has texted you to say that this house is haunted, that this place is cursed.  You text back; “Don’t be daft!  I don’t sense anything!”  But you are slightly unsettled and the feeling grows as the evening stretches on.  You’re starting to feel your aloneness and hear the creaks, bumps and footsteps along the corridor.  Somewhere nearby, a door slams.  You turn the key in the lock to shut out the ghost.  When the key falls to the floor, you grab it quickly before it can be dragged underneath.  You pull a chest of drawers against the door, struggling with the weight of it.  You gasp for breath.  Safe again?

Then the lights begin to flicker and suddenly you’re plunged into darkness.  You realise your error.  You haven’t barricaded the ghost out, ghosts can walk through walls.  You flick the switch desperate for light, but nothing happens, you can’t see anything, but you can sense that something in the room close to you wishes you ill.

Waking, you deny me, you bury yourself in work, relationships, parties.  You’ve kept yourself busy since the decision, haven’t you?  Since you pulled the rug out from under your own feet?  Is there a reason for that, I wonder?  Well, you can’t escape me in sleep.  I am the haunted house, the sense of menace, the ghost that creeps up on you.  I am your intuition and I’m trying to tell you something very important about a choice you’ve made.  Ignore me at your peril.

NUGGETS

It’s difficult to know who to blame – Hursley town planners for allowing the Family Feeder to be built or the company that owns the franchise.  They were responsible for the aggressive marketing campaign, telling children to nag their parents into submission and reassuring Mums and Dads that children are guaranteed to eat the tasty food.   There are also the parents who took their children to that ‘restaurant’. 

People should be taught about primordial tastes.  The ‘tasty’, high sugar, high fat food produces an intense reaction in a child’s brain – like crack cocaine.  Would you feed crack to your child?  Of course not, but you’ll take them to the Family Feeder and give them chicken nuggets surrounded by fatty batter, burgers dripping with grease and chips made with more sugar than potato, teamed with an over sweetened milkshake or cola.  Nice work!  In the absence of the drug, the user craves more.  Children’s insulin levels are raised so high by the sugar assault on their body that they are starving just an hour after their visit and guess where they want to go and eat again.

The good folk of Hursley realised what was going on and stopped taking their children there.  In response, the Family Feeder upped its marketing campaign, urging children to go on hunger strike and calling them to war.  Be as objectionable as possible – Pester Power, it’s a military campaign!  I’ve heard stories of parents compromising and taking children once a day, or caving in completely and going to the Family Feeder for breakfast, dinner and tea.

What the Family Feeder don’t know, is that this is the same food the military gives to their soldiers because they identify that it’ll make them more inclined to kill.  Food high in antioxidants creates cheerful, useful citizens (and children).  Food high in saturated fat and sugar turns people into angry, depressed risk takers full of self loathing and willing to do anything for their next fix.  The lack of fibre creates constipated kids with aching bellies and the caffeine in the soda will cause sleeplessness.  Well done, Mums and Dads of Hursley; your children have lost all sense of proportion in their desperation to obtain what is essentially crack to them and the physiological effects I’ve described have turned them into mini Incredible Hulks.

Now I, the Child Health Psychologist, must sort it out.  I’m standing outside the Family Feeder with a loudspeaker, absolutely fed up of being called to this sort of crisis.  At 2.30pm this afternoon, the junior schools of Hursley emptied.  The children marched, zombie-like, in a three hundred strong mob, to the Family Feeder.  They shut the doors behind them and barricaded them with tables.  They pulled the blinds down in the windows.  The fate of the restaurant staff and adult customers is as yet unknown, but I must act quickly before they run out of chicken nuggets and chips.