A patent application

Patent application

To/  Mr One Biertankard

        Patent office

        Planck Centre

        Zurich

        Switzerland.

From/  A Kranc

Dear Sir

I hereby apply for a patent that will result in an increased capacity of any car park.

Einstein’s general relativity theory states that the universe is a space time continuum. This means that a change in time can affect space and vice versa.

At present each car park in a city takes up a great deal of space,such that it is often necessary to create several levels. This is called a multi story car park, I believe.

My idea is to utilise time rather than space to increase the size of any car park.

To explain how this would work I will utilise Einstein’s way of thinking. This is the use of a very simple thought experiment. 

This involves visualising just one parking space. This space will aways be either empty or full. If it is full, there is no way of quickly increasing the available space so that another car can be accommodated. The other parameter in the continuum, however is time. As this parking space is not always full, another car can be accommodated at the times when the parking space is empty. Using today’s terminology, this would be called a ‘time share.’

This helps a little but one car can only use the space when the other car decides not to. This is a little inconvenient and it only doubles the available space, so why not use the time that the space is empty -  the future?

This would involve, for example, letting a car use the time tomorrow when it would be empty all day; as that time has not arrived, no car would be using it.

If tomorrow is booked then simply use the following day, and so on ad infinitum.

At the entry to this car parking space there would be a ticket machine as at present but as each car arrives, it would be transported forward in time to the next free day. The use of this space would be limited only by the future use of this space - perhaps an Aldi Supermarket is being planned to be built on it in 5 years time. In this case, only the future five years would be used. This however is equal to 1,825 car parking days that can be provided by one parking space.

A car parking space is not normally used for the whole 24 hour period, the average time required is 2 hours 21 minutes. I therefore suggest that parking is charged by the minute. The other part of the 24 hours can, of course be used by other cars. A quick calculation shows that  that about 12,500 cars can be accommodated in this one parking space that has a life of five years. The entry and exit delays will be no different from the present as the time ‘location’ for each car will be controlled by a simple Euclidian algorithm on a computer.

The number of cars that can be accommodated can be doubled by finding just one more parking space.

The same principle could, of course, be used to solve the housing crisis. This would, of course involve people making journeys through time to visit their friends and relatives but I have an idea about that….

Thank you for your consideration.

Autoplex  Kranc – ITCV consultant.

Murder in the churchyard - A Gothic story

Murder in the churchyard.

The church clock chimes  languidly twice, an apparent insomniac.  A cock crows, the full moon comes from behind an errant, wandering patch of cloud. It illuminates the carved limestone gargoyle waterspouts on the corners of the church roof. They have their mouths stretched open to release the rainwater deposited on the leaded slate roof, their tongues fully extended, screaming in their silent, unending torment to carry their message of memento mori, reminding everyone that life is short, everyone will die and then everything will get a lot worse than this life has been.

The roof has recently been repaired as most of the previously fitted  lead had been purloined one dark, moonless night by a group of men, desperate to sell the lead for money that would go some way towards feeding their starving families. The roof five had been caught when one of their number slithered off the roof in the dark, wrenching his back as he rebounded off a flying buttress and broke his resulting vertical fall onto the stone flags in front of the West Door  with his legs. He broke both of his legs in the process, the ends of his shin bones protruding through the flesh. The other four tried to help him but were apprehended by the peelers. All five perpetrators were publicly hanged of course, pour encourager les autres.

The roof is safe tonight, there is too much moonlight to hide any skullduggery being perpetrated, even if anyone dared to challenge the hangman’s noose. As the moon rises higher in the night sky, the liquid shadow inside the West porch, black as a raven’s wing, starts to retreat and the silvery selenic light reveals a recumbent body slumped across the threshold, a line of crumb-carrying ants marching across the fedora covering its face. The clock is now silent, resting for the next hour, relishing the thought of the day to come when it would have the chance to chime to mark each of the quarter hours.

The peeler on duty, Sergeant Doodlgregg, had found the body on his beat by happenstance whilst navigating towards the church porch for his customary nighttime clay pipe of tobacco. After ensuring that the man had indeed departed this life, he made haste to the local hostelry where he knew the Exeter coach had staged overnight to rest the horses. The two gentlemen passengers were abed but his lively banging on the door soon roused them from their slumber together with mine host who was mightily displeased at the interruption to his repose.

The two gentlemen hurriedly dressed in casual, but elegant clothes, given the time of the morning and the urgency of the summons it was no time to be fastidious, and followed the good sergeant to the church. A minister clad in a chasuble complete with a blue stole was there before them, standing over the body, clutching a comely maiden by the hand,

‘Are you the Vicar of this church?’ demanded Holmes

‘I am indeed, I am the Reverend Ernest Cholmondly-Smythe.’ I have been the incumbent here for some seven years. This lady, who has been constantly at my side as my life partner is the honourable Rebecca Winstanley of Cortlesham Hall, on the hill overlooking the village.’

‘Are you married?’ asked Holmes, somewhat impertinently.

‘No, but we have been betrothed for many a year.

‘Are you either of you acquainted with this man?’

‘We have never seen him before.’

‘Then I shall use my powers of deduction. I fear we have a cereal killer here, Watson.’

‘How do you deduce that Holmes, old boy?’ asked a surprised and incredulous Watson.

‘You see those crumbs the ants are carrying? They appear to be from a brand of breakfast cereal made from maize. I think you will find that the body is that of a foreign gentleman from Cincinnati; only an American would wear a fedora in a churchyard at this time in the morning, and, what is even more incredible, he is wearing brown shoes. This means that there is a possibility that this could be a crime of fashion. Please be so kind as to check his pockets for any identification, Watson.

‘That is amaizing Holmes, his business introduction card shows he is a Dr Kellogg from Cincinnati.’

‘Thank you my dear chap but please leave the puns to me.’

‘Righto, Holmes, old boy, but where does the early cock crow come in?’

‘I would be very surprised that, when we turn the body over, if we do not find a cornflake packet there with the famous image of the ubiquitous cockerel on the front.’

‘Would you help me roll the body over please, Sergeant Doodlgregg, my good fellow? asked Watson.

‘Certainly Sir,’ said the sergeant, unchaining his cape, removing it from his shoulders with an effort and laying it on the dew laden-grass. They rolled the body over, with a great deal of puffing from the Sergeant.

‘Why are you so out of breath sergeant?’ asked the good doctor with his usual professional curiosity.

‘Oi’ve been getting rather a large belly recently, sir so I’ve been on one of those new-fangled low carbohydrate diets.’

‘Those diets are a waist of time, if you ask me,’ affirmed Watson

‘ No one is Watson and I’ve told you before about those puns.’

‘Sorry Holmes, we’ve found the cereal packet that you predicted, I assume that confirms your deductions?’

   Well, partly, but I am wondering if there have been any other suspicious deaths in the village recently Sergeant?’ enquired Holmes.

‘Not really Sir, there was old Mrs Weetabix of course, who was found dead at her home in Alpen Crescent last week with seven stab wounds in her back. A clear case of suicide we decided. Ten days ago we found the bodies of three patients in the local bedlam. We put that down as a random nut cluster at the time. We also found two gentlemen who had apparently shot each other from twenty two paces. We assumed they had fought a duel to the death by chocolate. The fact that no ferrero rocher were found at the scene puzzled us until we realised that some ruffians from the village had probably made off with the praline confectionary. I suppose we should include All-Bran Stoker’s family who disappeared last year. That case kept us going down at the station for a while, I can tell you. We even followed a lead to the Abbey on the East Cliff above Whitby, alas without success.’

‘Thank you Sergeant. Wait! Can you hear that noise?’

‘Do you mean that snapping?’ asked Watson.

‘No, you fool, that is just the crack of dawn. Listen carefully; unless I am very much mistaken, that is the call of a Corvus albicollis – the white-necked raven. That is an indication of thaumaturgy being practiced near here.

‘Thaumaturgy? Heaven forfend, what is that?

‘It is the practice of magic, either black or white, it’s use is usually accompanied by the appearance of a raven. Ah, there’s one over on that gravestone. Let’s have a closer look.’

‘It’s the red sandstone gravestone of a vicar, Rev. E.C. Smythe, the inscription states that he died two hundred years ago today. Why, that’s…’ Watson turned quickly to look at where the priest had been a few moments before, there was no sign of him. ‘What’s going on Holmes, I don’t think I understand any of this, I don’t like it either, I tell you. Where have they both gone?’

Relax, Watson, it was just the the unquiet spirit of the vicar visiting his old ministry  on the anniversary of his death. I think you will also find the grave, somewhere in this churchyard, of the Lady Rebecca who died before the estimable E. C. Smythe. He was following the ley lines to his ancient church here, St Quiricus and St Julietta, which is built at the crossing of two lines. I deduced the possibility of him being in spirit when I saw him robed ready for a service at this time of the morning. He has been searching for his lost love across the years. He was also probably here to point us in the right direction to help solve all these murders in the village over the last few weeks. He meant us no harm, it was a white necked raven after all, which usually means that white magic is being practised.

‘How will we ever find out who killed all those people, Holmes?’

‘I think that you will find that our sergeant here has a lot to answer for in this case. Please check his breath. Because of his low carbohydrate diet, I expect him to have a bad case of halitosis caused by his body burning fat and going into ketosis. His breath will smell of acetone but you will understand this better than me Watson, being a medical man. His name, with a missing ‘e’, means that he is a Walloon from  southern Belgium with a de haut en bas attitude . Never trust a policeman from Belgium unless he is called Poirot, Watson. I think this is an opportune time to offer him this bowl of muesli which will force a confession from him.’

‘You are an incredible detective, Holmes,’ muttered Watson as he poured half a pint of best semi skim into the cereal bowl.

Yesterday

The cave was warm and dry, but outside was different. The rain came down in gert big lumps and thunder echoed around the mountains. As the storm grew closer, lightning became more frequent and zagged to the earth, striking several trees on its way. Some of the trees succumbed to the onslaught and breathed their last as they crashed down onto the floor of the forest and lay there, gently barking. They wondered what they had done to deserve such destruction, not realising that causality was not an issue. The thunder faded as the storm moved away and night descended, dark and calm.

The morning dawned bright and freshly washed. A pale, liquid sun burnt off the mists generated from the saturated ground, now clinging to the trees spared by the storm that was a poorly-remembered nightmare.

Ugg stretched in the morning dampness to get the knots out of his ancient joints, he was seventeen, and looked over at his elder brother Ogg, who had not yet stirred. Ugg and Ogg were twins. This was an unusual event when most births resulted in a death before two years were over and twins were considered to be bad luck because there were usually two deaths close together. They had survived the births, a few minutes apart, the usual childhood diseases and accidents, grown up together and were now approaching old age. Their mother had died, reaching the old age of thirty two. Their father was thirty five and clearly had little more time left. He was the chief of the tribe so Ugg and Ogg had come to the high mountain to find slabs of rock that would be used to build his cist tomb where he would be buried with what the archaeologists far in the future would call grave goods - his favourite club, some food to sustain him in the afterlife and his collection of precious bowls.

Many trees had fallen into the combe that they had planned to use as an easy route back to the village so their choices were to heave the slabs over the tree trunks or move all  the trees. They decided to try to lift the first slab over a tree to see if it was possible. It was a struggle to get it up on the tree but then it stared to roll, taking the slab with it. When all the motion stopped they saw that the rock slab had moved twice as far as the tree – with little effort. They decide to try it again with the next tree. It worked again except that, this time it stopped because one of the tree branches stuck in the ground.

The two brothers looked at each other with a growing understanding. Without talking, they each started hacking the branches off the next tree down the combe with their flint axes They then pulled the slab onto it and rolled it down to the next tree. They repeated this until they got down to the grazing grassland near the village. They then got the idea of putting the tree trunk that they had left behind in front of the one they were using so that the slab just carried in rolling. They rushed into the village and grabbed a couple of young boys to help them. They soon had the five slabs for the cist down to the village from the mountain high above.

They explained all of this and how they had done it to the village elders who grumbled and said that no good would come of this new technology and, anyway, it would never catch on – they hadn’t thought of it. The young ones were enthusiastic, however, and insisted that Ugg and Ogg show them how it was done.

Mugg watched all this while he thought about the possibilities and how this technology could be developed.  Why did you need a complete tree trunk, he mused, why not cut the tree into a roller that was only as long as the slab was wide so it would be easier to navigate down the combe.

  Why not use several rollers to avoid having to keep stopping because you had run out of tree and why not… Mugg had just invented the first thought experiment.

The problem with this, of course, was that there was no way of steering and the rollers often jammed on small rocks in the way. They found that fat trees worked better than thin ones so they cut down the biggest tree near the village. They then cut discs from it which they fixed to each end of the roller. Mogg suggested that they cut holes in the discs and fitted them over the roller ends. This allowed them to fix the rollers lengthways. as an axle. They had built a cart!

The older generation watched, bemused. They kept a wary eye on the sky in case this wasn’t allowed and they would be smitten by the gods. No smiting happened but less people were needed to do more work so more crops were grown and the village flourished. Ugg and Ogg’s father lived to the magnificent age of thirty seven and was duly buried in the stone cist. His was the first funeral ceremony in the history of the Earth where the body was taken to the grave on a cart.

Mogg and Mugg now had some spare time so they concentrated on developing this new technology. They found that smearing pig fat around the centre of the discs reduced the wear on the rollers so both the discs and rollers lasted longer - and the cart was easier to pull They then tried tying a bullock to the front of the cart to pull it along. Mogg and Mugg were the first technicians and showed that greater productivity in the fields freed up others to become specialists and showed the way forward for the human race. It was a long time before they had the idea of allowing the front discs to go in different directions to the rear ones and so make a fully steerable cart.

The old ones, those over about twenty, couldn’t adapt to these new ideas so they carried on working in the old way. Their day passed and the new technology was developed through the generations at an increasing rate as the young ones accepted the new technology as normal and the older generations died. This rate eventually reached exponential. After this, there was no stopping the progress of the human race.

This is the way of the world as the moving finger of time moves on.

Custard Creams - an appreciation

You only have to mention ‘Custard Creams’ to an English Person and the immediate thought is, ‘my favourite biscuits.’ There is no need to specify ‘biscuits’ as the connection is obvious. They are the Nation’s favourite biscuit, or the ninth, depending on which survey you trust - if any.
Why is this? Is it the taste of the biscuit, the cream filling or the look with its plagiarism of a sandwich adorned on each surface with the victorian idea of fern leaves, or is it something deeper in the psyche with the harking back to childhood and comfort foods?
When your spiritual guide is visiting for tea in the afternoon, she may refuse your offer of, ‘more tea vicar?’ but she will always accept, ‘perhaps just one more biscuit?’ if, of course, you have served Custard Creams.
Custard creams are neither luxury and guilt inducing, like Belgian chocolates, nor cheap and cheerful as is Tesco ready-made, gritty, spag boll and the like. No, they are carefully sited in between, luxuriant without being indulgent. Able to be eaten at any time of day and not limited to the singular. A complete cellophane wrapped number has been known to disappear in one sitting without residual guilt, just a few crumbs remaining around the mouth as evidence.
People eat them in different ways, of course. They are excellent indication of inner underlying character. Who has not seen the CCG ( Custard Cream Gulper ) who will insert a complete biscuit in the mouth without caring to partake of a small, savouring bite first? This is only acceptable in polite company, of course, when there is an absolute ban on any crumb residue to evidence the activity.
Signs of the inner child may be seen when an acquaintance breaks the seal between the biscuit layers, having taken a small, silent, internal wager on which semi biscuit the cream will adhere. If this is on the upper, then a swift dextrous turn will result in the cream filling being displayed, ready for the 360 degree nibble to remove the excess that has been squeezed from its original deposited position. This is followed by first the non creamed side, then the long awaited creamed side. This method, of course, demonstrates the delayed gratification so beloved of psychologists as the ratio of cream to biscuit is twice that of the complete artifact. Danger lies with this method, however. As with most childhood eating methods, it is difficult to carry out the complete procedure without leaving some crumby trace behind and some creamy trace around the lips.
Occasionally you may see an eater of a custard cream insert it in the mouth sideways, that is with a long side leading. Someone who does this is evidentially untrustworthy and should not be left alone with the silver tea spoons.
The correct eatiquette is as follows:
Take an offered biscuit gently from the plate. Raise it to eye level and check for
damage. Reject any biscuit that is not perfect - is the fern display smudged? Are the two halves firmly adhering to the cream filling? Is the cream filling central, smoothly deposited and of an even thickness?
Turn the biscuit so that a short side is facing the mouth. Insert the biscuit and bite off precisely one third of the length. This may be difficult for you to judge at first but DO NOT WORRY, your judgement will improve with daily practice.
While you enjoy the first third of the biscuit, remove the remainder from your mouth and carefully rotate it ninety degrees in the horizontal plane.

Now your judgement is again required as you carefully bite off exactly half of the remaining two thirds of the biscuit.
When you have fully consumed this, the remaining third can be carefully masticated.
You have now proudly completed the third/third/third procedure and can regard yourself as a fastidious and precisely controlled person. Extensive successful eateration of this procedure will entitle you to the award of the Golden Biscuit. This may only be worn at white tie receptions or with full dress uniform.
How to deal with crumbs.
This is a question that the keepers of THE RECIPE are often asked.
There are several ways but I will only concern myself with the best known and most often seen methods.
1 - The Undercup.
This involves having two hands free for the eating of the Custard Cream.
One hand manipulates the biscuit, depending on the method chosen - see above. The other hand is cupped below the mouth and pressed firmly against the chin so as to allow no crumb leakage between the edge of the hand and the chin. This hand then collects all crumbs that may drop from the biscuit eating and manipulation operations that will be going on above. After the completion of the biting operations it is safe to remove the hand, while ensuring that all crumbs remain in the cupped hand. Once chewing and swallowing is complete then the cupped hand may be held up to the mouth and the crumbs tipped into the open mouth whence the biscuit aftertaste may be savoured - much in the same way as a fine wine. This operation should not be hurried.
2 - The Tilt.
This method should only be used in public after much private practice as an
apprentice practitioner may find herself falling over backwards like a penguin watching a helicopter passing overhead in the Falkland Islands.
It consists of carrying out any of the procedures mentioned above while tipping the head back as far as possible. The mouth is open during all biting operations and so gravity will ensure that all crumbs descend into the mouth.
A major disadvantage of the crumb collection method is that the aftertaste lingerance is much shorter than method “1 above.
Here I must append a short note on the increasing fashion of dipping the biscuit in tea before eating. Adherents of this method will attempt to justify themselves by saying that the biscuit tastes better and there are no crumbs. The first justification is self evidently incorrect as the taste of a Custard Cream has been perfected for some years. The riposte to the second is that while there may be no dry crumbs, there may well be the descent of a soggy blob of biscuit material on to ones clothing. Please do not try this disgusting habit of ‘dunking’ as I believe it is called.
3 - The Gulp.
I have mentioned this method before. It is normally only used in polite

company when a few crumbs on the carpet would be a major indiscretion. The easy way to avoid this conundrum is to refuse the offer of a Custard Cream but, however, for some reason this very seldom happens and so the perpetrator is forced down the route of the gulp. You may think that the ‘Undercup’ or ‘Tilt’ methods of crumb control could be used but these are not completely foolproof. I think you can see that this unapproved method is only used by weak vessels who cannot resist the lure of a Custard Cream - even when contra-indicated.

WARNING
It has recently come to the notice of the keepers of THE RECIPE that some audacious people have embarked on the manufacture of a spread that purports to mimic the taste of Custard Creams. This is not authorised by the keepers of THE RECIPE and so cannot hope to replicate the unique sublime taste of the cream filling we all know so well. Please be aware that it may well contain trans fats and other ingredients that may have deleterious, not to say, egregious, effects on the human body. We just hope that these effects do not approach the existential.
This appreciation was prepared with support from the keepers of THE RECIPE. 

The Future

The Future

Note:

This account has been transcribed into antique English from the original Xoas in the  hope of a greater understanding.

*

Che Ga called his boss, Professor of Geo-physics Gha La. ’Have you got a minute, there’s something I need to talk to you about?’

‘Yes, certainly, come along now.’ Gha La put the phone down. She tidied her desk as she waited for Che to arrive.

‘Come in, she said in response to a knock on the door, ‘take a seat. What do you need to talk about?’

‘It’s about our survey party at the Vredefort Crater. They have all become sick and have had to be evacuated from the Free State to our medical centre here in Accra. We have got most of the survey done and can confirm that it was caused by a bolide impact. The impacter was probably about 10km across and travelling at 10km a second just before impact. The resulting crater is some 300 km across and at least half of it can still be seen.’

‘Do we know what is wrong with them?’ asked Gha La.

‘They all have burns to the skin and have depleted T. Leucocytes. This is indicative of exposure to radioactivity.’

‘But there are no nuclear power stations within 2,000 miles.’

‘We have sent a party, protected by rad. haz. suits to monitor and measure the radioactivity to try and determine the source and calculate the team’s exposure.’

‘And…?’

‘There is a small source deep underground. The exposure was from a tunnel path at 30⁰ to the horizontal, giving a disc of exposure at the surface of 10 m diameter. The team’s exposure was relatively low and they should all fully recover in about three weeks..’

‘What is the tunnel pointing to and what type of radiation is it?’

‘The horizontal vector of the tunnel is practically due West and the radiation  is mostly alpha although there is a small amount of gamma. The ratio suggests that most of the nuclide is Uranium 235 with a very small quantity of Plutonium 239, most of which will have decayed over time to Uranium. The plutonium has a half life of 24,000 years whereas the Uranium’s is 704 million years. If the original source was pure plutonium then the present day ratio suggests that the plutonium has been there for about 200 million years.’ exposited Che Ga.

‘OK, so I’ll let you into a secret. We have also had a survey team carrying out the same work at the Sudbury crater in Canada. The complete team is at present in hospital with the same symptoms. The radiation ratios are the same and there is a radiation transparent tunnel from the source deep in the Earth. The difference is that the tunnel is pointing due South.’

‘To summarise,’ Gha La went on. ‘We have found two very long lived nuclear sources under the two oldest and biggest bolide impact craters in the history of the Earth - Vredefort is 2.02 billion years old for example Each has a radiation finger from a long half life nuclide pointing in different directions. We have a computer model of the tectonic plate movement over the Earth’s surface. Run the Wilson cycle model backwards for 200 million years, plot the radiation lines on the computer and see where they cross.’

* 

‘They cross almost exactly on the Barringer crater in Arizona in the USA.’ said Che Ga, looking up in amazement.’

‘So, we thought until now that the Barringer Crater was also formed by a bolide impact but, what if it was made by a nuclear explosion as a marker to indicate where something is buried for us to find? You will note that the two impact craters used are very old, on different tectonic plates and set in the centre of very stable cratons. Arrange for an aerial radiological survey of the area around Barringer Crater and get me the results by tonight.’

‘Yes, boss.’ He scurried off.

*

‘We have completed the survey and there is a definite pattern in the radioactivity. It shows as a series of small circles in rows. Some are a magnitude more radioactive than others but they are all in straight lines in sections of ten.’ explained a tired Che Ga. ‘ We think they are upright, vitrified, columns of low level radioactive waste.’

‘Lets have a look at the plot.’

They spread the chart out on the table and looked closely at the plot. The first section had 9 low levels followed by one high level, the second section had eight low levels followed by one high level then a low level.

‘Hey, you know what this is?’

‘What?’

‘It’s a binary dictionary!’ It is an analogue series from 0 through to 1024.’

‘But this is only a small section near to the crater, it goes on for several kilometres. All in the same format but seemingly more random.’

‘That is because it is a message to us from the past, 200 million years ago in fact. Don’t you see, this is the only way that they could leave a message that would last long enough after their civilisation had failed to ensure that the next civilisation had a chance to evolve, discover nuclear energy and understand the significance of the message. There is no other method that would have lasted so long.’

*

The next 100 years were spent recording and studying the site to try and understand the message.

*

It was checked and counterchecked until the great day came when all became clear. The World President read the message in full over the ‘net.

‘Greetings from the far past. We had the chance to live in harmony on the beautiful Earth but we destroyed ourselves by breeding until we were too many for this planet to support in spite of our many wars that killed millions. We studied and learned the science of how things worked until we thought we were very wise and could live without nature. This was bad enough but we were still ignorant enough to have many religions around the world, each of which  thought only they knew the truth. The believers fought and killed each other until there are only a few of us atheists left. This message to you will be our civilisation’s memorial. 

We wish you well and hope you live in harmony. Good luck.’

The President got up from his perch and flew off to his next appointment.

1,080 words.

W B - 15 The telephone call

The telephone call.

George handed me the yellow handset. I took it from him, put it to my ear and listened. I started a pretend conversation to keep my grandson happy.

‘Hello, who is speaking?’ 

‘Is that the Samaritans?’ asked the voice. 

‘No, this is a private number,’ I said, about to put the phone down.  The quiet weeping from the other end of the line dissolved my anger. I waited for a moment then said ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’ve got no one to talk to. I can’t do it on my own and now I can’t even call the right number. I’m useless, I’ve had enough, I’m going to end it for both of us.’ I recognised the desperation in the voice. I’d been there myself. How could I now just hang up with a cheerful ‘Sorry, wrong number’ and then get on with my life?

‘Who is there with you?’ I asked.

‘It’s just me and Eleanor.’

‘Who is Eleanor?

‘She’s my baby.’

‘You can talk to me if you like,’ I waited. I now suspected the telephone was the only tenuous lifeline this poor soul had left and I knew I should choose my words with care. ‘My name’s Susan, what’s yours? ‘said the shaky voice. 

‘I’m Mary. Can you tell me what the problem is Susan? I promise I won’t tell anyone or do anything you don’t want me to.’ 

‘Hello Mary. I can’t talk for long. I’m in a phone box and I haven’t got much change.’

‘That’s no problem, give me the number and I’ll call you back.’ 

I rang her back, quickly, on the house phone, would she still be there? Had she got the right number this time? 

‘Hallo Mary,’ said Susan. 

I sighed with relief.

‘Why are you so upset then, Charley, sorry, Susan? It sounds like everything is fine, both you and Eleanor are healthy and you obviously mean to keep the baby or you wouldn’t have given her a name.’ I could hear Susan crying at this.

‘Of course I am going to keep Eleanor. How could you possibly think I could kill her?’ she said ‘ I’m upset because, when I told my Mum and Dad about Eleanor last week, they kicked me out and told me they didn’t want to know me any more. “How could you do this to us?” They said. They even took my mobile. They said I wasn’t their daughter any more.’

‘Err, well, I was seventeen and still at school when I fell pregnant with Charlotte. My boyfriend, Kevin, disappeared and I haven’t seen him since.’

‘How did you manage then?’ asked Susan

‘Mum and Dad were great. They really helped me and made sure we had everything we needed. It was still difficult but I worked part time in Boots while Mum looked after Charley and I managed to buy a small flat and save so that she could go to university if she wanted. The hardest part was being totally responsible for someone with no one to share the load with.’

‘That is exactly how I feel, but at least your mum and dad helped you and you had someone to talk to.’ I realised then how alone Susan must be feeling. I was starting to feel responsible for her now, or perhaps she was beginning to fill the gap in my life which had been there since Charley had left?

‘Well, err, perhaps you would like to come around here one evening? We could have a chat and a cup of tea.’

‘I would really like that, Mary, you are so easy to talk to.  I’ll have to go now, there is some guy hammering on the glass again’ 

‘OK,’ I said, ‘but please ring me tomorrow evening or anytime during the night if you need to talk. Promise me. Please.’

‘OK, I promise,’ said Susan. 

*****

I managed to get through the next day at work although my heart wasn’t really in it and my thoughts were elsewhere. I got home early and wondered what time Susan would ring. I waited by the phone to make sure I would hear it. When it got to ten o’clock I started to wonder and by midnight I was very worried. I eventually dozed off in the chair by the phone and awoke, stiff and cold, at six next morning. What could have happened? Susan had promised and I was certain she would have called if it had been at all possible. 

I struggled to get ready for work and eat some breakfast, hungry after missing my meal the previous evenings. I set off for the twenty minute drive across Bristol to the Avixa insurance offices. I listened to the news, as usual, on Heart FM. The second headline was a local item. A young woman’s body had been found on the river bank far below the Clifton suspension bridge, a ‘popular’ suicide spot. She was described as five foot three , slim with long blond hair. There was no mention of her being pregnant but I thought they would keep that private until she had been identified. Her clothes were also described but by this time I had stopped listening, stopped the car and stopped worrying about Susan. 

I knew she was dead, Susan had no troubles now. All my talking and listening had been a waste of time, I had failed my new friend. I had thought I was a good listener but now I knew I was useless. I should have persuaded her to stay with me last night, she could have slept in Charley’s room. She had died because I hadn’t helped her. I couldn’t face work now so I turned the car and  meandered home. 

I made a mug of tea, took it out to my sanctuary and just sat there in the morning sunshine. I could smell the phlox as I watched a bumble bee make its rounds.  Susan would never enjoy the warmth of the sun on her face again. Eleanor would never have a chance to enjoy these delights. What had made her do it?  The stupid, stupid, girl, why hadn’t she called me or rang the Samaritans from one of the special phones on the bridge? She had seemed quite cheerful when we finished talking. She was thinking of ways to deal with her problems and could even see a future for them both. What had changed after she hung up? What a terrible waste of two  lives. She hadn’t given Eleanor a chance of a life by cutting her own so short. I had failed them, let them down. It was all my fault.

The phone rang. I didn’t want to answer it but I knew they would only keep on pestering me about my gas supply or some such nonsense so I answered it.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi Mary, it’s Susan, sorry I didn’t call last night, it all got a bit hectic yesterday, sorting things out after our talk, then I couldn’t find the piece of paper I had written your number on until this morning and I knew you wouldn’t  mind if I left it until today, it was wonderful talking to you, you really made me look at things differently and helped me see a way forward, you are a real life saver, I’ve found somewhere for us to live, will you be Eleanor’s Godmother,  you’ll never guess what I have done now after your advice …’ 

I couldn’t speak, the tears rolled slowly down my cheeks.

W B - 13 Luck

W B - 13     Luck

James had always known that he was unlucky. He was famous as the only guy around who could produce an ‘edge’ from a ‘heads or tails’ when tossing a coin - no binary for him. He had always been known, even at school, as ‘Lucky Jim’ - irony started at an early age where he came from. He started to carry a lucky penny in addition to his rabbit’s foot in an attempt to change his luck but he soon lost the penny and his rabbit’s foot got eaten by his sister’s black cat which crossed his path one day. He tried to take up bird watching but he only ever managed to see one magpie at a time - he sometimes wondered when a blackbird would peck off his nose.

Because of his bad luck he had long ago stopped buying lottery tickets after he worked out the odds of winning for a person with an average sort of luck. The odds of any one ticket winning the jackpot were just under 13 million to one against. He figured out from this that, if he bought one ticket a week, he would win once every 250 thousand years. He didn’t think he would live that long. Because of his reputation, he had been banned from the lottery syndicate where he worked - at a bookies. His boss had concluded that his bad luck would rub off onto the punters so increasing the profits, which is the only reason he kept his job. He also worked out the odds of surviving a parachute jump so he didn’t take up that sport; why place your trust in some plastic sheeting and a few bits of string when you can stay in a perfectly good aeroplane?

James was descending into depression, everything he tried turned out wrong, he failed at everything. The last straw was when he was sacked from his job at the bookies, profits were down because the punters were winning too often.

He decided to prove once and for all that he had some luck left so he got his dad’s souvenir revolver from his time in the war, loaded it with one round and then spun the chamber. He held it to his head with a shaking hand and pulled the trigger, expecting to hear a bang and then nothing as the bullet entered his skull and macerated his brain.

He heard a bang but he had not held the gun steady enough so the bullet went wide, skimmed the side of his head and took his ear off. It whistled down the hallway and went through the front door, leaving a neat hole in the glass. James had been temporarily deafened by the bang so did not hear the scream from the man with the briefcase who had just reached the front step of his bungalow. 

James was now laying on the floor in the hallway, dazed and not aware of anything. The man on the front step had also dropped to  the ground with a wound to his arm that was now bleeding all over James’ front path. He had dropped his briefcase, which split open, spilling the lottery tickets over the ground and the cheque made out to James for 35 million pounds.

Later as they sat in James’ living room having just got back from A & E , they sipped a sweet cup of tea each and reviewed the events of the afternoon.

‘I was lucky because I won the game of Russian roulette at my first try,’ insisted James.

‘But you lost because you hurt your head and lost your ear,’ argued the man from the lottery, who was called Alan. ‘You only really won because you got the big prize from the lottery.’

‘So, am I a lucky person now?’ mused James.

‘I think you are very lucky, in fact you won against odds of 28.76 million to one. But, to prove your luck has changed, why don’t you toss a coin and see if you can call it right?’

James found a penny from his pocket and tossed it in the air, ‘Heads,’ he cried confidently. The coin bounced off the chair and landed on the floor - on its edge.

W B - 12. Photo prompt

‘Be careful, Maria,’ cautioned Papa, as we carefully negotiated the filthy water, empty bottles and other unmentionables laying in a disgusting mess on the marble floor. It made our footing treacherous and uncertain in the dying light of the sunset.

‘Yes, Papa,’ I said, realising but, not mentioning, that my footing was more secure than his. The events of the last year had taken a terrible toll on him. The starvation rations and loss of status made him question himself; could he could have done more for his people and beloved country, could he have influenced events?

The corridor was aligned with the setting sun so the shadows of the seven of us jumped and danced on the walls. Who was more real, the shadows or us? We were as weak as ghosts and made very slow progress.

‘What are those things hanging from the ceiling?’ asked my sister, Anastasia.

‘Those are the ashes of the leather wall hangings that were burnt when the fire gutted this Ipatiev House in Yekaterinburg on that terrible May day in 1918,’ I told her.

We slowed to wait for Mother. 
      ‘Come lean on me, darling Alexandra,’ said Papa to his wife. ‘We have to get to that cellar but we have plenty of time, all eternity in fact, so there is no need to hurry.

The steel windows were open but there was no glass left so it made no difference, the bullets of the Bolsheviks had shattered the glass and left the shards on the floor. They were hidden in the muddy water from the heavy rains that followed the shooting.

It had taken us seemingly forever to get from the grave site on the Koptyyaki Road. It was only twelve miles but time and distance had no meaning for us now. We hoped by getting back to cellar, we would eventually get to lie in the Pete and Paul cathedral in Saint Petersburg with the other monarchs of Russia. 

We eventually got to the cellar, the scene of the execution. Pap told Mama and Alexie to sit on the three chairs and rest. We had only eighty two years to wait before we were finally laid to rest and so leave behind our earthly cares.

WB 11 The eleventh hour

W B 11 The Eleventh Hour

Things were going wrong. No one knew why. 

People started walking through walls without the use of doors. 

Nuclear power station outputs varied erratically, 

One week two hundred people won the jackpot on the lottery - the following twenty weeks, none.

Traffic light started behaving erratically, red was sometimes followed by more red, rather than the expected amber and green - it didn’t help much with the traffic.

Bathwater started changing the direction of the eddy as it swirled down the plug hole.

Trains and buses started arriving on time.

Politicians started telling the whole truth.

Something was amiss with the world, chaos was taking over, one of those poxy butterflies in Brazil again probably but which one, there were several of them there and Brazil is a big place. Bigger even than Wales, some say.

People demanded that the government did something.The government did what it always did when it had no answer to a problem; it postponed the issue so it didn’t have to do anything while seeming to be strong and resourceful. It set up an enquiry led by a ‘past his sell by date’ lawyer. It would almost certainly last a long time and cost a lot of money. That is what lawyers are good at. The government fulminated publicly against the years of delay while being privately delighted at the time wasted. They didn’t worry about the cost, after all it wasn’t their money.

The lawyer, Sir Cholmondly - Smythe, was not quite as daft and doddery as he appeared. He had a sharp and enquiring mind, hidden behind a mild air of bewilderment when asking the witnesses who appeared before his panel, questions that pierced the hyperbole adopted by most civil servants and got quickly to the nub of the matter. One of his favourite strategies was to allow a civil servant to witter on until he was confident that he had cast enough wool over the eyes of the panel and mildly ask, ‘why did you do such a stupid thing when even a four year old child would have known better?’ This almost invariably brought out some gems that the witness would have preferred to remain hidden.

The government Chief Scientist was summoned to the enquiry and was quite certain that he was a match for a bumbling lawyer. Sir David Smart was to find out that he was wrong. He was dressed in pin striped, dark grey trousers and a white T-shirt with the slogan “Statistics means never having to say you’re certain.”

Sir C - S as we will call him, to save paper and ink, looked at Dave and thought he would have a go at tying him in knots - bowlines mainly - as he was an amateur sailor.

‘So tell me Dave, err may I call you Dave?’

 Sir David Smart had a hatred of being called Dave but knew, if he admitted to that, the number of ‘Daves’ he heard each day would increase a hundred fold so he mildly answered, ‘Not at all Smudge.’

‘Well then Dave, perhaps you can explain to us simple, non scientific folk, what is going on and what started it all?’

‘It all started when we were told, nay commanded, by the European Union that we had to change to binary decimal time’

‘Explain please.’

‘The SI unit of time was decided to be the second, which would be unchanged and determined by the speed of light, which as you know is constant - in a vacuum of course - at 299,792,458 metres per second. This also defines the metre so other units of length and time are calculated from this. There are now 100 seconds in a minute - now known as a centiminute and 100 centiminutes or 10,000 seconds in an hour.The day is determined by the rotational speed of the Earth and consists of 86,400 seconds. This means that there are now 8.64 hours in a day, or 8.64 x 10⁴ seconds in scientific notation. There were a few adjustments required to accommodate this new clock system but over all it made things a lot more simple and precise. Big Ben’s clock had to be changed from analogue to binary digital of course, as did all the other analogue clocks in the country. It also pushed Switzerland out of the watchmaking business so they now rely on cuckoo clocks, triangular chocolate bars and dodgy banking to earn a living.

That is only the first step, of course as the time units had to be expressed in digital binary - DB rather than just digital and in scientific notation, but I am sure that everyone in the country remembers the conversion calculation and can manage it quite easily. What about you then Smudge?

Sir C - S could of course, do this standing on his head, just not so well when sitting on his brain but he didn’t want to admit to this so he replied in his assumed persona, ‘not really, I have always found it to be a problem, perhaps you could explain it for the benefit of us dimwits?’

‘Certainly Smudge,’ came the reply. If there was one thing Dave was good at, it was patronising the intellectually challenged.

‘Take the time of half past five in the afternoon or 1730 as you maritime types used to call it. This is of course seventeen hours and 30 minutes through the day. if you first convert this to seconds you get;

17 x 60 x 60 = 61,200 seconds

Add 30 x 60 = 1,800 seconds

Total = 63,000 seconds

Convert to scientific notation = 6.3 x 10⁴

This is simple and straightforward.

Now convert to binary using the simple method gives 1111011000011000

So instead of saying half past five in the afternoon, you simply say 111011000011000. This is also the number of seconds since the last midnight. I think you will agree that this is simpler and more precise and it makes the design of digital clocks that much simpler. People soon got used to reading time in this way.

The main problem was that computers are very good with this method because time is now expressed using their language but it increased the data storage required and because if the increase in accuracy, it reduced the amount of randomness required. This meant that the randomness had to be increased  in other areas by exactly the same amount to keep the quantity of randomness at the same level. This is known as the third law of thermodynamics or random entropy, to give it its other name.

Quantum theory predicts that atoms will be in random places. A few that make up a person have a very low probability of being on the other side of the wall. This probability is normally so low that is does not really occur in the real world but since the increase of randomness…

Also is you look at a mass of plutonium for example. Its common allotrope, Pu-239 has a half life of 24,100 years. This is known and predictable but there is a problem. If you look at one molecule of plutonium, there is no way of knowing when it will decay, it can be in the next couple of seconds or in many thousand of years time. It is identical to all the other plutonium  molecules but they will decay at a different time. The timing of this decay is totally random, as predicted by quantum theory. The problem is now, because of the increase in randomness, this half life will have decreased by an unknown amount and so all nuclear reactors will have to be shut down until they have been redesigned and rebuilt.

‘Why has the lottery gone very strange?’

‘It is because of the strange effect called the common occurrence of unlikely effects. The odds of one ticket winning the lottery is 14 million to one so it is very unlikely that one person with one ticket will win it. But, the big prize is won by someone almost every week. The increase in randomness has to be shared with the lottery which now has more of it and the odds against winning can no longer be calculated and they change every week.

Don’t get me started on the problems with traffic lights, bath water and, and.’

‘What is the answer then Dave?’

‘Leave the European Union and go back to old fashioned time with 24 hours in a day.’

‘How much time to we have? Tell me in old money please.’

‘It is now very late in the day and we have no time to lose. I’d say we are now at the eleventh hour.’

‘Thank you Dave. I’ll notify the Prime Minister, I am sure he will be very pleased to hear that. I’ll also put it in the report of the Smudge enquiry.