Luxury, Utter, Utter Luxury.

A story with thermal contrasts

Being a child in a large, cold house in rural Ireland in the winters of the 1940s meant wearing several layers of clothes. Before the arrival of the Rural Electrification Scheme our lighting was by paraffin oil lamps or candles. My father considered himself 'progressive' so we enjoyed bottled propane gaslight in the kitchen and sittingroom. Cooking was done on a large cast iron range that devoured wood and peat at an amazing rate. This range also heated water to a half-hearted lukewarm for the kitchen sink and bathroom.

Beds absorbed moisture from the high humidity of the West Cork air and there was a belief that some dire malady could be contracted by sleeping in a cold, damp bed, hence a variety of hot water bottles were employed every evening. We had three or four rubber ones, one scalding hot shiny aluminum one and two heavy earthenware ones that woke everyone and set the the dog barking whenever they crashed heavily onto the wood floor in the small hours. To protect feet and other anatomical parts from burns thick, knitted hot water bottle covers were employed, some mundane, some in teddy bear style. Throughout cold winter months the daily evening chore of  filling the hot-water bottles from two large kettles was a task stoically undertaken by my father.

He appreciated the comfort of his armchair beside the blazing open fire listening to the radio, reading a newspaper or playing Lexicon with my mother. Finally he would retire to the generously hot-water-bottled, pre-heated bed, something he considered to be a necessity rather than a luxury.

My father was manager of Warners Cash Warehouse, a large shop in the sea-side town of Bantry. It stocked the products of the firm's bakery, a wide range of groceries and it also had a hardware section.  In addition, the enterprise supplied any visiting ships, a position that gave my father, known to everyone as 'Jimmy-in-Warners,' considerable stature in the town and his maritime contacts occasionally led to some very exciting adventures for our family.

In the years immediately following the end of the Second World War, Bantry Bay was visited by some interesting ships. Minesweepers were active in the shipping lanes off the south coast of Ireland and in the Atlantic and some called to Bantry. One very large visitor was the British destroyer HMS Devonshire and thanks to my father's contacts our family was invited on board the warship; it had several shell-hole patches after its wartime sea battles, a really memorable adventure for this seven-year-old. 

A year later a very different type of ship arrived in the harbour  and my father's status once again came into play. This time the Harbour Master and Jimmy-in-Warners had each received a formal invitation to visit the Phanthome on a fine Sunday afternoon.

This was a magnificient three-masted, luxury Tall Ship, owned at that time by the Guinness family. It had been hidden away somewhere during the war and was at last able to enjoy its post-war freedom.

The Phanthome in Bantry Bay

We arrived at the appointed time at Bantry pier where we boarded the most pristine motor launch I had ever seen; all shiny varnish and polished metal glinting in the sunshine. The ladies of the party kept expressing amazement at how clean everything was.

We had an excellent view of the fresh black and white paint-work and the three graceful masts as the launch circled the Phanthome. The smartly uniformed sailor in the bow did clever things with a boat-hook and soon we were  alongside the ship's gangway. More pristine varnish and gleaming handrails led up to the main  deck, where, after a tour of the profusion of sailing ship fittings and much neck-straining while staring upwards at the soaring masts, we were welcomed into what I believe was called The Wardroom. There I drank my first sample of green fizzy lemonade while the grownups drank other stuff and seemed to like it a lot.

Afternoon tea was served on plates, cups and saucers, all of which bore the image of the Phanthome in full sail. We had nothing like that at home; not even one plate with a picture of our house on it! I was disappointed with the fancy cakes. They were exactly the same as ones we had at home sometimes, supplied by Warners bakery, of course.

The ladies were then wafted off to see feminine things, like the library, paintings, photographs, private cabins with their beds and bathrooms.

The three men, (that included me), were escorted down steep companion-ways to see the engine room where a  powerful diesel engine drove a generator 'that could supply a town with electricity.' Valves, gauges, dials knobs and pipes were everywhere and green paint dominated the scenery with highlights of more shining brass and polished copper. On either side of the centre gangway stood a pair of huge and silent marine engines. That's cheating, I thought, this is supposed to be a sailing ship!

On returning to The Wardroom I noticed my mother was, for once, speechless. Having examined various display cases and paintings of sailing ships, mostly of Phanthome, we prepared to leave and my mother managed to find her voice and asked our host, "Please show my husband that bed."

"But of course. This way."

The cabin we entered wasn't very big and it contained one single bed, neatly made up, ready for its occupant. My father was propelled towards it and my mother pushed his hand beneath the bedclothes. He lingered there for what seemed a needlessly long time, slowly moving his hand from side to side, grinning in amazement.

"Luxury! Oh, what utter, utter luxury!" he declared, "No need for kettles and hot-water-bottles."

It was twenty five years after that visit to the tall ship that Ireland's Rural Electrification Scheme connected my parent's house to the National Grid and the power was switched on for the first time on one cold winter's day. The first electrical appliance they purchased wasn't a kettle, a washing machine or an iron. That night my parents enjoyed the luxury of an electric blanket.

"Now we're as comfortable as they were on the Phanthome!" was my father's comment.

Over the intervening years whenever I found myself in a cold bed, my thoughts would flash back to that first encounter with an electric blanket on board The Phanthome. Luxury! Utter Luxury indeed.

The Very Empty Seat by Victor Sullivan

     © 2013

A student pilot's first solo flight.

How often have you seen an empty seat? I mean totally empty, utterly empty, terminally empty?

I have. Once. I'll never forget the occasion. It happened half a century ago but every detail is vividly etched in my memory.

It began with a simple wish, desire, ambition, a decision and finally, action. I would learn to fly.

I signed up, paid the fee, bought the books, studied, learned a great deal and pleased my instructor who provided one-to-one practical tuition and who sat beside me on my hour-long training sessions, all of which I found thoroughly enjoyable and exciting. I was making really good progress, I was becoming intuitive my instructor informed me. 

On one memorable day, following the routine preparation, pre-flight checks and engine warmup time, I communicated with the Control Tower and received permission for EI-AMF, ('Mike Fox' in aviation terminology), to taxi to the end of runway 35 at Cork Airport for another training session. With my trusted flying instructor beside me I prepared for take-off, moved forward and aligned the aircraft with the centre-line of runway 35. We waited with engine ticking over. 

"Mike-Fox you have permission to take-off" crackled the message from the Control Tower. I reached for the throttle only to have my hand grasped by my instructor. 

"Wait! Let me out first."

He opened the cockpit door and stepped onto the runway. "Off you go! Good luck! You're on your own for just one circuit!" he added as he closed the door.

Adrenaline production went into overdrive, pulse rate tripled, I was invincible. I opened the throttle and with engine roaring, accelerated along the centre-line of Runway 35, getting faster and faster, the rumbling of the wheels on the concrete adding to the noise level. I reached take-off speed, pressed gently back on the control column and the vibrating contribution from the wheels was hushed. I was airborne. I flew straight and level for a little longer to pick up more speed then began to climb. The airport buildings and control tower fell away behind me. I was applying everything I had learned as and when necessary, confident in my mastery of my new skills.

Independence! Freedom! A break from the bonds of gravity! This is what humans had longed to do for millions of years, to fly like the birds. Now I was doing it, even if only for one circuit of the airport. 

Time to turn right; bank gently, turn ninety degrees, maintain altitude, perfectly executed. Keep a lookout for other aircraft, (even though I knew the next plane due hadn't even left London).

I was ecstatic, enjoying my utter independence in this three dimensional environment. Monarch of all I surveyed; from that place and time it meant the entire city of Cork, its vast Harbour and environs with the shimmering river Lee winding its way through the lush scenery that was spread out below me. All too soon it was time to start my next turn to the right onto the next leg of my circuit.

That was the moment when I caught sight of the instructor's seat beside me. It was empty, utterly, utterly EMPTY!!!!!! It was the emptiest seat I had ever seen .... and I was alone, very alone, up there in the clear blue sky, flying a light aircraft at 120 miles per hour with the altimeter indicating 1,200 feet.  I completed the right angle turn and flew parallel to the main runway from which I had taken off a couple of minutes earlier but I was now going in the opposite direction. I had to get back to the other end from where I had begun my takeoff and land on that tiny strip of concrete that seemed to have become far smaller than it had ever been before. The seat beside me continued to be life-threatingly empty. 

That was when I experienced one of those Moments of Truth spoken of by the Great Philosophers: I would have to land this aircraft by myself, just me, alone. No other human on the planet could land it for me, there was no point in expecting help from anyone, not from my flying instructor, my mother, St. Patrick, the Wright brothers, the angel Gabriel or God. It was simply up to me, in my sublime isolation, to land the plane intact and undamaged with me inside it, equally undamaged.

Another thought rose momentarily to prominence. There would be watchers, Control Tower staff, casual observers in the passenger terminal, plane spotters, my anxious flying instructor and Aero Club fellow members, all watching my first solo landing, ready to declare it a mere solo 'arrival' if it was anything other than a perfect landing.

Concentrate Victor! The seat beside me was still extremely empty and that miniscule patch of concrete down there was where I would have to land this machine.

One more right turn and it would be time to alert the Air Traffic Controller with: "Mike Fox turning finals."
"Mike Fox you are clear to land."

I turned 90 degrees and was on my final approach towards the rapidly growing runway.

Photo by the author but not taken on the same occasion!

 I flew steadily towards the white line painted down the centre of runway 35. Engine ticking over, airspeed correct, glide-path correct, wings level, over the painted stripes of the runway threshold, steady, hold off..... let it sink.... keep it straight ... steady... both wheels kiss the concrete gently and simultaneously without even a hint of a bounce... slow down now, keep straight...  gentle brake pressure. A perfect landing! I have flown solo! I can fly a plane all by myself! Euphoria! 

I brought Mike Fox almost to a stop, then turned around carefully and taxied back sedately and proudly to the the Munster Aero Club's premises, there to be met and congratulated by my instructor and a press photographer, Roy Hammond. 

The author after his first solo flight. Photo by the late Roy Hammond

  

While walking from the aircraft to the Clubhouse my euphoria was suddenly quenched:  It is customary to buy a round of drinks for everyone in the Aero Club bar on completing one's first solo flight. Had I enough cash in my pocket? Not having expected to fly solo that day, I hadn't a bean. The photographer came to my rescue and offered me a loan. Many years later his son married my daughter.

Tea Mining

    by Victor Sullivan   © 2013

A tale of thrift and theft during World War 2

In a dull, gloomy, Irish town in the late 1930s. one of the general grocery shops was run by a clever, business-like widow with the help of her three children, two girls in their late teens and their fourteen-year-old brother, Danny. The family lived above the shop. With the war-clouds looming ever darker over late 1930s Europe, stories of impending hardship proliferated and those with appropriate wisdom took equally appropriate steps to mitigate whatever disasters might lie ahead. Some commodities would become scarce, she reasoned, difficult to source, better still if they became unobtainable, especially if she had the only source of such a commodity hidden securely....... It would have to have a long shelf-life, value would increase over time. Patience would be rewarded ten-fold or more!  Danny watched his mother's precautionary measures develop with interest and wondered of the anticipated profits might lead to an increase in the pitifully small weekly allowance he and his sisters received from the family business.

The Importance of Being Joyce

 by Musetta Joyce   © 2012

I was living for nearly a decade in Sicily when I decided to try and get a job teaching at Messina University. Back then I had no idea of the extent of corruption in the institution. That knowledge was to come gradually, and the reason I did manage to get a job at all might never have happened if my mother had married somebody else.

    It was with the innocence of ignorance that I approached with awe the impressively ancient arched entrance of the university quad and asked a security officer where I could find the English Language department. He told me that a professor of English was just passing by.

I stepped in front of the tall thin man and introduced myself. (Married women don't change their original surnames in Italy.) If I had suddenly acquired a halo he could hardly have been more impressed.

'Your name is – Joyce? Are you by any chance a relation of the great writer?'

Learning to Drive

Ireland in the 60's                 by Nuala Ni Loinsigh   © 2012  

I was only seventeen when I learned to drive. My brother Donal had a car and my parents depended on him to drive them to Mass on Sunday morning. However, being a teacher and with his long summer holidays, he wanted to go to London and leave me the car to drive my parents.

When the saving of hay and turf was completed, Donal was free to go. Hence I was taught to drive, receiving lessons in late evening, after a day in the hayfield. Thus, I was tired before I started my lesson. However, I was instructed on the changing of gears and off we went to a level road by the halfway between Macroom and Ballyvourney, or Cork and Killarney, or Bantry and Killarney. 

Sitting behind the wheel, I changed gears in the stationary position and then started the engine. After a few abortive attempts and the car jumping to a halt, I managed eventually to get going. Then there were further instructions to press the brakes but I pressed the accelerator and hit the ditch. It was only a little scrape but frightened me just the same. There were a few screams, but not too much to be fair to Donal. 

There was a series of nights like this and then came the day that my brother drove to the Cork Ferry Port, to board the Innisfallen. The return journey was to be negotiated by me, who was not only a poor driver, but also not too familiar with the city. Luckily, I met my cousin Monica, who was an excellent navigator and directed me out of the city to her rural home. After dropping her off, I made my way home and parked on the L-shaped yard by the house, having struggled up the steep narrow boithrin (lane).

Mom had occasion to go out and noticed a red light on the dashboard. She remarked to me: "I don't think that light should be shining". Of course, she was right. I neglected to turn off the ignition, having ground to a halt suddenly.

The following morning, Dad needed to go to town, so his new driver was pressed into service. Starting again was jumpy and my nervous father  was nearly catapulted through the windscreen. My little confidence was being slowly but surely eroded by Dad. We managed to reach the town without incident, but parked a half-mile outside.

I had plenty of practice all that summer and was delighted to have mastered the skill and gained independence. There is nothing like necessity to encourage learning.

Foreboding

A young boy's experience at the hands of the Law

by Victor Sullivan  © 2012

My father handed me a package one morning, neatly wrapped in brown paper.

"I want you to take this to the police station and give it to Gárda O'Connor at 11 o'clock today. We have had a chat about it, he will know what to do and there's sixpence for you at the end of the job."

"Yes Dad."

He drove off to work leaving me wondering what was in the rather light-weight packet and what else might be required of me in order to earn the sixpence, a substantial reward for a seven-year-old boy in the 1940s.

I felt rather important as I cycled up to the police station, parked my bicycle and, packet in hand, entered the building for the first time through the open door. Foreboding best describes my next emotional experience. I had heard tales of undesirable characters being 'detained in custody' and that meant they had been locked up in the cell. As I hesitated in the doorway a deep voice called from somewhere inside:

"Is that you? I've been expecting you. Come on in."

Although the summer sun shone brightly through the large window the room somehow succeeded in retaining its gloomy atmosphere. Posters about bull licenses, dog licenses, noxious weeds and long lists of items in small print adorned the dull, green-painted walls. Gárda O'Connor stood up, resplendent in his dark navy uniform with all its shiny buttons. He stepped towards me from behind his desk and took the packet from my outstretched hand.  

"Thanks. 'Tis all right about this." he explained, "The sergeant and the others are away all day at a Court hearing. This way." 
He nudged me back into the hallway and along a corridor towards the rear of the building. Whatever the next stage of foreboding is called, I experienced it then.

"Wait here for a minute while I get my kit." He instructed. 

Kit? What kind of kit? What's it for? More foreboding descended all around me.

Left alone in the forbidding corridor, I looked around. On my right was a half open door. It was the strongest wood door I had ever seen. It didn't have a proper door-handle either. Beyond it was a small, dark, bare, bleak and very foreboding-inducing room. It could only be THE CELL!

"Nobody will see us in here." Declared the voice of Gárda O'Connor in a friendly tone as he pushed me into the cell and he followed carrying a tall stool in one hand, a tea-towel and a shiny metal box in the other.

"Hop up!" 

I perched myself on the stool and then he stepped outside the cell door, leaving me to fight down the wave of sheer panic, the natural progression from the advanced stages of intense foreboding. A bare bulb high above my head suddenly lit the scene and my captor returned immediately. 

"This shouldn't take very long." 

The words were accompanied by the rattle of hard things in the metal box somewhere behind me and the tea-towel was draped around my shoulders.

Snip-snip, snip-snip, went the scissors and my hair fluttered towards the floor in a comfortingly familiar manner as I was skillfully trimmed to fashionable respectability. 

As I prepared to mount my bicycle Gárda O'Connor approached me and in a conspiritorial whisper said:

"Don't say where you got the haircut. Tell your dad I said thanks for the fags and here's the sixpence that he asked me to give you."

Tale of a Talking Doll by Victor Sullivan

Unfit for purpose? No way!

© 2012

The doll's name is long forgotten, even by its owner, but I clearly recall the ache in my ribs from laughing, as I write this almost forty years later. Perhaps some tool had slipped, perhaps I had over-tightened a screw, perhaps it was something I should have done differently but the outcome will go down in the annals of our family history.

The doll was quite a novelty. She talked; and when she did she spoke quite clearly. This was years before the era of miniature electronic speech implants that are now commonplace in many toys.

A string with a knob on the end dangled from the doll's back which, when pulled and released, randomly initiated a typical toddler expression such as "I want a drink of water,"  "Please put me to bed," "Kiss me goodnight" and a few others in similar vein. Our daughter made good use of the talking feature and was always glad of an opportunity to show off her doll's verbal expertise.

Came the sad day when a tearful little girl appeared with a silent doll in one hand and the mechanism's activating string in the other. She approached me, her technically orientated Dad, fixer of everything.  I confidently gave comforting assurance that it would be quite a simple matter to restore the doll to her former verbosity and thus produced a hopeful smile on that tear-stained face.

There followed an exploratory examination of the doll necessitating the use of scissors on clothing and other indignities that eventually exposed a clever sound reproduction device. It operated on Edison's mechanical principle using a tiny plastic disk with several short mechanical sound-tracks recorded on it. A stylus and diaphragm reproduced the child-like voice as the disc revolved. The disk was driven by a speed-controlled clockwork motor, wound by pulling the string.  On release, it activated the mechanism. My technical experience and understanding of such basic principles would clearly be of benefit in the circumstances and my daughter would soon hear the the familiar accent of her doll's voice once again. Simple!

Kitchen table cleared for doll-surgery, tools laid out, (most of which I knew I would not need but I had a most impressive-looking tool-box in those days and it made a good impression), temporary lighting was set up, a magnifying glass ready for use and with my daughter's anxious and challenging eyes staring from the opposite side of the table, the operation commenced.

Dismantling the mechanism appeared straightforward – at first. Things became a little tricky when I attempted to attach the winding cord. More in-depth dismantling of the  intricate mechanism was needed. The watching eyes became increasingly anxious, perhaps justifiably, as the critical reassembly steps commenced. Eventually I uttered a triumphal, "DONE! Now test it."

The six-year-old looked doubtful but she gingerly reached for the cord, prepared to test her beloved doll's vocabulary. Watched by both parents and two brothers she slowly pulled the cord and paused for dramatic effect before releasing it...

From the doll came a ponderous, very deep, male, (very male), voice worthy of an XX certificate, that requested: 

"Please put me to bed."

The audience exploded with helpless laughter. Somewhat bemused initially, then upset, the doll's owner quickly succeeded in sobbing and laughing simultaneously. Then she pulled the cord again and released it. In a tone that would have made the toughest Chicago gangster sound genteel by comparison, the slow voice growled threateningly: 

"I want a drink of water." 

We shrieked and doubled up in uncontrollable paroxysms of mirth, eyes streaming. Through my tears I saw a new, mischievous glint in my daughter's eye as she reached once more for the doll's cord and pulled.

"Kiss me goodnight" said the eloquent doll in a deep, sexy tone worthy of an XXX certificate and a red light above the door.

My offer to undo the damage was voted down by everyone, including our daughter. That night and for weeks afterwards members of the household could be caught stifling a snigger every time a deep, inappropriate voice could be heard coming from her bedroom. 

During the days that followed the operation the doll was taken to visit our neighbors in order to demonstrate the result of my attempted repairs. They all laughed as expected and I felt that they looked at me in an odd way whenever we met thereafter. If life became dull in our house the doll's cord would be pulled and we would all be laughing again. I remember hoping we wouldn't be obliged to attend any funerals. Choking down suppressed laughter on such solemn occasions is rarely successful and is prone to being misconstrued. The possibility was a source of worry as the sound of any low-pitched male voice could easily trigger a memory of that doll's demanding voice, three octaves below normal: 

"Where's my potty?" 

ORTHOPEDY by Marie Guillot

© 2012

Bothering Bunions    

Ten years ago my life went through two milestones: menopausis and hallux valgus. I indicate here their latin names, to give me an opportunity to use my new, expensive and comprehensive Oxford dictionary. Both milestones have been handled rationally: the first one with hormone patches, the second one in doing absolutely nothing about it.

Today, the patches are only a memory. On the feet side, however, my walking ability kept degrading; I had to switch from the women's to the men's shoe department, with a size climbing from 41 to 43. 

Recent X-Rays have induced my G.P. to suggest an operation. In the old days, women had to bear their bunions (the common name for  hallux valgus) over their lives. It is only now that the new surgery techniques are readily available in Ireland.

A few weeks later, I'm sitting in the office of the Orthopedic Surgeon, explaining my case and asking questions. Dr G. is a man of few words, strictly to the point. He speaks to me and to his dictaphone at the same time, making sure that no detail is lost. 

I tell both (him and his recorder) that I am not afraid of this surgery. Indeed, I used to assist veterinary surgeons while they were repairing animals' bones, holding in turn drills and screws. Dr G. reacts immediately by turning the screen of his computer sideways, for me to see. He fumbles with his keyboard for a few seconds and the picture of a naked foot appears. "Wait a second," he says. The image becomes a video; a scalpel enters the stage, followed closely by a miniature saw, complete with its buzzing; the mini-drill comes next and the screws play their grand finale. Practically no blood at all.

For some mysterious reason, I feel like fainting. I have just been watching my own operation! To make sure that all is clear to me, Dr G. draws a sketch of the bone after splitting. He shows me how the two pieces are sliding against each other before the screws hold them in their new position. "Two months recovery is the norm. The patients can move around on crutches, walking on their heels," he comments, for the benefit of all listening ears. I am impressed; and convinced ...

A short discussion follows about having both feet corrected in one shot. It has the great advantage of going through a single cycle of surgery, medication and impairment. But most people would hesitate, out of concern for their daily life. I reassure him: I will be adequately supported at home. If I have no problem, he has none either; and off we go.

My only experience of hospital dates from the birth of my two children, about 40 years ago. After reading on the Web all the potential complications of an orthopedic surgery, my head is stuffed: phlebitis, gangrene, burst scars, extreme pain, long recovery, crutches and even broken leg during the physio exercises. Still, my expectations are high, especially on the long term pain relief.

I have just settled in my clinic bedroom. A young man wearing a green pyjama-like outfit enters; that's Brian, the anaesthetist. He asks me if I prefer a local or a general. He takes me by suprise because I did not think that it should be up to me, the patient, to make that decision."Which foot, right or left?" is the next question. "Both" is my answer; but he disagrees: " that's not possible, here we operate only one foot at a time." I explain that the surgeon has agreed to do both. He hesitates and leaves the room for a further investigation of the case.

Clara, the nurse, comes next. "Which foot?" she asks. She gets the same answer, but reacts differently. She looks up her file and confirms that the surgery will indeed include the pair. She explains that it will be a "first" for her and for the clinic, as most patients are not keen on the idea of a 2-feet impairment. She then leaves the room to prepare X-Rays and E.C.G.

To keep myself busy, I sharpen my pencils and sit by the window with my copybook. In addition to its manicured lawn and automnal bushes, the small garden of the clinic provides a spectacular view of the city. A scarf of fog is weaving its way around the trees of the hill. Totally relaxed, I find myself daydreaming and scribbling.

The assistant, Helen, collects me and we are walking towards the theatre room, through corridors, stairs and lifts. Clara and Brian install me on the transfer bed and we discuss the respective merits of the local and full anaesthesias. The local one is sufficient for one foot but, with both, a peridural is needed as well, so that a general may prove to be best after all.

The surgeon, wearing his green outfit with a matching hat, is now joining our bubbly trio. He has just examined the morning X-Rays and announces that the surgery will be a little more complicated than anticipated: some of the bones have fused and he cannot guarantee a full recovery of all the joints. If I want, he can operate one foot today, check the result, then do the second one later, in a few months. The four of us are exchanging meaningful glances. 

I bring up my case: for ten years now I have felt every modification of those little bones. I realise very well that most of the damage cannot be reversed. My hopes reside in the comfort level; a reduction of the shoe size will be a bonus.

Thus reassured, the surgeon confirms the verdict: two feet, general anaesthesia. Time to go to sleep; the team helps me to it, quietly.

I wake up in the corridor, while returning to the room. It's marvellous, I feel absolutely no pain at all. Brian tells me the nerve blockers are still active. Back in my bed, I stay alone, with the promise of a light meal.

Helen comes again, to instruct me about the bedpan. This notorious device is no longer the enamelled barbarous contraption from bygone days. This model has probably won an award for its cheerful design and bright colour. But I can assure you that no one from the designer team has actually tried its efficiency and comfort!

  Soon, the Physio brings me the crutches I had reserved. She explains the adjustments and sets them up at the head of my bed, before announcing "See you tomorrow". The food tray is then brought to the starving patient and I don't leave one crumb on it.

I feel just great. Time for me to tackle my first activity. While attempting to reach for my camera - in order to immortalize the two bundles of cotton that my new feet are - one of the crutches falls down on the side. It carries with it the  emergency button and its cord, which get stuck between the bed and the night table. After securing my two cocoons, I bend my body and plunge my arms into the gap, to catch up the accessories - with success.

All this makes me realise that the night table is situated on my right. Being right-handed, I would prefer the table to be on my left. It would make things easier to reach. I hesitate. Should I do it myself? I could carry the little furniture over my bed. Should I ring someone for the relocation? But the staff may already have enough of me, with my incessant questions. Finally, I opt for a simpler solution and decide to reshuffle the content of the night table. A more elaborate arrangement should improve the handling efficiency, without disturbing the establishment.

After more twisting and rolling of my upper half, the contents are scattered on the bed. First the crafts accessories: a sewing kit with canvas and colourful DMC cottons, my copybook, fancy colouring pencils decorated with sheep, their matching sharpener and the pencil case shaped as a cow. Then the objects  I cannot dispense with: camera, CD player and electronic Sudoku.

All that takes me some time. Suddenly, an idea is crossing my mind: is there a surveillance camera in the room? Thinking of it, probably not; or else, they would have already spotted me and I would certainly be on my way to a different kind of hospital.

    c 2012 Victor Sullivan

A Puzzle, by Marie Guillot

© May 2011  

What is it? 

It's a puzzle.

The pieces,

All jigsawed,

Prick the fingers.

It's a bingo.

The numbers,

All printed,

Have to match.

It's Mathematics.

No matter 

Additions or divisions,

They multiply.

It's a homework.

Work

At home,

For home.

It's a test.

Patience,

Perseverance,

Endurance.

Finally, the result.

Matching,

Multiplied, 

Homely.

So, what IS it?

FEMALES ONLY by Marie Guillot

© September 2011

Graphic by Marie Guillot

The risks of being a female

You will never see Margot close to any male, young or old. In fact, it looks like a conspiracy. Every time she tries to meet the new kid on the block, there is some hurdle: there are visitors to greet, or it's lunch time, or it's downpouring, or they have to go somewhere. But the family is good to her and Margot is not a rebel; she is easy going and adjusts to the situation. She seems quite happy as it is.

Maybe her happiness has to do with the fact that she gets pregnant every year. The joys of raising her baby are heaven for her. It's also a great satisfaction for Anne's family. They usually invite friends to celebrate. That's when she is in her glory, when everyone admires her offspring, all white, the best one ever, praising every feature. Her own work.

There is only one thing she does not like: in the yard, her comrades despise her. They say she is only a surrogate womb. She does not understand what it means. All she knows is that she looks different from them. All of them are white, while she has black patches all over.

Once a year, she gets special attention: a friend of Anne comes with a bag of strange objects and there is a bit of fuss around her. Not much, not unpleasant, and it's soon over. 

Then they chat. It's almost the same tribute every time. The friend says: "You should get a strong one again, this year. Margot is a great girl."

And Anne replies: 

"We love her. She is a major asset in the development of our pure-bred Charolais cattle."

Dishwasher Predators by Victor Sullivan

 ©  2010

  

Small game hunting in a dishwasher

Eight-year-old Carol went to put a plate in the dishwasher, its door was slammed rapidly and she returned looking somewhat bemused, still carrying the plate and announced:

'There's a mouse in the dishwasher, Daddy.'

We live in an old house where mice are an occasional problem, usually solved with a trap or two.

'We seem to be faced with three options,' I declared, keen to display my strategic wisdom in such a situation, 'One, we could open the door and chase it out of the machine. Two, slip in a baited trap, close the door again and wait. Three, switch on the machine and give the mouse a good hot wash.

'Aaaaaaaah! NO!  Daddy. How would you like to be shut in a machine and sprayed with very hot water?'

'I certainly don't want any mice running about inside the house.' declared her mother vehemently.

'What's his name?' contributed Carol's younger brother.

'Don't be daft. It's only a mouse.' snapped Carol.

'He must have a name, how would other mice know what to call him if he had no name? I think his name is Monty. Monty Mouse sounds respectable.'

 I gently opened the dishwasher door  a fraction. Then a bit further, and then another bit but there was no trace of Monty or any other rodent.

'Carol! You made it up. There's no mouse in there,' I accused, triggering an instant chilliness.

One bright, sunny morning I went to empty the dishwasher that had performed its duties overnight and saw, with my own two eyes, a mouse leap from inside the filter basket in the floor of the machine onto the lower rack and vanish.

I was obliged to dine on humble pie and apologise profusely to my smug daughter. Yes, there was a real mouse. OK, it probably was Monty, but how did Monty get into the machine and how did he vanish so quickly?

Both trays out, meticulous inspection of dishwasher; discovered an air vent at one side I had never noticed before. I had to hand it to Monty for sheer mastery of his environment. The little fellow had worked out that once the machine fell silent all he had to do was wait until it cooled sufficiently before entering via the vent pipe and eating his fill from the food scraps caught in the filter basket before returning to safety via his secret vent-pipe. What a mouse!

We ran the machine empty and ensured that no food remained in the filter basket. Two baited traps were introduced. A plug of nylon pot-scourer was prepared and placed near the dishwasher, ready to be inserted quickly into the vent as soon as Monty was observed inside the machine. As there had been no sightings for a day or two the top tray became loaded with glasses and a few plates. The lower tray had been removed. 

'Monty's back!' Carol announced next evening.

Cautiously I opened the door of the machine a fraction. A thin tail was just visible projecting from beneath the bottom rotor. A skillful movement got the nylon pot-scourer into the vent and the door was closed. Monty was now incarcerated with no hope of escape and no food supply other than the bait on the two mouse-traps. All we had to do was wait... and wait... and wait... Nothing happened.

We needed the dishwasher. The family demanded that I should 'DO something!'

A peep inside confirmed that Monty was still there. Direct and brutal terminal violence would have to be resorted to. I decided to apply the Snooker Cue technique. Not having a cue, a broom-handle, equally long and straight, was selected as weapon of choice.

The Sheffield Crucible has never seen such a tense scene. Even Sam, our very large German Shepherd dog joined the semicircle of excited onlookers that gathered behind me as I approached the dishwasher, broom-handle at the ready, intent on rodent murder.

CLICK!

The door opened out and downwards and I caught a glimpse of that tail protruding from under the rotor. Now to remove Monty's cover by turning the rotor 90 degrees with the broom-handle. Success! But Monty then scuttled to the back of the machine seeking an alternative refuge. My angle of attack was too high for my weapon of choice to fit under the heating element. Crouch low... lower still, feet astride the open dishwasher door... take careful aim... steady... deep breath... ready... 

Suddenly I was heaved off my feet as something very powerful charged through between my legs from behind and the kitchen ceiling light passed rapidly forwards over my head as I landed on my back on the floor, feet still astride the dishwasher door. I howled in pain as furiously clambouring canine claws sought a firm footing, digging into my thighs and other important places while my disorientated brain deduced that the large hairy monstrosity lunging agonizingly again and again on top of me was the tail end end of our big dog. Sam's dormant hunting instincts had been reawakened on seeing me stalking the mouse and he had decided to demonstrate his expertise in such matters. His repeated lunges into the dishwasher were accompanied by the sound of teeth snapping against teeth, snapping on the rotor, snapping on the heating element and snapping on .... CLICK! With a mighty yowl of pain the dog's head violently struck the underside of the top tray, lifting it off its rails, smashing the glasses on it and showering him with the splinters as he recoiled from the shock of the mousetrap tripping in his great jaws. Sam then shot backwards, sat on my face for a moment, dug several more claws into me and retreated to a remote, less hazardous corner of the kitchen, shaking off shards of glass as he went. 

All the other members of my audience were convulsed in unsympathetic hysterical laughter with tears of mirth streaming down grinning faces. My anatomy bore the claw-bruises for months. 

No trace of Monty, living or dead, was ever found. 

He really deserved to get away. What a mouse!

     

Sam