Of legends are us.

Page 1          

Listed persons names from Ancient Greece, plus their English translations. Non-Fiction story with fiction character names, relevant to:

                                                                         Framed.

Anfisa – Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Lady of Flowers’’ 
Karissa – Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Gracious, Kind.’

Golan – Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Quiet, analytical and understanding.’
Archemedes – Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Think first.’

Cleopatra – Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Father’s Glory.’
Xzenia – Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Woman of Hospitality.’

Anthony – Ancient Greek name meaning ‘He who Adds’ otherwise known as Ant, from Marc Anthony (lover of Cleopatra.)
Vangelis – Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Good Tidings.’

Evangalisa – Ancient Greek name derivative meaning ‘Bringer of good tidings.’
Zsofia – Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Woman of Wisdom.’

Helena – Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Light’.
Aneka – Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Hard Working’.
………………………………………………………….   0 ………………………………………………………………….

                                              Red ball x 1.

Welcome to the frame. Here we go for a break. It’s business as usual. Off we go with a White ball slam into the triangle of balls. It’s a confident hit with balls going all ways. The only one we’re interested in right now is one of the Red balls. Just want to make sure he gets one in the pocket . . . Which . . . yes he does. That’s one Red ball down. All the other Reds spread conveniently (let’s hope) about the table.           

Page 2                                                Black ball x 1

♫ Walk like an Egyptian …………………. 🎶
‘Oh yeah ……………….Wowee!’
What solace this was; absent minded and far out with some riveting music on the tape player. Such was the feeling when the mind, (or mine at any rate) interacted in tune with the music . . . whilst driving. Not such a coincidental combination either.
The collaboration of the two together was awareness un-syncing. Distracting even. That’s what happens when ‘some’ music just hits the sweet spot at a time when it’s most absorbed, but less than ideal with its timing. However, fully absorbing in terms of happy gain.

Next up for play is the Black. It looks that way at any rate. He can get that Black ball in from there so why go for any other colour. Seems perfectly happy with everything and here we go. Just a small chip on the cue there to pot the Black. There we go. In goes the Black.            

I felt happy.
I felt nervous too. Happily nervous, or nervously happy, or both – one reason why I had slipped in a cassette audio tape from choice of which I hadn’t listened to for a while. This track sounded so good right then I could literally forget what week it was.
Screw it, I turned the volume knob on the dashboard cassette player right up to full volume, or somewhere near to it. Not much chance of disturbing the neighbours around here.
A zed bend that appeared in the road came out of nowhere; one second –  driving down a narrow road (arranged like an enclosed toboggan run with hedges way too high to see over), the next – there it is, a zed like a zed should be; ninety degrees one way then ninety degrees the other. Purposefully it navigated itself around the corners of two opposing fields, and a third one; which seemingly must have been in the way when they built the road.
Weird!
Relevant in another way, as it then marked the start of a drive into a different landscape, or at least one that could be seen either side of the road. Almost like a switch of scenery decided entirely by a bend in the road.

Page 3                                              Red ball x 2.

The new landscape was shaded by a broken tunnel of trees. Thick woods one
side, not so dense hedging and single trees on the other. Beyond that a hilly and rolling grass field.
Distance gets covered slowly.
I deliberated. I must be getting close to the actual village address by now – the one that signalled the whereabouts of the property where I was supposed to be this day.
My foot on the throttle pedal had already lifted slightly – consciously and intentionally: to make the songs playing along on the dashboard tape player last a bit longer.
This particular music track sounded that good I could sing it . . .  no, shout it – out loud, the chorus line anyway. I knew that bit off by heart.
♫ Walk like an Egyptian …………………. 🎶

Another Red ball to line up with. They’re pretty well spread about and in good places too. Just a quick glance down the table, minimal lining up to do. Let’s watch while . .  oh yes. Didn’t hang around there. Smacked that Red ball straight into the pocket.              

The scenery passing by on either side of my wheels was worth a not so cautious gander. Get a look at this why don’t you, self?
What with the passing landscape and the music both on parity by now in terms of distraction, the thought of going to work for the day began to slip further down the list of importance. I felt super charged.
Today of all days, I could well afford to take my mind of the ball. Gone soon would be the customer satisfying, conscientious approach. Certainly in this line of work at any rate. Two types of work! The work? (my own sourced), sought by and through various channels such as advertising, and by word of mouth (which now didn’t amount to much.) And the worst part of it was the other; the work which wasn’t sought by and through those standard channels; work such as this work on this day.
Nature never intended me as a business man. Certainly not as a builder business man. Yes, could you believe it, a builder of all things. Fuck that. Untrained, unqualified, unwilling. There by default. Filling a gap that didn’t

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need filling.
‘Do you know what? I couldn’t be bothered anymore.’ The long and short of it? – shite work, shite conditions, shite everything. Worst of all, this other type of the work included a slowly but surely deteriorating relationship with this boss man. I knew it, he knew it. Nothing good going for it. A disaster area in the making.
Earlier this day, twenty five miles away back at home, I’d jumped into the van eager to fulfil this one last job. Alone at home before setting off, the impending statement I intended to make later in the day had sounded good. Good enough to encourage me to pimp up the act of going to work today, to create an added feel good factor. A happy feeling there was to be had. This would be the end of the road where someone wouldn’t see it coming. I was done being lured into a honey trap.
Fast forward to the here and now, twenty five miles later, and then all of a sudden, from out of nowhere, an onerous thought occurs. The deliberation!
I remembered seeing the signpost back there on the main road, the one aiming for the village that I was looking for. Pointing this way it had indicated a mile and a half in distance to my destination. I was almost there.
What with all this added feel good factor along the way (intentional and by coincidence, along with the music to sing along to and the country scenes), the atmosphere surrounding myself was definitely different. Uplifting. There was much to be said for that.
Conversely, whereas I could see clearly the tarmac in front of my wheels, I couldn’t see the road ahead quite as clearly. Not in one sense anyway. I didn’t care. The road to the future didn’t include a balls ache of a journey which basically wasn’t and never had been my chosen way forward; more like an opening that had happened. That road ahead now though (the one to the future) was luring, unknown and different. Unclear, but promising at the same time. I had changed it. I had made it happen. Now it was my choice.
Had there, really, been any real and genuine offer of possibility on this present course? I asked myself. A lot of promising stuff along the way throughout this whole journey in the building business so far had turned out to be more a case of being a gullible lapdog than a person with a tangible vision of a successful future as a boss man. Any desire of mine to be strapped in and ready to enjoy

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the ride in building was a falsely interpreted way forward to begin with, now just a plain old failure. I didn’t have the oomph anymore.
‘For the love of god, self. Talk about learning the hard way.’
I could see a crossroads coming up. And it wasn’t on any road layout or map, either. 

The sooner I found the address where I was supposed to be carrying out roof repairs, the sooner I would have to turn the music off and stop driving. That in itself would then deny me the chance to see what lies around the next bend. I felt an overriding desire to drive all day.
Obviously on approach to work today would then mean the sooner I would
have to return to reality once more. Still, the sensory overload of these distractions had been enough of a spike in whichever part of the brain was responsible for acknowledging it as to almost dissolve the sketchy dilemma of
going to work this day (this week even) almost to vanish point, for as long as it had lasted.
Could I be deliriously happy about the incumbent and unsavoury (on the one hand) situation I found myself in today? Damn right I could. The journey so far (the original offer made to myself and therefore covered to this point) – outrageous, to begin with. The end game – (the offer I would make in return, today) outrageous – it will be.
How more uplifting could a journey to work be? I wondered to myself. Especially this job, (or more specifically this location) on this week.
It must have been fate!
Yes, that’s what it must have been.
Now though, approaching reality, I wasn’t sure whether to feel especially good
or especially pissed off. Under the present circumstances, I wanted the music to carry on playing.
Then, a spark of recognition. I could remember being here at this place once before. Scenery recognition was pricking the memory banks.
I mean, just where, . . . no, what was this place anyway? It was like driving back in time.
That last time I’d been here had been just another day at another work place. Only vague scenery recognition now, but enough to cause a double take.

Page 6                                          Black ball x 2

I must have had other things on my mind at the time back then; the previous occasion I had been here. Maybe I’d been in a different place – in my head. Yeah, that must be it.
Right now there was an irritant factor which wasn’t present on that previous occasion. Working for this boss man bloke certainly came with its fill of fucking annoying attributes. One bloody huge one in-particular. Those annoying attributes had gotten worse with time.
‘How didn’t you work that one out – self? Un-natural un-progression if ever
there was such a thing.
Oh yeah, that was a term worth inventing –  ‘un-natural un-progression’. Just to suit my own conscience. Face the facts self, it fits.’

Shoehorned into a role to suit someone else like some wannabe gofer.
I was better than that.
Deep down I was sure I shouldn’t be doing this line of work. Better things
awaited if I’d only worked it out; which I felt like I now had.
I had been younger at the time when I’d started this work journey so I felt like I had been wanted when originally offered this chance.
This journey had been an unexpected course to take, no question. Out from
farming and into building. I couldn’t see the wood through the trees at the
time so wasn’t able to work out who the main benefactor would ultimately be
from such a move.
All said and done, it had been a bit like selling your soul for an easy way out. It was just so . . . short term. And that had been the bit that had eluded me – until now.
It certainly had been a bumpy road to realisation, and made all the worse by my own acceptance of what (certainly in the early stages) I incorrectly understood, or mistook, as appraisal of my own qualities.
I guess we’re all like that a bit when we’re young. What rubbish that was. There was only one winner here and it wasn’t me. Well, it might have taken a while, but see the light I did, in the end. Wake up and smell the roses, self.
So here I was, at this point in time. Wiser, better, more aware, and to top it all off – driven. Possessed even, with a desire to be me. The proper me.

Two Red balls down and now he lines up on the Black. No point in aiming for

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anything less. Going for the high score so he’s going to . . . oh yes, nicely           
potted. The Black is in the pocket.            

♬♫  Ωαλκ λικε αν Εγψ. . .  The chorus line plays again.     
🥁 Whoah! what’s this? A stone entrance way!
You don’t get to see stuff like this unless it’s the statement of somewhere
grand, palatial even. Looked like there was class here.
Why was it that the last time I was here I didn’t pay attention to any of this
roadside scenery?
I must have been away with the . . . hang on a minute though! That last time I was here, I remember now. I’d been in a works tipper truck, up against the clock back then so maybe that had been the reason why. Yeah, I remember
now. Driving some dirty old tipper truck; which didn’t even have a radio let alone a tape player. Flooring the gas pedal at every single opportunity because it was someone else’s truck. That had been fun, listening to the commercial clattering sound of the diesel engine labouring through the actions of a floored throttle. There’d certainly been other distractions back then. None of them any way remotely the same as now.

🎵 Anubis and Horus and the rest …. ♫ blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, ♯
Not only does this recognised and rated song end up playing along on the tape player as I enter my way into and through this interesting place, the vibes from the music tingle the senses. A bit like watching a brilliant motion picture with some great soundtrack in the background.
Nothing about this place looked anything like I was used to in my small world. But then having spent the last fifteen years living on the side of a busy main road, I guess that wasn’t so difficult. This was the middle of nowhere after all.
It reminded me a bit of a village I’d been through years ago in Dartmoor. A hidden away place that appeared as though time had passed by.
This place was similar.
It was funny really. Here I was in a strange village setting. Fields surrounded by
– not barbed wire fencing, but wrought iron fencing. It doesn’t stop there either. Wrought iron fencing marks a boundary no matter what is beyond it. Woods, open fields, ornate stone entranceways, roadside river.

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River?
Surely I should have known about a river now that there was one, here by the roadside. This countryside wasn’t that badly signed that I would have been so
ignorant as to have overlooked a river from where it should have been
identified by a written signpost. Surely not? I was proud of my ability to recognise a river, or more especially – my knowing that they should easily be identified, since the politicians of the day had decided to enable folk to be able
to recognise them from the road with the aid of that written signpost.
I must have missed that. Mind you, I wasn’t aware of any bridge over the main road nearby to here anyway. Either this river wasn’t a real river or the bridge
was carefully constructed not to appear as one. Must have missed that too.
The river was flowing with purpose. So much so that the water was bumpy, not even smooth. White water – almost. Even although the road and the watercourse alongside were level, the rush of water was quite aggressive. Suggestive of an original presence from higher up.
Whatever next!
Curiosity, surprise, wonder, it all added up. I think I was going to have an
affection for this place; the location of which would mark a true turning point. It couldn’t have been a better setting for what was to come.
As the timing, (life’s timing; where we see ourselves from chosen pathways and invisible crossroads, choices and stuff like that) had coincidentally
allowed, I was therefore glad I had the opportunity to visit this place. Fortunate
even, to be able to see what lay beyond the normal boundaries marked by
main roads.
Just think about it, self, if I hadn’t chosen one pathway in life, or if the pieces hadn’t fallen into place as they had done, I wouldn’t know about this village place. Over time, all those places, (and ultimately the pathway that I had been following) had eventually culminated into this route on this day in this place.
And on the run-up to this precise and particular job for roof repairs (as it happened), on this precise day in time, I’d spent a long time (days and weeks) considering my next move. This job would be the job and it would coincidentally be in this village.
On the one hand, it had been a difficult and awkward realisation. On the other hand, the next move made perfect sense. The bottom line?

Page 9                                        Red Ball x 3.

I was stuck in a rut.
It was time to do something about it.

Here goes on another Red ball. Piece of cake. Take it right down the table
and . . . Bam. In the pocket without a second thought. A very convincing shot.            

Having been musically filled with happy gains whilst driving through mesmerising scenery, it was mildly upsetting to begin loosing focus the closer
I got to . . . well, reality once more. A bit like the mind’s eye begins pixelating. 
Reality kicked in. I made an effort to find the address I was looking for. No more music for a bit.
Shortly after then; address found. A quick survey of the roof job left me feeling more positive about the way forward. This work would probably only last three days or so judging by my survey.
‘So fuck it, let’s get on with this job, self. Get it sorted.’
If the job finished earlier, so much the better. I had somewhere else to be soon.
In the meantime: here’s a few days’ worth of working in a pretty unusual setting; which not by its own choosing was going to mark a change in direction. Couldn’t have worked out better really.

The roofing repair job hadn’t been sourced by myself. That was down to the boss man. The boss man who I wanted nothing to do with anymore when it came to work.
Over a period of time (that in which I had been following this journey within
this trade) I had come to my senses. Enough to work out that following this
dabble within the building business on my own and therefore enduring all the
normal stuff such as customer nonsense, delayed and sometimes barter payment issues, free quotes for the apparent sake of it, and a big squeeze on my own time, it was now time to move on.
This trade wasn’t my preferred role in life. Although I’d jumped in at the deep end by becoming a one man band business in basic building maintenance and landscaping, the act of becoming that type of worker had paid off in the short

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term. Work had flooded in.
Until one day it didn’t anymore, leaving a more or less total reliance on sub contracted work from the very source I was keen to detach myself from.
Something was wrong.
For the sudden lack of anything that appeared even minutely as achievable by solely myself, did I then envisage my allotted route in life as heading in the wrong direction. That much was written in the stars, it had to be. My inner voice was computing the alternatives and I was going along with it. The bit which I fully understood was just that, like a eureka moment. The directions were there, it was up to me to make them work, a bit like invisible crossroads.

At the time of entry into building maintenance as a one man band business and setting up as a lone worker, I’d felt there were few available choices after my current boss man now (and back then at the start of this building work as a sole trader) sold his building business.
More to the point: he had sold everything asset wise from it and retired into what he was now – a bloke still getting work which he didn’t want to do. That’s why he sub-contracted the work to me. That’s also why I was (in the blink of an eye) cast aside. Left out of work from a building business that no longer existed. Filling that gap that had appeared as a false way forward. A desperate attempt to continue earning the honourable way.
Ok, the boss man sub contracted work to me pretty regularly and it was this
work that kept things moving when I hadn’t got a full week ahead of me.
But do you know what? I was fed up with such short term focus of work ahead. I was being careful to make everything work financially and although I wasn’t short, there would be a time ahead of now where things wouldn’t be so good if I carried on like this. I just knew it. That writing was on the wall.
Eventually, an inner self belief had driven me to my chosen decision, this one; to enable my own destiny.

Working for a boss who was the owner of his own company is one thing. I’d been there and done that before.
Previously (on the farm), that had been my place; simple really: boss gives orders, work gets done as requested. That’s how it had worked on the farm,

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and that’s how it was supposed to work here, in building.
To be fair, the boss man here had taken me on in his building firm after things on the farm went to pieces. It had been easy enough for him though, as well as easy for me. He had work for a person like myself at the same time that I had
been dumped from the farm due to a marked downturn in farming fortunes at the time.
Basically, the farmer whose farm I worked on was looking to sell out. Farms were getting bigger and the farm I was on was small.

I’d been self-employed on the farm. Inadvertently, that principle (by nature)
ignored completely the need to squirrel extra money away in a separate pension pot, at least in my simple take on it and at my age. As the pay came by cheque as opposed to payslip; the income tax and National Insurance by way of an accountant and a stamp book, the rest was for spending or saving. I didn’t have a private pension. I guess it was too much of a headache at the
time. Or more like: because it didn’t come with the job, it didn’t therefore figure, or didn’t seem to matter, at least not until the years required to make a pension work made it essential. Basic maths made that equation easy; forty years for a full pension meant opening one at twenty five. Simple.
Was that a mistake when being taken on after finishing my apprenticeship? Probably, but in another way, no.
Farming was the big break. A job secured for me by mum and dad whilst still at college on a foundation course for those that didn’t fit in at school. Following school; back in chartered waters covering a course for school leavers like myself who hadn’t a clue what their role in life was supposed to be. More study of the same calibre, more classmates of the same calibre. Lots of good things going for it however, if not only for the fact that to get there included the daily use of public transport in the form of trains. Diesel trains at that. Enough of a spill over in later years to prompt me to get an interview for a train drivers job, even if it wasn’t successful. Maybe the college course did in the end make me realise what I would like to have done in the form of a career.
But farming was a lucky break, for sure. It didn’t have had anything to do with trains. It was though very local. And a huge view into life with the very biggest 

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impact imaginable. Working for a hell bent angry boss man on a local farm as an apprentice, was a wonder I stuck it out – the farming. Was two things at
once; a basic introduction into the farming world; which was great, and an above average introduction into not only working life as only farmers know how, but also an insight into how others (namely the farm owner and his moody, daily shouting episodes) obviously viewed myself; which if his reactions were anything like a true reflection of how I came over to anyone, was not that great. I was clearly going to struggle in life based on that alone.
Residential college to follow that was a big relief from the unexpected mental strain endured on that particular farm. Still, was worth it later to qualify straight from college in the form of an agriculture craftsman.
Suitably qualified and apprenticeship trained; smack, bang, wallop, there you go. Get a place on a farm, it’s a brilliant job. The great outdoors. My biggest regret to follow? Well, it wasn’t a regret really. I’d worked it out for myself with the most practical outcome for myself. Not taking that job I had been offered in New Zealand. Yes, that was a real big deal. I decided I had too much here to want to be close too whereby distancing myself from it half a world away was also too big a deal to walk away from. I guess that was in the stars too. 

In the local job I’d secured after residential college there was no small print because there was no contract. I hadn’t even cared. It had been more important to be in work. There’d been no panic as such at the time. Why would there be? Back then; the days of moving out of one job and into another – seamless.
And no such thing as small firm pension schemes in those days. What was to bother about? Not to say mind you that from time to time it didn’t occur to me that contributing to a pension scheme wouldn’t be a bad idea. Always niggling away and never getting sorted. Probably the same niggling factors all the way back then as I was experiencing in the here and now, after several years down the line and at this place, working some stupid roof job in this actual village, contemplating my next move. Only the difference now was a driven desire to make appropriate changes, which carried with it a momentum.
And that momentum was definitely one of the main points behind my decision

Page 13                                            Black Ball x 3.

process on the run up to the here and now, in this village. That and not having to constantly have one eye on work which didn’t favour any of those terms and
conditions that a PAYE job did.
So, back to this setting in this village and in this building trade that I felt didn’t suit my character; let’s concentrate on the present. Working for this boss man                     
came with double the trouble as far as I was concerned. Unclear future and some fucking annoying attributes; those of which were increasingly the more difficult to distance from. Still, there was something in the stars that gave self-belief and it was this that inspired an inner self confidence. I felt driven.

Here we go, lining up on the Black ball once more. This should be an easy one. Hang on, he’s a bit pensive, it seems. It’s like, hmmmm . . . he’s thinking quite deeply by the looks. Oh, it’s Ok, mind made up. There we go, hit the White ball hard, pot that Black and bounce the ball right back for another Red. Easy. Or would be if the White ball ended where he thought it would.

In the grand scheme of things it was time to become a respected person, become a  ♂ in my own right. It was time to lose the hold I felt this boss man
had over me.
Or was it all in my mind? Did the boss man not even think that way? Did it work as well for him, (but more to the point), as it apparently did for myself? Could though, it even be a viewed as a favour to be respected, by him? The more I mulled things over the more I was pretty sure he felt that way. I was being played. That only made things worse, in my mind.
Something had to give me the impetus to forge ahead my way. Why not that for a reason? Was as good a reason as any. Big gains for him whilst I did all the work was a road to nowhere.
My respect for him had dipped to new found depths after he sold his business. There hadn’t been any consultation (not forgetting that I was a labourer on his books at the time) on even the thinnest of threads.
Partly because of that I’d sourced a job elsewhere, one which involved working for a national company. He could go swivel as far as I was concerned. My job sourcing away from the daily grind of this unsavoury situation was a well-kept secret to myself. No one knew apart from me. I didn’t even tell my girlfriend of

Page 14                                            Red ball x 4.

the time. It hardly took much thought once the process had started. My inner
conscience confirmed that this was a balanced approach and was
therefore the right way forward: lose this type of work –  with all its time consuming work input and associated headaches, and get all the perks from
working for a recognised national company. It’s a no brainer.
The necessary drive to make it happen was the need to separate myself from what would only end up in some kind of weird personal struggle. That was something of which if I allowed to happen would inevitably be what amounted to a closed book. I needed to be myself in the world. Some people were about to see a me they weren’t aware of.
Job done then! Or soon will be. This boss man wasn’t going to be my boss for
much longer.
I’d already  worked out my speech: Tell the boss man to do one.
It was unfortunate that he was going to be my future father in law.

Go on my friend, you can do it. This next Red ball surely has to be the most difficult one with the White ball ending up where it did, but doable never
the less. So some determined concentration here and we’re set for a monster of a game.
There we go, a quick clip on the White ball. Lots of effort required because it all looks very hard. There’s real faith there. Oohhh . . .  did you see that? In the Red ball goes – just. Nicely done.            

***

Crossroads –
There was something about this village setting that was a little hard to fathom out, making it intriguingly different. Now flagged with a sort of a draw if I may be so curious to say so.
Just because I’m a ♌ doesn’t make it any the more of a given that deep and meaningful thinking would be the likely result of a strange draw to the
surrounding landscape, this surrounding landscape! Does it? Let’s throw in a few curve balls here why don’t you, self.
I mean, I could have just driven to work and got on with it.

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But things didn’t feel on the same . . . plane. Like some otherworldly existence
might have been present. A connection, as yet undetermined!  
Hmph, poppycock. Or no. Maybe not poppycock. How else could I explain an inner desire from within to change things for instance; which, culminated here of all places. I mean if I was to use my outwardly guidance only, (on the face of it how I could be viewed by anyone) I may have struggled to be strong enough to make that difference. There was something else at work here. That fate thing. I wasn’t possessed, I was inwardly guided.  
I would admit to having been to this village once before (and once only mind
you), previous to this roofing repair job. It hadn’t been that long before, (although largely forgotten until now), as the soon to be relevance of this village on this day wasn’t the same as the first time I had been here in that tipper truck. That previous visit had even been for the same boss man in the same business; the business he used to run before he sold up.
Yep, that was right. In the not too distant past I had been tasked with carrying out some removal work for the boss man at a place locally here where he had secured some work.
I’d been working alongside two bricklayers at the time. I was their labourer.
I basically did whatever I was told to do and on that occasion I had been told to
take away a load of stuff from a household in a tipper truck.
In the pile of discarded belongings was an old ships chest. Made of solid wood,
it struck me as the one thing that didn’t deserve to be chucked out into a
landfill site along with the rest of the junk loaded into the back of the truck.
So along with the old saying ‘if you don’t ask you don’t get’, I asked whether it was possible to salvage the chest.
The brick layers intention was that it be loaded onto the truck and carted off. They were following their instructions from the boss man. However, there was no objection from anywhere to a salvage operation on the chest, owners included. With sweeping arms, their direction was to get rid. It could therefore be saved.
So I salvaged it.
And why not. It was shameful to see it tagged for disposal.
That wooden chest had therefore been in a house local to where I was on this day for this job doing roof repairs, where I find myself on the precipice of a life                                             

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changing decision. My decision.
Time for change.

Seaside garden (Loophamlet) –
Back in those days I had so much stuff going on at weekends, I didn’t know where to start sometimes. Not only that, if there was a slack time, I made sure I found something to do. I never felt idle. Revved up and ready to go all the time.
An opening in that otherwise filled time allowed me the opportunity to
rub down that old ships chest and coat it with bees wax. I was right proud of it.
The fact that it was scratched and gouged and stained with tea cup rings and other marks too, didn’t matter. I kept them there when restoring it. They were
all part of its character. The waxy coating protected all its visible history and only went to add my stamp to it in a sympathetic way. Now I could see in three dimensional definition all that pock marked historic value added. It wasn’t just a piece of wooden furniture. I knew that old chest was going to stay with me.
Of course, it moved with me when starting off in a new home a bit later on, after getting married.
Before which; racing the motorbikes had kept me busy a lot of the time when not allocating time to working the gardens. And that is the one thing I didn’t give up on. I had a commitment to the couple whose garden it was and together we bonded better than I never considered. It was only at later stages that it made any sense as to how well we tolerated each other’s company. Whether it was that or my work ethic which one them over I’ll never know. From point go to the point whereby that couple wanted me to become a regular source of labour.
I would be, and was, their gardener.
I was happy with that.

When the 🌤was good the garden work got squeezed in somewhere. Along
with the necessity to upkeep such a large and widespread garden, not to mention its intensive layout, and the desire by them for me to be there in my capacity as a gardener meant that in the fullness of time my appearance was sort of accepted in a way – by the entire family of the couple.

Page 17                                               Black Ball x 4.

That’s four Reds and three Blacks potted so far. All the balls falling into line nicely. A bit of a wobble back there, but there’s no lack of confidence. The White ball bounced right back to where it needs to be for the next Black ball to go in . . . and . . . no problem. That’s another Black ball in the
pocket. A nice touch to end up with the cue ball in line for another shot on the Red.              

I got to know everyone in the family, or was certainly familiar with. The sons, the daughters, the grand kids, and even in some cases the great grand kids.
I was witness to big events like the golden wedding anniversary to the couple whose garden it was. Plus other family gatherings.
I always kept myself to myself though. It wasn’t my place to impose my
presence upon their entire family. The acceptance by them (of myself doing
whatever garden work had been issued) became a kind of second nature
acceptance in a way. That’s how I saw it anyway.
I felt trusted.
Years of gardening and the trust which goes with that meant I was able to learn a thing or two from this couple. Being friendly encourages open talk. Being trusted encourages open talk with added reminiscing. They were not your archetypal Mr and Mrs with surplus cash to spend in order not to get their own hands dirty. These two had done it the hard way. At the time of my arrival they wanted to see their garden grow with the aid of some reliable help.
Some of those garden jobs helped to develop a much closer tie than would be
expected by just any contractor turning up on site, for instance. In as much as I remember for instance suggesting a certain contractor to make good the hedges, but because that would have meant the contractor completing the task without any interaction on a one to one basis and because their presence would have been merely a contractors task, therefore then the gardener
aspect would have been negated. So a tick in the box for me. A mark of confidence if you like, one that rubbed off on the couple to ensure peace of mind for them. They had a gardener.
I worked hard to develop the trust. In twenty four years working their garden it was a proud outcome that by the end of it, after all those years I only ever got my ass chewed once. And even that was for doing something I had been told

Page 16

to do.
I wouldn’t hold that against them though. It was one of those instructions issued without too much emphasis in the way of direction.
It had been an odd request. Even after following further clarification from myself did the task not change from the original request. Needless to say the end result differed somewhat to the expectation from Anfisa (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Lady of Flowers’’) Karissa (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Gracious, Kind’), the lady of the house.
But no worries. In the end it was amusingly de-escalated with a little intervention from a grand-daughter, largely in that she couldn’t stop laughing
about it. Everything was soon cool again.
What could be better than watching someone get a bollocking for an
afternoons entertainment. It took the heat out of the moment, that’s for sure.

***

Boats and planes –
During the business of building maintenance in my one man band set up, I’d been sub contracted a house extension job from the then boss man. It all went
to plan and everybody was happy at the end of the day. The point is, the
extension build was for a retired ship’s captain.
I was proud to take on that house extension job, for he was no ordinary ship’s captain. He was a retired officer previously in charge of an aircraft carrier.
Oh, at this point maybe I should say that anything with reference to military background (and especially aircraft carriers) spiked my interest. I’d been aboard HMS Ark Royal whist it was anchored in a port close to Loophamlet once.
For me it was a privilege to be acquainted with this retired captain, in that
detached way.
I knew him as Captain Iohannes.
Not being on first name terms in the same way as I was with the garden couple
from Loophamlet never was any big deal. It was kind of nice to refer to him as Captain Iohannes. And, I did after all know the couple from Loophamlet very well.

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It was a coincidence too, seeing as my acquaintance with the couple whose
garden I regularly worked in at Loophamlet then enabled me to learn a bit
about their own history. A history with a similarly overlapping pathway to that of  Captain Iohannes.
I felt honoured for the similar (plus loads of others too) and somewhat coincidental reasons to work for them.
The coincidence just mentioned? was all linked to the sea. The sea had its draw in terms of career and home. And what better place to live by the sea. This amazing coastline with so much history.

***

Bismarck and Tirpitz
Two war ships of great distinction may make you wonder why they even get a mention. Were these not relics from the second world war?
In a way it’s a shame they are still not – in real metal, in real time – as they were both sunk. But for good reason at the time.
With zero care or compassion for human life were these  battle ships built with the sole purpose of destroying anything in their path. The build focus on destruction as opposed to defence.
Tirpitz and Bismarck were sister ships. Of those the Bismarck was the smaller.
Although Scharnhorst comes to mind when considering these ships, it wasn’t
of the same class as the other two.
When considering both these battleships and the ominous behemoths that they were, a not so hidden secret came to light; one which was incorporated into their design and build.
There’s apparently a trick to designing a superior battle ship and neither Bismarck nor Tirpitz used it, as the concept proved more expensive. They were both built using three propeller shafts: one either side and one in the middle. Whilst as a propulsion system it worked ok, a different approach utilising geared and different revolutions per minute on either side propeller shaft at the same time was not therefore possible, what with the centre propeller shaft in continuous use. Nor was it in their best interests for a more advanced manoeuvrability in a turn, something that if having used four propeller shafts

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as a propulsion system (with two on either side) would have been possible. Cornering out to sea was obviously not considered to have been that important to bother to incorporate a blindingly simple solution to a problem they never considered to factor in.  

Bismarck’s demise was of an unnecessary nature, in a way. The ship was out to
sea at the time in a head on fight with five British ships –  Victorious, Norfolk, Rodney, Dorsetshire, and King George V. Unfair odds it may appear, but look at the bigger picture and the task allotted to the British ships was not to allow the Bismarck to its intended goal that day.
But there had always been a way out for the ship Bismarck, given a more human consideration.
The fate of Bismarck was (in part) down to her design, as well as the ship itself
being rendered completely useless during the battle that took place. Ultimately though it was down to a brainwashed crew. Unexpectedly being involved in a confrontation that would interfere with its objective that day. The ship wasn’t patrolling, it was cruising for a bruising.
Just as a matter of fact: Bismarck’s sole purpose that day was to completely destroy certain known targets it was aiming for. Heading towards its mission that day and then having used radio communications to report back to base; firstly and unbeknown to the ship and the crew aboard Bismarck, great minds in the UK had broken the Enigma code; the German code used to encrypt radio messaging.
As a result the UK all of a sudden knew where this boat geographically was. If reason were needed, enough for it to unknowingly sail into an area full of British ships.
With regard to the two German boats; these were not every day average war ships. Their size was much larger than that of an average war boat of the time. Because of that massive 36 metre beam for instance, the turning circle traded off speed at a ludicrously exponential rate.
It kind of didn’t make sense to cheaply manufacture these two warships in the one respect of the propulsion system if the rest of the ship was so outrageously big and expensive to start with.                                                             
Anyway, back to the battle – The ensuing traded canon roar resulted in a

Page 21

useless conclusion to an offensive approach where Bismarck – against all odds,
wouldn’t sink. Sadly, Bismarck chose to do this, or more to the point, the
senior crew chose to. There had been plenty of time for them to turn around and not engage were it not for the fact that the officers in charge genuinely thought they were driving something unconquerable.
Bismarck was reduced to a defenceless target. To add to that – damage inflicted by HMS an Dorsetshire, via a torpedo had disabled the rudder on Bismarck, sending it into an everlasting circle to Port.
Here the three propeller shaft design shows its flawed concept for this type of ship.
The debate seemingly wrangles on as to who was responsible for sinking the
ship. For sure, Bismarck was hit 130 times by at least two of the British ships – Rodney and King George V, and was reduced to a wreck anyway.
Four propeller shafts on the other hand would have enabled it to steer a

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straight line, even without a rudder – technically. The engines were still in
running order. The boat was still navigable.
But the ship was done.
For the final episode the crew were ordered to scuttle their own ship with the use of explosives in the engine room.
And that was the sinking of Bismarck.
So what of Tirpitz, then? There was mention of two ships earlier. Sister ships both of a type. Was the other one hiding away somewhere in the hope that it may be saved from confrontation. The ruling body of that nations’ navy certainly saw both these ships as instrumental to their visionary perspective of how the world should be. Too much of an achievement in the creation of to just flippantly throw into the face of danger.
That was why Tirpitz enjoyed such the curtain of protection that it did. Wrapping them (or certainly to a bigger extent Tirpitz) in cotton wool seemed a contradiction to their purpose. The end result of a paranoia born about by creating something they were too afraid to lose.
It had already been proven with the Bismarck that this type of ship was bloody hard to render useless. That said, confidence that they were invincible was beginning to lack. In constructing what they thought was the ultimate battle ship, never to be beaten by any means, was in the end the precise downfall of them. Never the less, if sinking the Bismarck was hard, then sinking the Tirpitz was doubly hard.
Such a huge battle ship that spent most of its useful life tied up against a pier however (and as history would re-tell), condemned Tirpitz to end her days in ignominy.  
Another sitting duck save for the fortress of protection afforded to it. Never-the-less, as for target acquisition, Tirpitz was no different from Bismarck. Both ships’ whereabouts were well known.
Because being moored to port was (for the bigger part of its existence) how Tirpitz fulfilled its role, and because of that philosophy whereby keeping that ship in a safe place was supposed to avoid confrontation, as a result then the ship rarely went out to sea. Its loss if put in harm’s way would have had too much of a negative impact to the officials who ran its objective. Too huge an expense and too huge a risk. Bit of a misnomer to its designed modus operandi

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really. Plus, being anchored up (almost perpetually) kind of placed it more into harm’s way than running it around at sea. Its whereabouts was no longer the same mystery that they thought it (and Bismarck’s) had been.
Tirpitz probably defied the odds for not getting destroyed for the whole of the
time up until it eventually was, in light of the fact that instead of having to find it out to sea, it became a stationary target. Mind you, it also had a lot to thank the weather for. Its position in a Norwegian fjord was its biggest benefactor in some ways, all said and done.
Many concentrated efforts to put the ship out of action failed miserably solely down to bad weather. Until one eventful day it was. And it had to be too.
The mere existence of these two battleships was too ominous to do anything other than increase the efforts required to ensure they were put out of action.
The reason Tirpitz was destroyed was ultimately because of its geographical position. It simply was in the wrong place in the world. The antagonising bare faced cheek of those people who put it there made absolutely sure without working it out in advance that one way or another, Tirpitz would not live out its days without a determined effort to ensure it would be history before it bargained.

Seafarers –

The history of the aircraft carrier dates back further than it would seem possible. An idea that biplanes – of all things, should be able to fly off of a moving ship at sea appears (in this day and age) as plain suicide on the face of it. Virtually, no sooner did we have air planes than someone in an office decides we should have aircraft carriers. The concept, whilst well established, still to me seems such an huge achievement that it almost appears as impossible. Then of course, the sheer amount of them built and used over the years from this country alone is mind boggling. There’s been dozens, literally. There’s a (not by chance) reference to that of stationed British aircraft carriers and other assorted naval ships in Scapa flow at the time relating to the location of Tirpitz in a fjord in upper Norway. It wasn’t by coincidence.
OK, so what’s the big deal?
Well, everything really.

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I feel that seeing as I was associated with a work project for the retired
captain of an aircraft carrier, then his own career in the navy was relevant from a timing perspective to the fact that Golan (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Quiet, understanding and analytical) Archemedes (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Think First), the man of the house whose property I was gardener at in Loophamlet, served his navy career aboard an aircraft carrier.
Even so, Captain Iohannes and Golan Archimedes would have been in different ships at different times.
A coincidence none the less.
Speaking for myself, I find an interest in aircraft carriers which is just . . .  kind
of curious in a way.  

It was a good few years of knowing them before I learned of any war exploits that Golan Archimedes and Anfisa Karissa from Loophamlet were involved with. Was only fluke that I ever did; such is the nature of folk whose life is not centred around voicing how more important than anyone else they may have been in their own past.
That learning was enough to encourage me to swot up some facts and statistics to put this story into perspective. That combined with the coincidental tie where I could see the relevance. That friendly relationship of ours; between which was the part time gardener and those whose garden it was, was strong. It wasn’t that I felt involved, it was more that I felt trusted. It takes a special type of acquainting to break down those walls of . . . . secrecy I guess, or to create a sort of openness; which would then by being that kind of relationship enable histories to be re-told.
I could never get that sort of history telling from Captain Iohannes.
The boss man (although technically he wasn’t any more) at the time (who had contracted to myself that building extension belonging to Captain Iohannes) had been quick to tell me of the previous career which saw him as a captain. My interest in all things military and my desire to know more was never going to provide enough of an impact to break down those walls that went up every time I tried to learn more about life as a captain aboard an aircraft carrier. Captain Iohannes and myself didn’t enjoy that same type of close relationship that belonged to myself and those from Loophamlet.

Page 25                                                                 
    
The Fairey Barracuda:
A fixed and single wing British built Torpedo dive bomber airplane carried aboard aircraft carrier ships during world war two.
The Barracuda’s crew of three were positioned in tandem beneath a single
long canopy with the observer aft of the pilot (in the middle) and a radio operator/air gunner to the rear. Although the 18-in torpedo was intended to be the Barracuda’s primary weapon, bombs were the favoured ordnance.
Notably, the aircraft played a major part in the attack (Operation Tungsten) on
the Tirpitz on 3rd April 1944 when a total of 44 from HMS Victorious and HMS Furious, whilst based at Scapa Flow, scored 14 direct hits on Tirpitz.
There was a loss of three aircraft during that raid

Furious & Victorious –
There were two aircraft carriers based at Scapa Flow during 1944. I highlighted HMS Furious and the part she played in helping the war back then.
Considering this ship was a relic from 1917, actually then proved itself a
masterclass in naval innovation in being able to conduct a successful attack in
pursuit of a winning edge over the opposing side during WW2. This attack was
known as ‘Operation Tungsten’, of which as a result were multiple ‘on target’ hits against the perennially moored German superdreadnought battleship Tirpitz, in Norway.

My dealings with certain people over the years have left me feeling proud to
have known them for many reasons, especially with regard to their involvement in the services. They with no wish to shout from the rooftops of all the exploits and trials they endured.
Not only did Golan Archemedes from Loophamlet serve his Navy career
onboard HMS Furious, he was also an ‘observer’ aboard one of the Barracuda
planes that took out Tirpitz.

It was a real treat for me to be able to get the story from one of the very people who was actually there that day. The attack known as ‘Operation Tungsten’, and as terrible as it may have been to conduct anything like such bombing missions as this; the consequences of them if not performed would have been much worse. No attack went without its losses.
To sum up the bombing of Tirpitz was voiced in such a way that the use of a particular language of all things, suddenly to me appeared as yet another lost
non-technological tool to highlight a whole different and probably more respected education back then.
From archives written down, two facts stood out in bold to me. One aircrew member did say upon the sinking of the Tirpitz: ‘Thank god for that. It’s the last time we’re going to come here.’
Later, a staff officer (whilst viewing reconnaissance photographs) remarked:
‘Sic transit gloria mundi’.
A sentence voiced in Latin.
Used in respect I dare say, considering its meaning.
Yes, Tirpitz was a beast. It was also incredible in its own way. Testament to the
people who repaired it, upgraded it, to those who designed it and built it. To all those whose lives were a part of it.
As was its eventual winning nemesis, of which its entire life was spent repairing, upgrading, trialling and in the end defeating something far bigger and mightier than itself – HMS Furious versus Tirpitz. It was a proper David and Goliath episode. Tirpitz’s nemesis in the end coming in the form of what HMS Furious was able to provide. A knockout blow.

In English – translated, the sentence – ‘Sic transit gloria mundi’, voiced in Latin by the officer on the reconnaissance deliberation paid his own respects by saying: ‘So passes away earthly glory’.
There was certainly respect for all those a part of that ship.
And I’m chuffed to have worked for one of the guys who was chosen for that

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mission to disable one of the biggest and bad’est ships from that time.

I’ve had the good fortune of working directly for two people now, who either were captain of an aircraft carrier, or a serving rating aboard one, he of course whilst also being a Fairy Barracuda airplane bombing observer at the same time. Not only that, an observer on a Barracuda during operation Tungsten.
It’s unreal! Plus, I’ve got a what appears to be a seafaring wooden chest that
because it’s a ships chest (me thinks) has its own relevance too. Unbelievable!
Furthermore, another weird coincidence (or one for me at any rate) to be included; the song: ‘Walk like an Egyptian’, was specifically written with those lyrics to express how a person, or people, were seen to walk aboard a moving ship at sea.                                                 
‘Walk like an Egyptian’ was nothing to do with Egyptian posture, characteristics, or anything else Egyptian related come to that.
My ♌︎ mind says – all those coincidences go together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Page 29                                       Red ball x 5.

Or was that just eloquent thinking?

***

As a Reminder:  –
Back along then, in the days of gardening at weekends, my relaxation came in the form of shoe horning hobby motorcycling in-between full time working hours, plus those weekend hours to add to that. It seemed there was very little time to relax in the form of winding down proper. But then that was my choice. There again, what price does one put on a hobby that satisfies if it isn’t in the form – of relaxation.
Chuck in a commitment to keep several households happy with their gardens after I went and took on another garden too. Reluctantly to begin with, knowing that it would be a play on my time. That said, those folk (or the man of the house at any rate) also showed appreciation for the work done in the early stages. I then ended up with both as a longer term project.

There was I, the gardener at Loophamlet garden for twenty years before I myself moved house for the second time.
Initially there had been the first time – first home: Buy house, get married, first home! Then – get divorced, move out, spend time in and out of various relationships, get a more serious relationship, buy into house, move in – second home! 
Moving house for the second time meant that I was by then further away from
Loophamlet garden. It didn’t matter though because I was committed. That was me all over. Something made me source work at weekends. It can only have come from the inner character, the building blocks that made me who I am.
Every other weekend with each other garden; was a wonder how I managed to keep it all going for so long.

Winds of change  –  
Four Blacks in so far, now looking to pot the Red for a fifth time. 
A long shot this one . . . cue, . . . . . shoot, and . . .  a run of the mill shot. The Red is in the pocket.

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The second house was proper interesting quirk of destiny, however you view it.
It wasn’t a chosen house (under normal circumstances.)
Finding a girlfriend –  Evangalisa (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Good Tidings’)
Zsofia (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Woman of Wisdom’) who already had a
house, just happened that way. It certainly wasn’t intentional. I hadn’t even been looking at the time.
I had my (not mine by ownership but by work related to) gardens to look after. I did what I wanted when I wanted. I bought motorbikes freely. I’d till then
bought up to a half dozen off road bikes along the way, and that was before even, a regretful marriage had changed all that. However, after that marriage failed it was easy to get back into old ways; which I did. Couple that with a new girlfriend –  Helena Aneka. A great girlfriend who filled the gap between marital disaster and eventual way forward whilst at the same time putting all the characteristics of old school dating and domestic life as one, into one complete package without overly committing. So much so that along with a great girlfriend came a great opening for free spending; which probably because of that determined me to lose sight of any honourable intentions along the way. I just went ahead and bought even more motorbikes – brand new ones. Without so much as a second thought. Rather than settling down with someone who would no doubt steer me in the right direction, I guess I’d lost the plot in some ways.
Moving forward and with Evangalisa Zsofia, the thought of dating the old tried and tested way would be a different lifestyle to what I had been used to with Helena Aneka. Going from living together to dating the old fashioned way all over again would be difficult. Or not so much difficult as more time consuming, more effort involved. More like that which I in the distant past been very familiar with – all over again. Dating but not living with.
My previous girlfriend Helena (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Light’) Aneka (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Hard Working’) and I, nurtured all the trappings
of being a live with, live without affair that lasted for eight years. It was easy, was appropriate, and it allowed me to live my lifestyle and pursue my motorcycling hobby with zero implications to budgets or anything like that. It

Page 31

was due to my own bloody mindedness that we didn’t progress any further.
I guess one partner commitment in the form of a previous and badly arranged marriage that went tits up was one too much in such a short space of time between her (ex-wife) and that which followed – Helena Aneka.
It takes a long time to realise that not everyone is the same if you’d spent all
your adult years up to that stage trying to understand someone.
Was a relief to be rid of the ex-wife to be honest. Then to find someone who
was without doubt the very opposite, and for many years wished for even, was then too risk avert for me not to give my undivided attention.
Helena Aneka; she never had any malice in her, she was only ever good.
There was always promise there, but I guess somethings just aren’t meant to be. It was almost like she was a stepping stone to the next big thing which enabled me to overcome the trust thing. My way was obviously fucked up. OK, I’d done things someone’s else’s way before and it didn’t work. Sadly not realising that maybe, just maybe, something else could work. This was the work of a ♌︎ mind playing it too safe. Didn’t mean to say they would all follow the same.  Just get it into your head, self. Everyone’s different.

***

The Raven – 
Evangalisa Zsofia is out for a walk.
Footpath walks can be easily accessed right from the doorstep of her house. As
much as the surrounding countryside encouraged getting outside, that reason alone was not for the most part responsible on this day. 
It’s Christmas day. Christmas came at a funny time of the year this year. Well – not that the timing of the day itself was funny; more like it was the fact that certain events were . . .   unfolding.
There’s lots to think about. A constantly downward spiralling relationship that she is stuck in (against her better judgement) has drawn itself to conclusion point.
Annoyingly, what’s to get excited about in your own home on this Christmas
day? Instead of and whilst trying to absorb the atmosphere of TV programmes on a Christmas day, (for the involvement that creates) she had had to endure

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watching some decrepit old telly in one room whilst her other half is watching the latest high tech telly – all set up with the latest sound system attached, in another.
Christ almighty, if having to share everything with someone you don’t want to be with is bad enough, she has to not share a basic experience like watching telly together in front of super good screen effects. Chastised even, into a
different room because the relationship isn’t strong enough to hold its own.
It’s one bloody depressing outlook if she stays where she is.
The thing is, nothing would be different from usual on this day (apart from the fact that it was Christmas day) under normal, (or what in her world would have been seen as normal) circumstances, save for one incident that was niggling away in her mind. An incident that had involved someone at work. Hadn’t been anything other than a talk in the office. Had on the other hand flicked a switch she forgot was there.
It wasn’t as though Evangalisa Zsofia hadn’t achieved loads of awesome stuff on the journey to this point. Multiple long stays at the world’s biggest music festival took character and vision.
A full on spare time calendar including just about all the pubs you could mention in the South of the country, serving at their own particular time as a
relevant venue for the social event ongoing at the time. Plus the role of finance position to a classic car club, and ran by her – almost completely. With all its
associated events and camping away weekends all over the place, the social world of Evangalisa Zsofia had been a busy and varied one. What with that and
a full time job and making sure her other half at the time was facilitated for, was a wonder how she fitted it all in.
On the face of it – quite an enviable lifestyle. Certainly not boring.
Except it was all with the wrong person as a partner.
No hiding the facts.
Was bound to come out sooner or later.
Knew it all along really.
Probably there never was . . . no, make that there definitely never had been any real and tangible alternative. There couldn’t have been, otherwise why this? No, if there ever had been it hadn’t been pursued, therefore there hadn’t been. That was exactly the reason why now this . . . this mysterious thought

Page 33

provoking change of direction teaser.
Hang on a minute though. Let’s not run before walking. There still might not be any tangible alternative now either.
Except it was, very tangible. The thing is, it only requires a possibility and a strong will, or a belief that has been reignited. In this instance: one by the apparent trials and misdemeanours of a complete stranger.
Here, may be a choice. One of those invisible crossroads.
Evangalisa Zsofia’s mind wonders. Yes, those talks in the office – her office, at
work, had been odd for sure. Odd enough to be interesting. The bloke was a different case from the usual that were dealt with on a day to day basis. A challenge even. What was he exactly? An idiot of an unknown past experience of! Possibly! An employee who ran the gauntlet; an attempt down a dangerous and intimidating pathway to reach a supposed goal, which failed.
There was an excitement occupying her very sole. To be a part of this unfolding drama with this person who was an unknown entity. Couldn’t work out whether he was brave, confrontational, idiotic, or just downright stupid. Some bloke who came over as though he had lost the plot. But look at his bigger picture – this was all part of the psychology thing  (Evangalisa Zsofia’s expert field.) Mind bendingly interesting if you wanted it to be. To be involved with a case that wasn’t the same as the normal stuff. The bloke had to be dealt with – one way or another.
Maybe it wasn’t all about a possibility and a strong will anymore, maybe it was something completely different. Partially curiosity for sure. There’s a strong need to know. This was way beyond normal HR stuff; her occupied role at work. HR could deal with a lot of things – all things actually, at work, given the nature of its intention. This though, this was running on a slightly different tangent from that routine HR stuff. It had all started there, true enough. Now the need to know was beyond HR and verging on . . . .well,  let’s look at the bigger picture, why don’t you.
That was then – in the office.

Here, on the walk, the penny might be gradually dropping.
If only something was to show the way forward. A sign maybe – of some sort.
Maybe even the way forward can be realised by and after another fucking

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frustrating waste of time Bank Holiday.
Walking in the open countryside is a great way to blow the cobwebs from one’s mind. The surrounding scenery she had always loved and consciously knew was there, passes her by as she walks. Not unseen, but not fully appreciated at the same time.
There’s too many variables to think about. Shove them all into the same basket
as it were, or cards on the table, and then it only comes down to one:
Does she stay, or does she go?
That was the overriding question that had (after all these past years of realising, but not accepting) formed in her mind.
Funny old world.
I mean, why now, of all times? It’s Christmas for fucks sake!
And that makes it worse.
What to do, what to do, what to do?
Evangalisa Zsofia is worlds away. Big questions form in her mind, unanswered. Answers there to be found, huge upheaval to find them. That’s the thought process whirring away, theoretically and logically, and weirdly but occasionally interrupted by a noise which becomes all the more confusing and needy. Needy to find out.
Hang on a minute, what the hell is that noise?

Yeah, what is that noise? It’s behind her as she continues walking aimlessly. It sounds like a frog. A gobbly croaking sound. A bit like ‘ribbet’ without the ‘bet’ on the end part.
The ‘ribbet’, or ‘brekek’ sound (as it was originally termed as by playwright Aristophanes, from ancient Greece) is followed by a flapping of wings sound. Then from behind, a bird appears and lands just ahead of her. No small bird either. Black as the Ace of Spades.
The sound that precedes any activity from this bird surely must be unconnected. The noise sounds more amphibious by nature, hardly what is expected from a bird. The bird is huge, or at least its wingspan is.
At first the bird was a part of the background – nature in its own surroundings. Until repeatedly, the bird (which was a Raven) did keep landing just ahead of Evangalisa Zsofia after falling behind and taking flight once more to overtake.

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The sound is confusing. It’s awakening too. The strange accompanying frog like ribbet, or brekek sound. The constant flapping as the bird insists on repeating this strange – human interactive almost, behaviour.
Like it was trying to impart a message, only because it couldn’t communicate in
human language, so then did the next best thing.
Evangalisa Zsofia walks on; everything (the conundrum facing her) gradually making sense.
Consciously in her mind, the two (the Raven and the present situation) weren’t connected. Sun-consciously they were. Maybe this was a sign. It was all so weird. Like, why would this strange experience happen right there, and then.

Aristophanes, (an ancient likeness) –
An Ancient Greek connection, in a way, (that’s how I view it here.)  
The only Greek (language sound) known by many English speakers is “brekek”, the frog call as written by classic playwright Aristophanes, a fifth century BCE, Ancient Greek comedy playwright, no less.
As a citizen of Athens at the time of its defeat by opponents, Aristophanes lived on to see the revival of Athens. Aristophanes was an opponent of the statesmen who controlled the government of Athens before the defeat of
Athens by Sparta.
Living on to see Athens revival was therefore befitting to his own beliefs.
He was an advocate for change. Change that he supported and believed in.  

Citizen of? Beliefs? Right and wrong? Ancient Greek playwright whose
“brekek” frog call was recognised?
A frog call? Why a frog call of all things?
A resemblance none-the-less!
– Aristophanes’s desire to be allowed to see the correct way forward – his belief, following the defeat of something he was against.
– Evangalisa Zsofia’s desire to be allowed to see the correct way forward – her belief, following the combination of something (her relationship with her existing partner) which she was (ultimately) not in favour of.
With a frog like sound as a connection?
Evangalisa Zsofia can’t be sure where the belief – her belief, came from. It

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doesn’t matter. It’s overriding. Her pathway can be altered. It only took a desire, fuelled even by some strange and . . . . almost illogical coincidences.

The Raven –
Black as midnight, it’s not surprising to discover that, in many cultures, Raven symbolism and meaning is connected with death and the underworld.
At first this meaning may seem dire, but the representation need not be literal. So what does a Raven symbolize, if not death, darkness and decay?
Raven meanings have deeper spiritual symbolism. Raven’s attraction to carrion can make this bird’s symbolism seem morbid.
But things aren’t always what they seem. Instead of interpreting the Raven’s meaning as a dire message of doom, look for the broader significance of this bird’s symbolism.
Raven’s appearance most likely is an omen that something is about to
transform your life. Whether positive or negative, total transformation is usually dramatic. And, so, Raven spirit can help guide you safely through the
fray. Remember that Raven consumes the remains of other creatures, giving this bird the additional symbolic value of cleansing.
Perhaps there is something old and unhealthy that you may need to purge?
Raven is a great helpmate for that. Raven is also an excellent teacher and guide.

During the walk on this Christmas day, the combination of everything that isn’t what you would normally expect is coming together. Raven acts in a way that it is . . . connected. Evangalisa Zsofia and the Raven are covering the same path, it seems. Is it a sign?
No sure way of knowing. Invisible crossroads even!
If anything urges curiosity on a troubled and otherwise unsymbolic walk it has to be this. All of a sudden, maybe it is in some way representative..
Spiritual myth had not been experienced in quite this way before. There’d never been an occurrence of it such as this. Certainly not in the present circumstances that would allow. Could there be something in it?
Evangalisa Zsofia is aware of some kind of link between the unknown and other such mythical stuff and her mind is now in an active kind of debrief, as it

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were. The more one thinks, the more comes to mind. What about that essay once written by her own hand whist at university after she had left school. A thesis on this very phenomenon. She remembers it well. The title gave it all away: ‘Is Reality Really Real’.
My god. Unbelievable. You have to be a believer maybe to experience this weird existence of an unknown force, or forces. Was there really more to it? The more she thinks . . . . Hang on, what about that feeling when she is at the back of her own garden. A feeling of great suspense. Literally the hairs on the back of her neck brushed with a goose pimply feeling. Like there was a presence there that could not be accessed. That was something she would have to look more into one day, she decided.
Evangalisa Zsofia had always been possessed with an ability to sense something others couldn’t. Not everyone, but most at any rate.
There’d been other times too. House hunting; (which eventually culminated in this house where she now lived) had thrown its fair share of surprises her way, that had been for sure. Some (or at least one) house had seemed haunted. Something wasn’t right about just one specific room, as when she entered it the feeling was to get out – quick. The fact that the woman who was in that house at the time was a druggy, probably unaware of what day of the week it was – totally irrelevant. It had felt as though there was an unknown presence right there in that room. That house didn’t get bought; which had been a shame in some ways. The location was quite nice. Other such feelings had been experienced along the way in various places dotted about. And now this!

There appears a will to dig further. And a desire for this all to definitely really mean something. The gears in her mind are turning with an urgency almost. Stuff is out there which we know nothing about. She wants change in her life, but knows she can’t rely on myth to change it. On the other hand, can all that mythical stuff be the indicated way forward. Who’s to know. Whatever the score she knows one thing for sure. If you want change in a desired way it has to be initiated. Here on this walk it’s not the initiation in itself that can make it so, if concrete evidence were needed. What about a plan though, that can.

***

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Village –
I don’t know where Evangalisa Zsofia’s house is (geographically.) I’m not concerned even.
In her office during those first meetings we’d had together at work, we’d (at some point following the reason for being there in the first place) talked about garden moles, of all things. Mind you, it hadn’t been garden mole appeal that had spurned that talk. Exactly the opposite if truth be known.
That conversation then harboured an inquisitive proclivity; which would cause me to wonder as to the layout and appearance of a garden (Evangalisa Zsofia’s garden) that then (at that time) I had no reason to be in any way creative about in terms of improvement. At that time obviously because it was a garden I wouldn’t ever get to know. And beguilingly, that element wouldn’t go away. No real surprise when you look at the role of the garden within my own walk of life.
It would be interesting to see her garden, to see how she (Evangalisa Zsofia) develops that into her spare time.
Well, no matter the role of the mole. The one positive thing that could be said of that annoying creature was that because of it, was I then able to form a connection within an HR office I previously had no wish to be in.

None of my previous relationships included within them the role of myself as being a ‘player’ character. I wasn’t one of those. Nor was I a relationship breaker. That wasn’t me either.
I was a shaker maker. Not one to let the moss grow beneath a rolling stone. But, the rules were simple: it’s either a relationship or it’s not.
The crazy thing is that, (as I was to find out)  Evangalisa Zsofia wasn’t interested in being tied down anymore to this person that she was living with. All of this to come out in the wash after one clandestine meeting to do . . . . . I don’t know what. A meeting arranged from my point of view without a purpose. But, an element of excitement in the arrangement of. I mean why not, I wasn’t doing anything else at the time. Meet with the lady, she wanted that. I wasn’t to know her own circumstances at the time, not my business.
Out there in the big wide world, Helena Aneka and myself had drifted apart. The request therefore from Evangalisa Zsofia to meet in a secret location was

Page 39                                               Black ball x 5

James Bond stuff for a bit of excitement factor.
So as it later transpired; as far as she was concerned their relationship was done long ago. Just two people living together with no connection at all.
And then again, she also had to be sure of something herself. There would be
no point in turning her own world upside down just for nothing at the end of it. And that in itself is not going to come without a connection, even if it was
garden moles.
The secret meeting to follow was at a place of my own deciding in the end. I changed it from where she had suggested, erring on the side of being cautious more than anything. It was in the pouring rain at a place where Evangalisa Zsofia knew nothing of. I’d already guessed in my mind that the chances of her even knowing of this place, let alone visiting it from time to time were probably zero. But that was just a guess which turned out true. And later surprised, in its startling and incredible insight into nature and the countryside as she never knew it. Of course, it had to be somewhere memorable. What would be the point in arranging a meeting at the local coffee café. I was better than that. I guess we all like to be different, the difference with me being that I want to definitely not be the same. Not be a sheep amongst sheep.
The meeting worked its magic, soon to follow with a reconnaissance trip –  for want of a better description. There could be something to consolidate here. Two people looking for something different. Two people in the same zone. A natural connection.
So one day I was invited by Evangalisa Zsofia to go and have a look at where she lived. The fact that at the same time the village was running an event known as ‘Gardens open’ day was not coincidental at all by arrangement. But it
was timing wise.
This particular event only happened every other year, and it happened to be this year. The whole village (those that took part) opened their gardens for public viewing. I wasn’t aware that villages ran such an event. I hadn’t known of it as a function and hadn’t been to any before. It was the perfect excuse for me to walk freely around the place. Around the garden that belonged to Evangalisa Zsofia.

It’s another Black ball to pocket. Moving fast around the table here, lining

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up on that Black ball. Almost looks like there’s not much in the way of finesse. Only saying mind you; what looks like one thing could obviously quite easily be another. I guess that’s confidence for you. There’s a super . . . flow, but is it in how he can pot those balls in order, the correct order to
score a full house here. Or to pot any ball will do? Let’s hope that’s not the
case. As just mentioned, looks almost like the finesse . . .well let’s say focus,
is not there. Oh well, here we go.
Hits the White ball and aims it straight for that Black; which looks out of place to be honest. Oh . .. . . . . . .. . how about that? The Black is in the pocket. The frame is back on track.            

Having been given the address to go to, I look it up on a paper map. I find the village up near the county border. It was somewhere strangely familiar.
Hang on a minute, haven’t I been there before?
The place was way out of my territorial zone of ordinariness. Might not have given it much of a thought had it been somewhere more commonly (by myself) visited. Heading North near to that town on that road wasn’t a regular occurrence for me. Never-the-less, vaguely familiar (by area) to somewhere I remember being in the distant past.
Did she really live that far away from work? It was mad, surely. It’s a helluva a distance to cover to get to work and back. If this . . . whatever it was –  relationship in the making even, was ever going to go any further, that would be a serious consideration to take into account. I myself cycled to work from where I lived – usually, if I didn’t ride my KTM 650.
Mind you, that had only been for the previous three years.
Being more realistic, I’d had to admit to myself that having secured the best job in the world seven years previous to that for the duration of three years, I’d had to cover the same distance back then as I was looking at the map for Evangalisa Zsofia to cover to get to work and back. Maybe not such a long way after all then. I was just used to using pedal power over the last four years or so. I’d been spoilt by a lack of distance.
And that made it alright.
Whatever. It’s a done deal as far as I was concerned. There was a place I had to go to at the weekend.

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The weather was forecast for being brilliant sunshine. It’s a good twenty five mile ride away from where I live and what could be nicer than to ride my newest motorbike out there for a cruise.
Oh yeah, those were the days. I could afford to go and buy a motorbike
whenever I chose. I’d ride my brand new 650 KTM road / off-road machine out there and have a blast.
Having ridden that bike over a few off road enduro courses; the size and weight of that bike I found more suited to desert riding and road riding. Off-road riding on this particular bike had been fun but practically unsuited. The bike was hardly meant for the sort of field and track terrain around here.
The invite to go some distance on road was very appealing. So much so that the ride overshadowed the reason.
To be honest with myself the machine didn’t get used half enough. I’d taken Helena Anika out on it as pillion for a few country rides before we split.
And I rode it to work some of the time. A paltry distance of around five miles at the time was hardly enough distance for it even to get warmed up properly.
This ride would be different. Riding solo and throw caution to the wind.
The weather couldn’t have been better on the day. Exactly as forecast, not a cloud in the sky. The promise of a hot day to come.
I wring the neck out of the KTM on the way to the designated place on the map where I was due to be at. The bike was ridiculously fast. Not only that, it was how quick it got there that was the frightening thing. The acceleration was like a switch rather than a twist grip. My eyes are out on stalks with concentration.
A little light relief was definitely what I needed today after riding too fast to get here. I wasn’t even in a hurry. The machine encouraged riding at a pace, simple as that really. It was in a different category to the other two brand new machines that I had bought (and later sold) previously. They’d been a lot slower for sure. Maybe if I’d turned up for this ‘Gardens open’ day on one of those bikes I wouldn’t have been so hyper.
I arrive at the village, where the ‘Gardens Open’ advert flyer is clearly visible at a road junction. Pointing in one direction it aimed for a location on top of a steep road upwards. And then, there it was. The sign post. ‘To the car park’, as indicated by a hand painted piece of rough wood. Stencil calligraphy avoided, that was for sure. Might have come right out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

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Did the splurge of red letters on the sign post reflect the enthusiasm of the locals, I wondered? Or maybe it had been hurriedly put together late one evening.
A whacky welcome. I began to wonder whether this day would include a
carnival atmosphere. Maybe see how many wellington boots we could throw into a wheel barrow from a measured distance? Or, how wet can you get sitting under a water filled bucket and pay for the privilege.
Apparently not. Not at this charity sponsored event.
This was going to be a whole new ball game. Different people. No, make that – different lifestyle.
Once in through the car park gate a bald headed guy smoking a cigarette came into view. Standing about wearing a high vis tabard, (obviously to designate his official status as a car park boss man, I was guessing.) He points one way and I head off in the opposite direction.
I decided to use my own status as a biker and do what I wanted. That’s just the way I felt. It wasn’t forced, more like a power that took me over for a few seconds. I raise a hand in defiance. What a goon, I think to myself.
He seemed perplexed. Pissed maybe that some guy turns up and parks some other place to where he indicates. I’m already relaxing as I park the machine onto its stand and walk out from the car park – a . . .  playing field?
Hang on a minute, what was a kiddies playing field doing way out here in the
middle of nowhere in a village setting? Off the beaten track. Is that how they do things around here? Worlds away from the style I was used to twenty five miles away in the opposite direction from this northerly location.
I find the specific address I’m looking for quickly. It wasn’t hard by following the paper programme I had just bought at the field entrance on the way out. All the gardens were numbered. I knew what number I had to find. Conveniently it’s just around the corner from the car park field.
There’s no doubt I felt a little wary now as I walk through the front garden gate. It’s soon proved to be more speculative than substantiated. What’s to worry about, it transpired? I meet Evangalisa Zsofia as I’m walking up the pathway (near to the house) on my way to the back garden. Only to find her rounding the bend from the house down the pathway, on her way to the front garden. We bump into each other, unsuspecting.

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Not like she read my mind as we come face to face, more of a natural
summarisation of the possibly envisaged dilemma I could have found myself in
(only natural under the circumstances.) I glance nonchalantly at her causing no undue attention from anyone. I could have been a stranger. She may cotton
on. A quick pacifying look of unconcern from her and the message is loud and clear, especially after she tells me not to worry about her other half, he’s doing the car park marshalling.
The participation of each garden owner in this ‘Gardens Open’ event meant for a legitimate invite for anyone to be there in the garden, including myself. No
questions asked. A more perfect an opportunity to get access to the garden I couldn’t imagine. I try to take in the surroundings of the property; to assess if you like, how I could change it – given the chance.
It was pretty quickly apparent that there would be some major challenges to living at such a place; challenges in the headspace to be specific. You don’t get to live in a detached house with no neighbours, on the side of a main road for the past fifteen years without getting used to the way things are in that setting. This was chalk and cheese, for the want of an old cliché.
And some things you can change, some you can’t.
Here we were, in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by fields and trees and animals, and what’s next door? A junk yard, by all account. Whoever lived next door on one side had little or no pride at all in his garden. Strewn with rubbish and junk, piles of discarded wood and car related stuff left lying about. Who would just leave stuff like that strewn everywhere.
On a positive note, there was a bloke sat in a chair in the garden to the other side of this property.
Exasperated by the idle living style from the junk yard side, I decided I’d wonder around to the garden on the other side. Their garden was all part of the ‘Garden’s open’ day, I’d noticed on the programme. It was better kept than
that of junk yard garden on the opposite side.
I exit this garden and enter the next door . . .  driveway! It got me wondering why it was listed as part of ‘Gardens Open’. The front of the property – with a substantial square footage, only to have been dug up and turned into a two car driveway. No garden, at least out front. It may have only been my first ‘Gardens Open’ day out, I would however have expected to at least walk into a

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garden at each participating house.
I exit the garden next door after an inconclusive attempt at talking shop. Didn’t
have any luck communicating to the old fella sat on a chair on the back garden lawn. All I wanted to do was be friendly. Thought I’d talk about vegetables
seeing as there was evidence of that type of gardening going on there. Was glad to see something related to gardens out back, even if it was only veg and not much else. Couldn’t get a reaction in return. Never mind, just walk right out and back to where I was before.
Out of the front driveway gate and looking downhill, I can’t help but notice certain way points, as it were, or objects, points of interest even, at the lower end of the field ahead of the front of these properties. Long brick and flint walls and iron fencing to mention a few. Then there’s the big open ditch thing.
There’s a memory recall going on.   . . . It’s funny! this village is familiar.
Come on self, I just need to interrogate my mind here. There’s a connection.
This place. It’s got history. I’d been here before. No question about it. Must have been ten years previously, or longer, more like fifteen. Yeah, that’s what it was, things were becoming clearer. It was with some work in the building trade. I remembered now.
Down there alongside the road there was that iron fencing and a ditch running
alongside. Pretty unique as things go. Stands out in the memory that does.
Weirdly though, where was the river? It was just a dry ditch now. A big ditch, true enough. No river though. Rivers don’t just disappear, do they?
That single and weird anomaly (no river) akin to throwing a spanner in the works. Just when things were falling into place, along comes a thought that says otherwise. Familiar, unfamiliar, familiar, unfamiliar, etc.
But then . . . nah, no doubt. This was the place all right. Just because the river wasn’t there, didn’t change everything else.
I grab the garden bench on the front grass in this garden and wind down to relax a bit. Nice to relax, reflect, consider.
I decided there and then that before I left however, I would mosey on down to the nearest gardens that were open (next door’s already covered), the ones on the paper map closest to this property, down the hill there a bit, and beyond, but leave the rest. I didn’t come all the way here to experience gardens open throughout the whole of the village, especially after noticing that someone had

Page 45                                              

the forethought to indicate on the paper programme just how far it was from one end to the other. I wasn’t up for a long walk in hot sunshine dressed in motorbike gear. I did on the other hand want to make an appearance today.
That was important.
Was I impressed with my first ‘Gardens Open’ visit? Well, it was a little bit of
fun along the way, true. And realism too, like: understand the lay of the land. Get to meet the locals. Experience a lightbulb moment.
The thing is, Evangalisa Zsofia and her other half were both still living in the house – her house. So for me, I couldn’t see where I fitted in.
It wasn’t like there was conflicting choices of understanding appearing in front of me. Not in so many ways. My perception of the status quo right there as it
was, was by myself understood. It was more like there had (probably falsely interpreted by myself) appeared a mere inkling of a possibility, and a ‘what if’, or ‘if this place were mine’, sort of thing, as opposed to a probability. With that, a consideration struck me whereby how easily I could accept this type of house, what with this type not previously featuring in my life anywhere.
Before big estates appeared everywhere and when council houses had been in small clusters, there were chosen places for those houses that in terms of geographic location in a local setting was largely unmatched for the type of property. Funny how I’d gone through life intrigued by that fact. It had never gone unnoticed by myself. I’d even noticed the same location philosophy on Guernsey of all places. Another useless fact that had lodged into my mind and refused to be removed. And now, here I was, in a position of being closer to one than ever before. In more ways than one.
How nice this house was, in this particular setting, ex council or not. The chances of me ever finding a house in such a fantastic little village as this (where I was sat right then), with such a great outlook were slim to none.
But then I hadn’t been on the lookout for a house.
I hadn’t been on the lookout for a girlfriend either at the time – it just happened.
Then followed by a fundamental occurrence which would highlight a different angle to follow. To summarise: we happen across each other – Evangalisa Zsofia and myself, have a few secretive meetings like this one in the garden, and before you know what day it is, Evangalisa Zsofia has moved out. I’m a

Page 46                                           Red ball x 6.

little bit lost for words.
We knock about for a while, do the usual things with the cinema and country walks, kayak playtime and time away. Two different rental lodges and hotels
over two different Christmas’s. Dinners out, stuff like that. It goes on for a while to the point in time whereby I can’t see a point anymore. No further outlook beyond the here and now. Future vision all but fizzled into a blurry no go zone. Wasted time almost. There has to be a point behind the effort that had been frustratingly (in some ways) endured. Lots of effort involved. Good times too. Years in the making. But going where, exactly?
Behind the scenes there had been a legal wrangle going on which was tiresome and increasingly someone else’s battle, from my angle.
We’d spent all this time seemingly following a useless course dictated – for one by our direction and for two by the stupid law. The direction was to enable a
mutual split between Evangalisa Zsofia and her other half.
The law backed the other side. Certainly that was how it appeared.
Do this and do that the law says, make offers and make them for more money
and ridicule the innocent people involved.
Despite everything being offered to that useless piece of rubbish ex of hers,
the progress shows as a waste of time. So, it reaches breaking point. And you know what? I’d been there before. I’d spent twelve and a half years
with the previous ex-wife, only to end up in a tangled web of deceit instigated by the parents of the ex-wife. Although that incident was not the same, it had all the hall marks of a similar fiasco. It (this battle of wits) wasn’t what I wanted now, even if the imagined end result would be slightly different.
And this one was different, true. You do have to consider how partnerships can develop. And this one could develop, save for a problem with her house.
Now I’m a patient guy. Over two years of dating all over again was a pretty exemplary approach to try to cement a bond. There does come a point where
it has to move one way or the other, I’d decided. And my heart goes out to
Evangalisa Zsofia because she has to live with her parents. In taking the decision to move out from her own house and therefore having to move back to her parents’ house, her own participation in our relationship was not equal to but more than the effort required from myself.

Red ball for the sixth time in a row, here we go. Super tricky shot to do
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this one. One chance only to get it right. Got to be real fancy with the cue, sit it on the rest piece. One shot at it . . . it’s not a delicate touch either.
Oooohhh, you can practically feel the hit, as that was hard. There’s no
room for error. Bam, in the Red ball goes. Straight into the pocket.

Her ex-partner was still in her house – legally, apparently, proving therefore the law is an ass, as far as I was concerned. How many times? Why is it that the law in some cases just doesn’t stack up?
Him still living there undeservedly, as far as I was concerned. 
There is another way though.
We had a plan. We would only use it as – shit or bust. We’d been fair and we’d been honest. Now we were going to have to make a stand against those
working against us.
Maybe it wasn’t fair to reach the decision that I did; the one that we (yes, we) would soon put into effect, after all, it wasn’t Evangalisa Zsofia’s fault that her house; which she was paying a previous mortgage on that had moved in unison from her old place, wasn’t being lived in by her. Or more to the point was still being occupied by her ex. That was a brutal and selfish approach. In one way it did highlight his total reliance on Evangalisa Zsofia, which identified easily the waste of space that his existence was, in my mind.
It’s useful to really know the person you are hitched up with. This was a side of her ex that had not been revealed to her before. Even more (if it were needed) a good and right reason to move on.

The solicitor says do this and do that. Is it always right?
Well, who says you can’t move the goalposts and achieve something different.
In my experience; the solicitors – their MO was make money first, advice later. As the two go hand in hand with that profession, I’d learnt that – yes, advice beyond our own knowledge is worth paying for. Dithering isn’t.
Hence, history taught me for instance that a divorce conclusion which timewise went right down to the wire for me (back in the day), could be (and was) concluded by my own terms, as opposed to those of the paid solicitor at the time. He who never did work out a get out clause for myself. I told him what to do in the end.

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My money, my way.
So what of this reference of ‘down to the wire’, then? What the hell does that mean in a divorce. A divorce settlement isn’t dictated by time and time end
point. Except in the world of a solicitor it works backwards. As far as any
solicitor is concerned –  the longer it takes the better.
That useless solicitor who I had hired back then had all the hallmarks of the one we had employed right now. I’m seeing similar business ethics going on here.
To clarify, (specifically in my case following a divorce – back in the day), all you need to add is a lawsuit. Then it’s all about time.
I’d learnt the hard way back then and I intended to take that learning forward and use it now.
In a strange and in some ways similar case that was playing out right ahead of us now, and because of what I knew from years before, I / we then felt confident enough to throw in a curve ball here. Would the curve ball work? `Well, 50 / 50 odds was as good as we were going to get.

The similarities are in themselves born of different circumstances, but with the same overall result. In short they would be – persuaded to go one way by a paid professional (the solicitor), but due to the perceived injustice of it all, throw in a curve ball on one’s own terms. Result equals: that as determined by one’s self with a bit of luck thrown in for good measure. 
History recounted for me – with my divorce from hell (over ten years previously) that being too fair doesn’t work. I’d shown true character and spirit with my own requests, only to have some rigged ball and chain effect demand from the other side. I’d only ever sought to leave with my own belongings and nothing else. I didn’t demand anything in the way of money compensation – except my small part of the deposit (which was fair) on that house that they had wanted and I been forced to accept. Here’s your wedding gift; a wedge of money as a deposit on a house. It’s that house there, or no wedding gift. Like it or lump it. Bloody people, who do they think they are?
We’d talked (the ex-wife and I) before any decree was kind of accepted by her. In the end she’d capitulated, accepting that the marriage and house deal had been arranged. That was massive, unreal – almost. I’d known it, she’d

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suspected I’d known it. She’d actually admitted what I had been driven to theorise.
And in that case, out was better than in as far as I was concerned. That was my
choice and that was my entitlement if I could prove sufficient grounds; which was easy now, one would have thought.
Hang on though, it’s not over yet. What’s this? I’m going to be made to pay for
humiliating the stuffed up (and soon to be) ex parents in law.
If only they had stopped to think it through. But they couldn’t. Long since lost touch with reality. Make a song and dance over something that would have been otherwise so easy. Their way was about as far out of touch from reality as you could possibly hope to make it. For me it was to be summoned by the law
courts to pay back the money (all of it) of which had been donated equally to both the wife and myself by her father as a wedding gift; which went in as part deposit for the house (our house jointly owned) which she was still living in, since I had moved out.
Where does that make sense? Regardless of the fact that I’d paid my fair share of the mortgage over the years and I’d put in thousands as a deposit, I was being demanded by law suit to pay back the amount the father in law had
donated – in its entirety.
I wasn’t keen on being sued for money I didn’t owe. But then some events show the true personality of someone when you don’t expect it.
There’s no pride in being subpoenaed to court to fight a battle you didn’t expect to be a part of. But there’s a massive pride in being able to stop that lawsuit by outwitting the other side.
Save for my interruption and my subsequent direction, I’d have been truly screwed over. Luck may have been on my side. I could accept that and thank
the lucky stars. It does however take a decision process to be formulated and engaged.
Why try to keep me in a marriage scam? Scare the living daylights out of me to make me stay. It just isn’t an acceptable thing to do. And I wasn’t up for it.
My terms: she could keep the house. Any financial compensation for my part in years of paying for a house and then having to move out – (except for my part of the deposit), zero as far as I was concerned.
I start again and am glad just to be rid of the negative mental health dealt out

Page 50                                      Black ball x 6.

by the wife, and as it turned out – her parents too.
Worth its weight in gold!
So as far as solicitors were concerned; so much for expensive brain power. The whole process had felt like I was paying for my own terms and conditions –  
back in the day.

Anyhow, that was then and this was now.
Based on an age old trick of buy the other out, that is how we went about resolving this issue here. The law courts use this trick and it was that principle
which we employed to end this tit for tat.
The plan was simple: bundle up some money, and for us a brand new fixed rate mortgage set for double the cost at half the time. Together we would pay off the value to buy the house again.
It didn’t seem right. Why should some idle waster who refused to go to work
benefit from money scraped together by us so he could move on, citing dependency, or some other such lazy addiction to someone else’s hard work.
Well, that’s the way it is. Any law court would not be in favour of anything less.
And that is how we played the game.
Here goes the curve ball –
In the end we say – ‘take it or leave it. It’s the last offer’.
He took it.

Black ball number six to pot now. Definitely has the momentum going for him here. All the balls are going down with no issues. Some have been a bit tricky looking. Didn’t pose any problems along the way, all said and done. I think to add a positive edge right now, that . . . almost carefree approach is working in his favour. Lining up on the Black ball again, a fair and heavy hit with the White ball and in the Black ball goes.              

Neighbours –
It was comforting to see Evangalisa Zsofia be able to move back into her house. It had always been originally her idea to move to this village in the first place.
Her ex was one of those people who attach themselves and before you know it you’re stuck with them. His vision had always been how to get through life

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doing what he wanted whilst someone else did all the struggling.
The house had been her vision and her idea. She’d moved from a town
environment to a village environment without any natural desire of her
partner at the time contributing to any part of the vision. He was just a hanger onner.
She was coming home and I was moving home.
So what would be the differences for me?
I was going to have to get used to having neighbours.
Ok. I was used to that when living with the ex-wife in that house on an estate, and then the previous girlfriend – Helena Aneka; that relationship’s tie in part of which was live in, live out, or easy come easy go. I didn’t really have to take the neighbours’ thing seriously.
And how then was the neighbours thing going to go down now, I could wonder?
A minor distraction in the overall scheme of things. I guess I couldn’t really be
overly bothered to be honest. I wasn’t going to be there to be liked. I’d learnt along the way that if I wasn’t liked it wouldn’t be my loss.
We would see in the fullness of time. I wouldn’t be prepared to make any special exceptions. I was only going to be myself. Neighbours was a thing though, an effort even, if like me it wasn’t that normal.

***

Reality –
‘OMG, The surrealness of it all. Blah, blah, blah.’
‘Oh, do you know what, it was surreal. You know, the fact that blah, blah, blah.
Sounds good. Maybe it was surreal here and all. Totally surreal.
I’m living in a new home. One that the girlfriend and I were buying together. 
The girlfriend just happened along at the time that she did and the house she had just happened to be here – of all places. Who’d have thought it. In all the
places in all the world. Unbelievable!
Incredibly, I’d been here before.
Forget the time I cruised by on the Katoom (KTM) 650 for a ‘Gardens open’ day.
The thing is, I’d been here before. Twice!

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Two appearances in the same village for two individual but now weirdly relevant in a way, occasions. Spooky!
I mean, it was in this village where I legitimately acquired a solid wooden chest of seemingly sea like origin. And more to the point that of which I had always held in high esteem. Also, turning up in the company tipper truck, I’d been against the clock in the firm’s time and had no time to appreciate the surroundings of the countryside, or the actual village itself. That was the first occasion.
Second time: here to finish off a job in my own van, with plenty of time to
enjoy the countryside. Enough time – and interest, to soak up the surroundings and the village to register it in my memory. More to the point a pinnacle moment of self-address. A realised and enacted turning point in my walk of life.

Neighbours –
Apart from a few disastrous years living on a housing estate whilst married in years gone by, and one other relationship which included living in a house with neighbours, the house experience, or more precisely, living without neighbours close by was more the norm for myself.
That just wasn’t a thing for me, generally. I wasn’t that used to it. Being honest
with myself the ex-wife, it appeared I was a liability when it came to neighbours.
However, mixing with others who lived nearby here in the Close turned out ok as it goes. Surprise, surprise! Who’d have thought it. I could actually get on with people.
I didn’t know it was possible.
Early years here, in the village, provided plenty of social interaction with a seemingly never ending list of planned local village hall event listings. A historic run of events worth mentioning if only for the fact that they don’t happen anymore. I wonder why? They used to happen so often that it was normal. To be expected even. Now – nothing. No events showing on any calendar, no entertainment on the scale of those previously. No one interested in showcasing their own hobby speciality, which in the good old days would have extended to such things as Bingo – run by a dedicated couple whose fulfilment

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(or certainly one of them) in life was taking it out to the people and running the show. Betting and video racing was another. Brilliant fun for anyone. Even the local village quiz; trumped up even more by the entertainment’s queen of questions presentation; a laugh from the word go viewing her subtle (and not so subtle) delivery. Her unrealised mistakes presented as facts.  
All those village hall gatherings a big plus when it came to socialising. A larger spread of folk they included too, as opposed to only direct neighbours. Mixing with near neighbours from the Close in village hall events didn’t happen in the way I would have expected. Mostly we all socialised differently.
Looking beyond (as it were), I could be happy with my perception of some of the people I was going to live nearby to. As a bunch of neighbour’s together (the whole of the Close and a few more extending down the road a bit); we’d already had a people gathering in the garden of one of those neighbours.
An afternoon with everyone sat in the garden of a couple who wanted to. . .  I suppose create some kind of bond, or show allegiance together between us all. A get to know each other type of gathering.
They were and had been doing the right thing. A noble gesture for sure. I could pick up some neg vibes there though. One couple that I didn’t feel so matey with unfortunately had their own agenda.
Here was a gathering to show uniform cohesion, if you like, whereas that particular couple with their own agenda quite obviously didn’t want to show the same. Such a shame, in a small Close.
So as much as I could see a good reason for that gathering, and I could also see a good result from it too, any future amenability was always (and turned out to be true over the years) going to be made difficult by some folk.
Neighbours, as a concept, a reality of life, an accepted . . . . necessity almost, is easy enough to understand – in itself. Slightly more irritating to accept, even if no neighbours is almost an impossibility. Made me realise how unique a situation I had been in living on the side of the road. Tough experiences aside (linked with neighbours when I’d been married), it would be a relatively new experience having people nearby. I had a very clear outlook from the start. I mix with people if I want. I don’t do that for the sake of it. We all know in our own hearts just who we can be friendly and who we want to be friendly with.

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That’s not something we can change. I know I can’t. There’s being friendly as friends, and there’s being friendly as people. Two different things.

Evangalisa Zsofia already knew the people who lived nearby. This was after all
her house. I, on the other hand didn’t – in the beginning. That kind of left me surprised one day that we were to get an invite from one couple in the Close. Sociable, quiet, friendly, a couple who liked company. They were
Cleopatra – (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Father’s Glory’) Xzenia – (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Woman of Hospitality’) and Anthony – (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘He who Adds’) otherwise known as Ant, from Marc Anthony (lover of Cleopatra), Vangelis – (Ancient Greek name meaning ‘Good Tidings.’)
Good vibes with these two. Nothing negative to show. Persona definitely on the positive side. Would be good for me to understand a side of neighbours I hadn’t expected to be a part of. Kind of made me feel a bit special in a way. I hadn’t been living there that long and let’s face it, apart from the gathering just down the road from earlier, this was the only mixing with people close by that was initiated by design. I must have caught someone’s attention.
What would I find out, I wondered? Would I find out anything? Would things go an opposite direction to what I guess I hoped for. Especially seeing as in my mind they may have liked Evangalisa Zsofia’s previous partner more, in preference. He who socialised easily. Completely the opposite to myself.

Wall art –
The invite from Cleopatra Xzenia and Anthony Vangelis got accepted.
It’s the date of the neighbour invitation. A social evening of introduction.
This should be good, I tell myself. Exactly the type of thing I wasn’t good at.
So we mooch on over to the neighbours’, who like the rest of the neighbours, I didn’t really feel I knew that well. But based on my own perception of people and how they are and how they should be, or conform to in order to be friends of mine . . .  yeah, I felt I wanted to know better. They were the type of people who I wanted to be friends with.
Why not? I told myself. Might as well get involved. You might surprise yourself, self.
These types of social get togethers weren’t in my top anything list of things to

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do. Here though the cards had turned. I felt like I may be worth getting to know. This wasn’t a feeling common in my small world.
I’m nervous to be honest.
We turn up, as and when expected. After knocking on the door it opens. Cleopatra Xzenia beckons us indoors and starts chatting to Evangalisa Zsofia like they’ve known each other all their lives. We don’t make it through the door, or at least I don’t, as the immediate chatter gets the better of moving forward. I’m stood on the threshold – half in, half out. I feel like I might have been . . . not overlooked, but because I was that unknown person to them and Evangalisa Zsofia not being an unknown person to them, then perhaps . . .  not seen . . . a bit, maybe? I was experiencing one of those invisible feeling moments.
Huh, memories from yesteryear. How Many times had I been stood at a bar waiting to be served, only to be overlooked, the attention focused on someone who had turned up after me.
Happened all the time.
Anthony Vangelis is there too but is squeezed a bit into the adjoining room. I move forward to allow for the door to be shut behind me, as much as I could. Which wasn’t much. It was stop where I was or push forwards, shoving everyone else backwards except for myself and Evangalisa Zsofia. There was no attempt to shut the door. It remained open behind me.
I just stand. Should I shut the door, or should someone else? It would surely be bad manners for me to do so. Like I was pulling closure on the situation. Stuck halfway between in and out, the age old experience of that invisible feeling phenomenon getting the better of me. Somehow I should draw attention to the fact that I wasn’t in the right zone here. Like being halfway through a spaceship airlock. Not in, not out. But it soon didn’t matter. I became transfixed on the spot anyway. Staring at a sketch they have nailed onto the hallway wall. A sketch of a geographical map.
Anthony Vangelis is aware. He knows I’m looking vacant. Perhaps I’ve been distracted. Anything other than socialising. Not blanking them for sure . . . . or maybe he is. Is he blanking us? Heh, you. Yes you. What’s occurring? Could Anthony Vangelis have been thinking such a thing?
Maybe he (Anthony Vangelis) understands. Understands this awkward

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difference between myself and others. But I doubt it. How could he? What it’s like to feel useless in a social environment. I twig a reaching out act of inclusion stretching between him and myself. Akin to a kind of thought control interrupting, but not quite gaining the attention of. It’s like trying to be
noticed through an atmosphere full of static, from him. Speaking for myself, not that bothered on the face of it. Could I be a tough nut to crack? No, not really. It was just that the map had gotten the better of me. Completely attention grabbing. I could just as easily have not been in the same space with anyone here at the time. Just like being in a museum. Fully focussed on something else. Let the wall art take centre stage.
I didn’t want to appear rude in any way, on the other hand, this was me. This was who I am, what I’m like. Anyway, I had an excuse, check out this wall art.
Mentally, and consciously, I always knew I was going to struggle here. I’d been
dogged for as long as I could remember with a social deficit that had yet to be
determined; it goes with the scenery when being hard of hearing – that was the bit which was later determined as faulty. For me it was a frustratingly
difficult acceptance that communicating was always going to be hard. My irreconcilable difference.
There’s some small talk; which I absent mindedly take part in (obviously
greetings’), so easy to reciprocate, as we resume to jostle about and get the door closed behind me. At last.
My thoughts are fixed almost a hundred percent on the map image portrayed within the hanging frame on the wall. Anything else is a sub-conscious effort.
Assuaging acts of reciprocal good intent almost completely invisible themselves, as it happened. The act to appear welcoming from my part dissipating into a thinly veiled attempt as soon as I set eyes on the wall art. The map like a sign. Inconspicuous, yet standing out like a beacon.
It’s all a bit of a mystery for the neighbours. They knew they were trying socially, so why wasn’t I? That is how it appeared.
The effort had been considerable after all; inviting neighbours around to your
own house. One of them (myself) was unknown even, a veritable stranger.
And I appreciated the invite, especially as a newcomer to the village. I felt like telling them that, but I couldn’t get my mind into gear. That part of me was elsewhere, detached from the occasion.

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Surely the chances of highlighting this area of topography as wall art in the form of a map in a frame, in full view of myself, were merely by fluke?
Myself being a firm believer in those unseen crossroads in life. And other stuff. Call them choices if you like. And fate, faith, stuff like that. The more I stared at the geographical image the more I began to feel like I was missing something. Like I had unwittingly overlooked something of great importance.
Come on self, snap out of it.
All of a sudden my nerves straightened out. It had been a eureka moment at the time of spotting the map. The result of recognising a known place highlighted on the map felt like a super natural almost, kind of message in this instant. Even though it wasn’t and I knew it.
It had to mean something didn’t it? Like a heirloom in view as recognition to . . . . . . . . well I don’t know what. It must have depth of some kind! I sensed a connection. I could quite possibly ace this. A previously envisaged difficult evening turned around. 
These neighbours were not going to be such the strangers either of us thought!
It’s true, they were strangers to myself. On the other hand, I began to suspect I shared a common thread with them. Like a common denominator.
It was them that didn’t know it.
The common thread as far as they were concerned was the fact that we were neighbours.
That’s only the half of it.

***

Riversmeet –
There’s a place I went to once. A place hidden away. In amongst some woods on Exmoor; two streams flowed into one.
The idea behind its name was two rivers meet. The dry season had the effect
of it being less than two rivers, as such, (at least when I had been there.) Rivers which at that time could be walked through whilst wearing wellington boots. River revived during the autumn and winter into the rivers that the place name referred to.
That place wasn’t without its slot in history either, because of those rivers.

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They once became, (or joined up with) a much bigger river that turned very powerful and wiped out a some of man’s own made landscape at the time.
Two rivers meet as one always struck me as a place with an odd name, but at the same time a relevant name.
So what then of a Winterbourne? Is it a town, is it a village, is it a . . .  river
maybe, even? It doesn’t explain anything at all, does it?

***

Gardens open  –  
I’m sitting on a garden bench looking at the scenery around me. It’s ‘Gardens
Open’ day in the village. I’m hyped up from the ride over here. And the minor confrontation earlier in the car park.
I get up off the bench and look about from the front garden gate, scan the immediate surroundings. Then I stroll back to and sit down on the bench again. It struck me as being odd in that where there once was a river alongside the road, (as I remember anyway), down at the bottom of the field in front of the
house. Now there wasn’t. Or had it been a figment of my imagination?
No. For sure it wasn’t. There definitely had been a river there once, all those years before.
I sensed a tie to this place from the past.
Why the hell wasn’t there a river there anymore? Rivers don’t just disappear
do they? Especially seeing as there was the ditch wide enough for a river still to
be there now.
Oh well . . . Niggle, niggle, niggle.
But things were coming back to me as I sat there.
There was some talk going on. Evangalisa Zsofia was saying something. I was
supposed to be listening.
What does that say about me? I wasn’t taking it in, it was just words without meaning. My mind was years in the past, not in the here and now.
I spluttered a few remarks to show attendance. Consciously I was somewhere else, in a different time zone. Was funny seeing this village from a different perspective – that’s where my mind was at. I’m seeing this village place (certain bits of it) from higher up than the roadway in. From a different angle.

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There had been this hill to the car park. The road paved its way up a very defined upward slope to get to this Close; which meant I was now looking down on a scene that previously I had only seen from a sea level angle.
It takes me a few minutes and then it’s a slam dunk clanger. The penny was dropping.
It’s fucking unreal. All those years ago when I had been involved in the building trade there’d been a few jobs I could remember doing which involved coming
to this place, this village. That was one of the few good things about being in the building trade for a builder whose jobs had been anywhere and everywhere. I knew of places now that previously I hadn’t.
With all this recognition stuff going on I could start putting two and two together, whilst at the same time joining in with the reasons for attendance and of being here today. Here in this village.
The grey area just now had been because today (earlier on the bike) I was navigating the road ahead – differently. Everything had been seen as, (and because of my adrenalin fuelled ride over here) had appeared different on a bike.
Because my ride in had involved a narrowed, (blinkered almost) view of the road ahead, scenery recognition hadn’t clicked in the way it should have. Everything about that bike ride had negated me the opportunity to take a not so cautious gander at the passing scenery.
This place struck me as a destiny related quirk of fate even. There surely had to be a connection here.
Why else would I be sat here on this garden bench, in this garden, in the middle of this village. This place where previously I had visited for two different occasions. It was all so weird. OK, it was over ten years before (or more like fifteen), last time I was here.
And now, here again, under the most unexpected of reasons. 
It’s a mystery!
I mean, that’s like proper star alignment.
The wooden chest for instance; I had one decent piece of furniture and that
came from this place. It was the only piece of furniture I owned.
And more poignant still; visit number two had seen this place become the pivotal location that would herald a new direction for me in more ways than

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one back then.
How could the stars possibly align so clearly?
But what the heck. I was only sat on a garden bench in the same village. It didn’t mean anything in itself.
Except, there was something weird going on – Convergence.
Let’s take another look from a different perspective:
To start something here relationship wise I was going to have to be a pretty shrewd operator.
And here was the problem. How could you start something when it goes against your own principles to do so?
Was interesting never-the-less. I mean, what are the chances? If I was ever to
move into this house here, the chances are just so far away from reality to be completely make believe . . . or quirk of fate.

I ride my bike home a little later. My concentration feels on a reduced level
from that required on this morning’s ride. Should have been squarely focused
on the ride, not the complications envisaged. There was one fuck off big distraction looming in the distance.
The next chapter was going to test me on an intensity which would be upper scale. I’d already done everything in life the hard way when it came to
relationships and how they went, one way or the other. It now looked like there was harder to come.
Here’s the thing though: you have to believe in its worth. That was something
I’d learnt along the way to my advantage. Sure, things had been difficult, and occasionally scary too.
But you have to be honest with your own feelings. I’d always had to make things worse for myself in order to make things better further down the line. There has to be added value in it.
On the face of it, with reference to those past relationships, I’d already looked
like a cold bastard from some people’s point of view because of the way those
relationships always ended. The thing is, I wasn’t that person. I had – unfortunately though, as a result of – gained that reputation. That’s just the way it was. What did I ever really, really want? was always the question that I asked myself. I would constantly evaluate if I was in doubt; ask myself – was

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there substance there, or was it missing?
Overall though? Nah, no regrets. It had never been my way or the highway. It had always been for me what I myself thought was the right way. My way had been open and transparent. I hadn’t asked to be tested with certain relationships in the past in the way that I had been.
I was (would always) going to choose the right way froward for me.

***

Winterbourne. To Be, or Not To Be – 
Living here enabled all those starter fears to be squarely put back in the box. Now, properly moved in and up to scratch with a lot of the oddities involved around here; in this village – feeling proud. There was super level pride in living close by to some pretty big hitters when it came to the entertainment industry. What a thoroughly decent place to be living at, not only for the reason of being such a great village, but in an area admired too by those big hitters.
It was a gold paved roadway to and from the highlights of the big city, for them.
And there was me knocking the commuter home away from the big city, or
worse still the dormitory village. Yet here they were, and in at least one case, here they had been – or very close by.
There was a detached acceptance of that. Being that close to and to such well-
known names sort of made it proudly better. And it doesn’t stop there either. The list goes on.
Along the way there were other anomalies, or oddities, that came to the fore. There’s the winterbourne for instance. I thought I was aware of how town names could be derived from a river, or the way a river divides, or meets, or springs. I did know for instance that if a town was named as ……..borne (anything .borne) then it refers to a town where a river joins from another. That’s the borne bit.
You could say that the place in the woods in Exmoor should have been named Riverborne on that account. But they chose to name it Riversmeet. And it wasn’t a town there, it was just a place.
A winterbourne however was a new one on me. It wasn’t the river

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Winterbourne, it was a winterbourne river.
And the winterbourne was the answer. The missing link to a mind riddle from the ‘Gardens Open’ day out.
The winterbourne river: a river, or stream that runs chiefly during winter.
The winterbourne is the weirdest thing. When is a river not a river?
When it’s a Winterbourne, of course!
Simple!
Now it made sense. I had seen a river down there when I had been in this village all those years before on those building jobs. A river flowing with purpose – the rush of water quite aggressive. Suggestive of an original presence from higher up.
This is one of the weirdest acts of nature that on the face of it doesn’t make any sense. Look deeper and it makes lots of sense. It makes so much sense that it really couldn’t be any other way.
The facts: During most of the year there’s this dry ditch (in this case running alongside the road) where a river could be. The cosmological cycle takes the
lunar orbits into the winter months. Somewhere underneath the ground the water stirs.
It certainly makes you wonder when seen for the first time. It has to be something to do with a similar concept to the ocean tide, maybe! Right?
No, wrong.
The tide acts when the moon’s gravity pulls the most – once when the moon is closest and once when it is farthest from planet Earth in its orbit.
Not the winterbourne. That’s different.
The winterbourne is based on the ground make-up – (in this case chalk) and
rainfall. As chalk is an aquifer it therefore has the ability to soak up water like a sponge. Water does however move through chalk in cracks and fissures; drainage in a way.
Because the ground water levels vary according to the season, chalk streams therefore are naturally intermittent in their flow.
Depending on rainfall (chiefly) during winter months, and because the water easily percolates through the aquifer, it (the aquifer – chalk substrate) will then be well topped up.
The head of the stream moves up the valley as the water table rises. Water

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emerges at ground level in the form of springs. The more the rainfall the more
the sponge like effect. Because the water then has nowhere else to go it
emerges out of the ground in springs.
During dry months the water doesn’t percolate into the chalk quite as easily as
it is taken up by plants. Also some is lost to evaporation, and drains naturally through cracks and fissures. The water table drops and the head of the stream
moves down the valley, leaving the top section of the stream dry. This section is called a winterbourne because it only flows after winter rains. 
There was my answer. All the dots get dotted in one go. 
And here I was, residing in that same village now. A pathway, or invisible crossroads starting from one spooky appearance. It can’t get any more unbelievable than that, for sure.
Can it?

Neighbours’ invitation  –
Our neighbours, if only they knew.
It wasn’t the fact that I had two gardens on the go as well as working full time, and levering various hobbies and life styles into the mix. Although to be fair,
those hobbies largely stopped at the time of moving in to the second home. So on that count it wasn’t the fact that I was two professions at once.
They were aware that I was a gardener in spare time. At least I thought they were.
It wasn’t the fact that I was hard of hearing, so when in company (such as now, whilst stood in their hallway) I appeared as either I wasn’t interested, or maybe
I was a bit stupid.
It wasn’t the fact that I was fairly new to the Close either.
It was none of those.
In the hallway I’m off to a flying start, eventually. The map; which may not have received that much attention as a rule, was now centre stage in a way.
Evangalisa Zsofia wasn’t to know the highlight of the map sketch. As she hadn’t paid attention to it when entering the hallway, it therefore went unnoticed by her. She had shuffled her way in, slightly beyond the doorway aperture, without a second glance at any wall art, like it wasn’t there.
Both Anthony Vangelis and Cleopatra Xzenia were now able to see first-hand

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what appeared as an entrance stand still un-performance and understandably did look twice, but not at the sketch. Or maybe they did . . . a bit. They didn’t know what was going on. Was as much a surprise to them as it was to myself that there should be something in their household which would create this . . . 
almost impasse appearance.
The neighbour they had decently invited around seemed more interested in a wall hanging sketch of a map than the introductory friendliness they were probably expecting. And why not, would only have been courtesy after all.
Well, wham bam, all of a sudden – a spooky link.
Hoorah for something whereby I could get involved. The neighbour’s wouldn’t see this one coming.
And neither would I come to that.
Normally, in these awkward social situations I just can’t be too bothered. Not that I didn’t want to be, more like it was too difficult. It’s sadly the case whereby if you miss what’s being said and the others are talking too quietly to be heard, then there is basically no point in pointing out that you can’t hear.
They don’t understand. They can’t adjust.
So what happens is that instead of trying to remedy the situation, I just end up
quitting the effort involved. There simply is no point in repeating myself in the hope that someone will understand.
And so then: there’s this guy (a new neighbour), who (on the face of it) isn’t on the same wavelength in this social gathering. He can’t hear what’s being said. But the neighbours don’t know that yet. How can they?
If I mention that item of info to anyone (the fact that I couldn’t quite hear the conversation) it would be like me saying ‘would you mind saying that again please’, for instance. Therefore the actual synonym of that question is often (in my experience) taken either as an act of inclusion, or an act of taking the piss, as opposed to a genuine request. Why should anyone change the way
they speak just because the person they’re talking to says he can’t hear what they’re saying? I mean, that’s just ridiculous. It’s not even a sensible remark to make.
So people carry on exactly the same as before, in any given and un-particular situation. It’s like: ‘Blah, blah, blah. Oh, did someone say they can’t hear what’s being said? Well bollocks, why change the habit of a lifetime? If someone can’t

Page 65

hear properly that’s their problem, not mine’ – would be a reasonable approach from all those who can hear properly.
Historically – that’s exactly what I make them aware of. Mostly, that’s exactly their approach once you’ve told them you can’t hear what they’re saying. It’s
largely a waste of time.
In any given and un-particular situation, no one is interested in involving me
any more than would be normal. Because the more they just plough on – ‘ blah, blah, blah’. It’s then just more of the same: ‘blah, blah, blah (oh, he doesn’t seem that interested in what I’m saying.) Blah, blah, blah. Is he rude,
he’s not interested? Blah, blah, blah. Huh, we’re trying to involve him here and all he does is no reply.’
In this case (in the hallway of the neighbour’s house): The new neighbour is just staring at a sketch on the wall. And so the talk goes on – ‘Blah, blah, blah.’
To be fair to the neighbours on this occasion, as yet they weren’t aware of my disability. I wasn’t even knowing of it as a disability myself at the time. Although I was perfectly aware that I couldn’t hear like others could.
If only they knew – these neighbours. If only someone would appreciate how
difficult it is to include one’s self in a situation where one doesn’t feel included.
Listening to an incomplete conversation due to missing tones and words is not
unlike trying to interpret a foreign language even, where only a few words are known.
Yeah, that doesn’t work!
Come on all of you, get that into your heads please. To all those of you who don’t understand – not hearing is not hearing.
Or, tell you what, we’ll just carry on our way. Looking stupid doesn’t mean we are.
Not that I’m intolerant of people. I’m just fed up with explaining it all over
again. It’s not me that’s not listening is it. I’m trying and I can’t try any harder.
If I say to someone ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying’, and they carry on as before, who is it exactly that isn’t listening?

The sketch on the wall drew greater attention, from myself and the others, now. The closer I looked, the more the attention from the others. I could see every detail in real life. They (Anthony Vangelis, Cleopatra Xenia and Evangalisa

Page 66

Zsofia) for their part were not understanding the draw of what would otherwise and ordinarily just have been an invisible map print.
You could understand a picture drawing attention, or a painting. This was neither. It was just a plain old map print. So from their point of view the only
significant draw could possibly have been the style in which it was portrayed. Even then, an old map print?
I felt like I got off to a flying start for sure. More so than ever before. Things don’t happen this way for me, normally.
I was in possession of some pretty interesting information if the place on the map held any relevance to anything in these people’s lives. It could even be a sort of bonding thing. So a flying start it may have been for me (although it didn’t appear that way.) Soon, all would become clear.
The question is: why would anyone have a map of that place on their hallway wall, especially these people who I felt I wanted to know better.
The place highlighted on the map was off the beaten track. A vacation retreat for small numbers of people – yes. Isolated and niche, not big, sprawling and well catered for. It was far from it. Yes, it would attract day trippers and yes it was popular for that. But why this place?  
More to the point, why these people, who were now nearby neighbours. This social evening; it wasn’t as if we were visiting someone anywhere else.
No, far from it. It was only a few yards from where I was now living.

The Detail –
I was a keen studier of art when it was the real thing. That eye for study kicked
in now, here whilst looking at the map on the wall in the neighbour’s hallway. I was in study mode.
Back along in the distant past, during a holiday to Paris, (a balls ache of a honeymoon no less) we had spent a day at the Le Louvre museum. It was awesome. We’d spent hours and hours trawling around museum pieces and art galleries where the hanging wall art was real. The dates of the paintings showing life as it was back when it was painted.
Who cares that the wife at the time had zero interest in anything museum related. I was being true to my own likes and dislikes and stayed for the maximum duration to absorb all that was on offer.

Page 67                                            Red ball x 7.

The wall art was incredible. Genuine canvas paintings (including the Mona Lisa) showing genuine life in the times going back hundreds of years.
I wanted to know as much as I could about what, where and when in any given
painting. How life was at the time of the painting; such things like construction
techniques, buildings and their given role, gardening, transportation, clothing,
make-up, jewellery, and all sorts.
It was the detail that interested me.

***

Gardener  –

‘That’s six Black balls down. The last Black another quick fire shot, a fast slam dunker. Anyway, six Black balls down, and now he aims for the Red once again. Don’t think there’s much doubt about this one. Looks like a definite pot for sure, so let’s see.
Woahh . . .colossal! What a pot. The Red straight in the pocket. He knew that one was a no brainer, just look at the confidence right here, right now. A definite change in focus going on here. One shot after another and all following suit. Here we go. Let’s see how this frame plays out as we progress further and further towards a full house, maybe?

Standing in the hallway of our near neighbour’s house and looking at the
sketch map on the wall; . . . from my angle? A wonder why it was there. Incredibly, me and that map had history. Like it was in my own house. For what possible justification could there be for it to be here of all places? Quite unfathomable. Still, you don’t get to happen across intriguing anomalies such as this and just walk on by. Oh no. This was in the making. I mean, I suppose I could have just ignored the map and moved on. Go with the flow sort of thing. But was worth its weight in gold to me to seek out those reasons for why it was on show. Gears were turning.
What was the relevance which that map held between it and my neighbours? Because unbeknown to them, there was a relevance between it and myself.
Here goes, self. All those years of not talking as lead. All those years of playing

Page 68

second fiddle to conversation and social interaction.
This was it. This was my chance to make a positive change to that.
    ‘Why the picture on the wall’ I asked to neither of them in particular.
Cleopatra Xzenia looked a little bemused. Happy even that someone had
noticed that map. Anthony Vangelis looked chuffed that someone had seen
what was must have been a heirloom, significantly of which may (or probably even) have been all but invisible to any visitor since it had been nailed up on the wall.
Of course, I knew it was a map, and that in fact I had referred to it as a picture. That was on purpose. I anticipated that if I wrongly identified something that was there on purpose, I may receive a narrative in return.
    ‘It’s a map’ Cleopatra Xzenia replied.
Anthony Vangelis started talking, but unfortunately in a voice too quiet for me to hear properly.
The point of interest displayed upon that map (for me) was one village location that I had singled out from the other few that were shown on the map too. The map showing a landscape, but limited to just two thirds the whole of the area. Plus a coastal border and sea to the extent of around one third of the whole of the area. Size wise, a landmass of only about ten square miles. Then a frame. The sketch map ended just as suddenly as it had started. In that display of land mass however, was a place I recognised well. Not only recognised well, but knew so well.
Evangalisa Zsofia quickly stepped in to explain what I may have heard or misheard. Even she didn’t know at that time that I was officially hard of hearing, although she was well aware that half the time I missed what was being said. ‘It’s a map’, she says. Then she confers with Cleopatra Xzenia as to where it was a map of, who herself then carried the conversation onwards.
    ‘It’s Loophamlet. We had some time there on our honeymoon.’, Cleopatra Xzenia and Anthony Vangelis reiterate together.
    ‘It’s  Loophamlet’, Evangalisa Zsofia repeats to me.
I needed to know that. I really needed to know that. The map could have been there for reasons concerning one or two other places also labelled.
I needed to separate all the other parts on the map from Loophamlet, in so much as that map was there to pinpoint Loophamlet and not the other places

Page 69                               Black ball x 7, Red ball x 8.

shown as the place of interest to them.

‘A right old wibbly wobbly shot just there. What happened? Lining up on a Black, something went askew. A slip of something. Never mind though, in
 goes another Black ball. Nearly messed that one up. There for the play and in the correct position. Looked like a straightforward shot from here that in the end was made harder than it actually was. A bit too much confidence. And you can see that now, it’s going through his mind I’m sure, how easy a shot that was which nearly got messed up.
Still, that’s another Black ball down.              

Christ almighty, they had a geographical map of Loophamlet on their hallway
wall!
Well I could be sure of one thing, my arrival hadn’t followed the . .  . perfunctory, or traditionally accepted greeting of what would normally be seen as usual; instead, probably appearing as utterly fucking bewildering. This probably wasn’t what anyone expected.
Huh, maybe I should tone it down a bit. If all I was about was questions, it wasn’t going to make for a very exciting me this evening. Mind you, on the flip side it may show me off in a better light. The thing is, there was some questions that needed asking, and answering.
With the knowledge that I possessed, I knew I could easily incorporate those questions into a story even, a tale worthy of an unusual appearance. The one behind the knowledge of, and the meaning of the location of Loophamlet aligned to myself.

‘It’s a good shot, the white ball bounced off the edge of the table after potting that Black and just landed short of the Red; which is the next ball he has to pot. And . . . a quick slam dunking smash against the Red and it’s in the pocket. That’s nice.               

HALLELUIAH, Halleluiah, Halleluiah, halleluiaaahh ….♬♬ ♬♫
The most unbelievable, slam dunking, mesmerising and eye opening
revelations to hit the Close at #1, ever to be told in the history of the last

Page 70

however many years those nearby neighbours were to possibly have encountered in all that time of which they had lived here was about to be
revealed in all its glory.
    ‘Loophamlet? I know that place’. It was as if extrasensory perception was in play here. Or something like that. I concluded quickly that this had to be said in a manner by which it could be taken seriously, after all, anyone could recognise a map of an area, but a singular bunch of houses was a different story.
Surely it had to be nothing but a coincidence? (The mind playing tricks now.) Careful not to dive on a tangent when many, or lots of reasons could be attributable to this . . . . sign! Hang on a minute though, self. Sign for what, exactly? Don’t go overplaying this one, self. You could make a fool of yourself – quickly. Whatever, it was too good for me to ignore this. So I started the ball rolling, just came right out and put the conversation – my story,  into the mix. Wasn’t sure what reaction to expect. The stars aligning in such a way surely was meant to be.
Would they see it in a similar fashion to myself? This newly appeared neighbour from nowhere knew Loophamlet! That was outrageous wasn’t it? Of all the places in all the world.
No one present had the slightest idea why I should zero in on that map, of all things. I could have picked up on something from the household of interest too, such as the piano I spotted in an adjoining room. How could anyone who had recently moved in with Evangalisa Zsofia have known about a neighbourly connection with Loophamlet without prior knowledge having been fed to him. Especially as Evangalisa didn’t have that knowledge herself. She did know Loophamlet, we’d met there on occasions. Occasions when I had been working there to be exact. It was the connection between myself and neighbour that she was unaware of.
It’s not conceivable.
But here in their hallway was exactly the living proof of that.

The frame is moving fast now.

***

Page 71

Barracuda compass, (part one)  – 
Over the years it wasn’t unknown for me to be there at Loophamlet doing some gardening or other when the family as a whole gathered, and I melted into the background (or tried to) due to my accepted appearance, and the fact that I was well known as a person to them, but a gardener only.
In the conservatory of the property in question, at Loophamlet, the timing on this particular day was all about a birthday, as a small collection of family members gathered.
It was indeed a privilege for me to be invited indoors, or more to the point into the fold on such an occasion. That was my take on it. I was always respectful so whilst dressed in scruffs it was even more an honour, especially for the reason being to share a drink with the owners of the property. Today was one such day.
The gardening could wait as far as they were concerned.
There was drinking and laughing and reminiscing and a happy atmosphere.
The mood was good. I felt particularly glad that I was so well accepted amongst them. In a room alive with warm feeling and conversations.
On the other hand, I felt I had maybe interrupted in a way, just by being there. Looking like the gardener that I was. A proper living scarecrow if ever there was one. I felt like the odd one out.
Then the talking and joviality began to trail off a bit. It was one of those stall moments. My head drooped and my eyes wondered down to the floor. Searching for something to say that may see me as a lead person in a social
gathering; which I knew I wasn’t. I never had been.
It was a very different scenario to that of which had played out once upon a time, here at Loophamlet, under similar circumstances. Remembering that occasion it had brought with it shades of embarrassment at the time. Was funny though.

Rewind – to a few years earlier –
Amusingly (as it later turned out) at one such Loophamlet party, the family was gathered around the garden swimming pool. Not present because of the almost tropical atmospherics present that day, but because of a Golden wedding anniversary to celebrate.

Page 72

It was a very hot day.
However, previous to that day (months before) I had been given a bag of clothes by  Anfisa Karissa to have a look through. That was OK with me. Clothes that were being . . . offered. Offloaded even, or discarded, ran out of time, or whatever. Passed down from I didn’t know where, or care for that matter.
Anfisa Karissa chose me to give the bag to and insisted that if I were to find anything of interest in the bag then it was mine.
That was cool, it was recycling, or upcycling.
I kept a few items from the bag. More specifically a T shirt in good order that I thought would do another turn.
The T shirt described some parachute club or other in a location far away.
It mattered not to me what the picture on the front, it could have been ballet
dancing for all I cared. The fact that the shirt itself was in great condition and
would easily last for ages and ages longer would be a useful shirt for garden
jobs.
The Golden wedding anniversary had been a milestone to celebrate. It felt like a milestone for me that they should have considered involving myself. Especially as I was not dressed for the occasion. What with a large family gathering taking place involving so many generations and here was I, wearing a T shirt that I had dug out some time previously from a bag of throw outs.
It completely escaped my conscious awareness that day when dressing, which
shirt should be of any relevance. To be fair to myself I wasn’t aware that there would be a party in progress that day.
Anyhow, gardening was gardening. No good clothes required. Why should it have made one iota of difference?
It was more about the dress code overall where I saw myself as a square peg in
a round hole to be truthful, in this given situation. I hadn’t known important
stuff when arriving for work that day; the party, the reason for the party, the
sheer amount of folk present that day for that party.
The family often chose to gather around the swimming pool and it was often the case that not only were the immediate sons and daughters present, but offspring from further, younger generations too.
I was used to these gatherings. The family got to know me well enough over the years to accept me easily whilst I was plodding around the garden doing

Page 73                                          

various garden work. Anfisa Karissa and Golan Archimedes wouldn’t have it any other way. And so, if there was a celebration going on and I happened to be there, I would then get invited around to have a drink with them. Happily (although somewhat awkwardly in my reason for being there), I would do so. It was uplifting to be treated the same.
In attending the swimming pool area that day I was subsequently asked a question by one of the grand kids adults present.
No need to worry, there was genuine happiness present. Whilst being asked the question I picked up an extremely good vibe. So much so that I felt almost relaxed in being singled out to reply. Weirdly, at the same time with a feeling like there may be a counterproductive (for want of a better way to explain it) slant about to make its presence known. Like he knew something I didn’t. Still, it was innocent enough. He asked politely – where I could have found such a T shirt.
Well why not, it was an unusual shirt for sure. Not exactly main stream.
Being singled out specifically for a reason that would include me having a
spoken part to play amongst a large family gathering was realisation for me that I was part of the crowd – involved even.
It was also pleasing to realise I had captured their attention, for I did now. All eyes were on me.
I was chuffed, in a way. Until the meaning of the question sank in. Was it being half deaf, the reason for not being able to comprehend the question in super quick understanding (although I wouldn’t know that then)? Or was it because I was less intellectual? It took a few seconds to work it out.
The concept that I had no idea what I was wearing and had to look twice at my chest just to remind me of what the message on the front of the shirt read was altogether alien to just about everyone there – I sensed. All of a sudden I did care what shirt I was wearing. A ‘Beam me up Scotty’ moment.
I had no idea where, (or otherwise) regards the place shown on a transfer on the front of the shirt was. More to the point, I had no interest in parachuting either.
I was embarrassed – because of the fact that I didn’t know where the
parachuting set-up was. Because also in turn I wouldn’t have the answers to
any further questions that may arise from the original question.

Page 74                                         Black ball x 8.

Here was a dilemma if ever there was one.
I quickly swallowed my pride. I had to answer honestly because I didn’t know
any other way. To say I had picked it out from a bag of throw outs was going to be embarrassing enough.
The whole group evidently were on tender hooks awaiting whatever fancy
story was forthcoming, for surely there would be one.
In my mind I could see options. The fact that this shirt originated from a bag of throw outs was going to soon – very soon, be realised by all present. I didn’t however need to imply that the throw outs were from there – this property at Loophamlet itself. Subsequently then, the gathered group of people wouldn’t know that. They would never be able to work that one out. That would be just a bit too much of a poser to bother with any further drilling down, as it were.  I could be a little bit fluffy around the edges by saying that someone was offering a home for a mixture of good second hand clothes and I happened to be there at the time.
Simple really. No lies, exactly the truth as it was.
I didn’t want to embarrass Anfisa Karissa and Golan Archimedes any more than I wanted to embarrass myself. But I figured it would be better if I took all the embarrassment myself, then that would not implicate them in any way at all.
Weird though! It’s just that the way the question was asked was as if everyone knew the answer before I did.
Yes, I had decided to be upfront and honest. I told the truth, except I didn’t say who threw the clothes out.
And then the gathered group fell about laughing.

So, right on cue, lining up for the next ball. Here we go. It’s Black again.
Hang on a minute, seems a bit unbalanced. A bit like he wants to change his mind. No . . . yes, ok. That’s it then, mind made up. Off we go. The white ball chips the Black and the Black ball is in the pocket. Phew! Get the impression that wasn’t a planned pot, more like a lucky one. Next Red then.              

What was so funny about that?
I had answered honestly.
Later, I had to pride myself with having been honest. How would I have looked

Page 75                                            

if my answer was anything but the truth. That would have been beyond embarrassing.
Once normality had resumed I was to discover that it was he himself (the
person asking the question) who was the person responsible for throwing that T shirt out. Hence the question in the first place.
Embarrassing as it was, it was with some relief that I wouldn’t have to find the answers to questions I didn’t have the answer for. Further possible (as I had envisaged would be the case) questions about parachuting would have been
met with a blank.
I laughed too then. That was an easy decision to arrive at in a split second.
If you can’t beat them, join them.
I felt almost part of the family!

Barracuda compass, (part two) – 
So standing in the conservatory during one of those quiet stall moments, I
scanned the floor. Conscious of not being able to melt into the background.
A thought popped into my head. Be the lead person it said. For a change. Say something. Anything will do. I’m afraid of what the next conversation may be because as usual I’m going to probably have to ask someone to repeat it all
over again whilst I try harder to hear what was said. I don’t even know why I
can’t hear properly what people are saying most of the time. It is a problem that is easier to avoid rather than confront.
However, if I could start a conversation, maybe the flow of it would be easier to follow.
That’s the theory anyway – if you’re hard of hearing. Of course, it rarely works.
If you don’t know you’re half deaf, the mystery of not being able to communicate properly is multiplied. That’s totally exasperating.
The quiet stall moment came and went as I spotted an interesting piece of apparatus in the corner of the room on the floor. Being made of brass (or some of it) was its stand out feature. The object: I wasn’t sure of the workings. It looked expensive, or would have been when it was originally manufactured.
A complex arrangement of mechanical thingamajigs. Looked like a compass of some sort. Hadn’t seen polish in a long time, but having said that it appeared as though it hadn’t been designed to be polished every week as a mantlepiece

Page 76                                             Red ball x 9.  

trinket.
Without further ado I jumped in.
    ‘What’s that contraption on the floor there?’ From me that was a pretty good attempt at being lead person in a social gathering.

Red it is then. Cue’s on the White and . . . strike. Nice clean shot. In goes the Red, # 9.             

Golan Archimedes had been sitting quietly too. In a way I didn’t want to interrupt this quiet time, and in another I did. I already felt like I was interrupting just by being present there, so what the heck. Here I was as a gardener, amongst a family whilst they were celebrating something that had nothing to do with me.
That thing on the floor looked as though it had been a small cog amongst a jumble of other much larger cogs, so to speak.
My imagination failed to interpret it as being anything relevant to anything. It didn’t look as though it appeared to fit in anywhere. It wouldn’t sit on top of the dashboard of a car for instance. An interesting and instrumental contraption. I didn’t know what the object was and therefore hadn’t any idea how it may provoke any kind of thought or memory.
Others had dispersed into adjoining rooms so there was less of a spotlight on myself. Attention moved to the object on the floor. Maybe it had been so obvious it had been invisible.
Golan Archimedes mused and then answered. ‘It’s a compass. From a Barracuda.’
A compass? From a Barracuda? The word Barracuda struck a chord in my mind.
FAIRY barracuda? Must be! Hadn’t Golan Archimedes been a sailor aboard an aircraft carrier in the war, as I remember?
I already knew some of the stories behind the armed forces involving Golan Archimedes and Anfisa Karissa; the where and why reasons of how they had met in the first place. The careers that brought these two together. Some stories about the aircraft carrier HMS Furious too.
I knew that Golan Archimedes had been stationed at Scapa Flow for a part of
the second world war, along with loads of other British war boats – a Northerly

Page 77

posting of great importance back then.
It’s funny how unless you interrogate with people like this, little stories never get told. You never get to know a lot of things that to them was just everyday life at the time. Wouldn’t know for instance that as an observer aboard a Barracuda war plane, whilst they happen to be flying around in the area of the
Irish sea and around Scotland, was able recognise the Isle of Man from a massive distance away because in a clear sky, the Isle of Man was always there with a black cloud directly above it. Just aim for the black cloud basically. No need for a compass. Golan Archimedes told me that one day.

                                           Fairey Barracuda dive bomber.

That previous conversation, although remembered well, had never made it
clear that he was involved directly with aircraft in anyway. I had always assumed he had known that fact because he may have been in an aircraft at least once or twice as a result of having been a sailor aboard an aircraft carrier. I never put two and two together.
Soon though, I would get the real and proper version.
That compass I had spotted on the floor was worth its weight in gold at its time of use. A device that enabled not only normal every day circumnavigation, but the determined trajectory to a not so secret anchor point of a particular and very important battleship at that time.
Understandably of massive sentimental value, that compass was worth its weight in gold at the present time too, for the memories it brought back.
How much did that single moment in time mean to Golan Archimedes, I

Page 78                                              Black ball x 9.

wonder?
What appeared as a forgotten piece of metal windings tucked away in the Page
corner of a room on the floor had finally gotten noticed by somebody else that allowed Golan Archimedes to explain the reasons for it being there. That’s massive.

***

Memory Lane – 
The thing about Loophamlet was in that it held a sentimental place in the hearts of Anthony Vangelis and Cleopatra Xzenia. It wasn’t as though Loophamlet didn’t deserve its place on the wall in their house. From their point of view it most certainly did.
I wasn’t looking to find similarities between this map on the wall and any part of my own history. They just appeared. Similarities that wouldn’t have linked anyone else in the same way.
It’s psychological thinking mixed with reality. Just because I’m a ♌︎ doesn’t mean I was likely to be deep thinking here when it didn’t deserve it, does it?
A flashback (of studying art on a wall) sent me zooming backwards in a weird
time zone mind warp.
It only took one item of curiosity in wall art to capture my interest.

White on Black once more. Things are going well. This looks fairly easy
as . . .  Yes, the white ball clips the Black and in it goes. It’s complicated
though, the white ball ended up in a difficult place. It’s not ended up quite
where he would have wanted it to.              

Here in the hallway of the house of Anthony Vangelis and Cleopatra Xzenia, the mystery to the map on the wall was in the detail. I just loved that, and in studying detail was I then reminded in my own mind at how . . .  I just couldn’t help myself. If the art on the wall was worth a second look then I was like a magnet to it. Picking out the background from the foreground was a particular
speciality of mine – if you could call it that.
That memory recall reminded me how in the same way I had spent hours

Page 79                               Red ball x 10, Black ball x 10.

studying fine art in the Le Louvre museum in France.
Paris had been an amazing experience as a city. It had also been a
honeymoon experience for myself, and not a good one either.

Ok, now he positions the cue behind the White and it’s very close. Can he hit the Red ball from there, down the table? Ooohh, not sure, just take your time and . . .  .  .  yes, in the Red ball goes. The White ball is now in the perfect place to go for the Black ball once again. Wasn’t assured of that one by any means.                

Was the map a usual conversation piece? Or was this map largely ignored by anyone entering their household?
Perhaps these people wondered themselves as to why this new neighbour was picking up on a map print on their wall. It would have been one thing to notice it, another thing altogether to make a conversation piece of it. Not an inkling of suspicion from them that there could have been even a loose tie that would personally link them to it as well as himself. How were they to know?

That’s quite a hard hit on the White ball, as the difficult to line up with Black ball bounced off another ball in its way. The Black ball has now – almost unbelievably, headed towards an available pocket and its . . .  wooah, yes, it goes in. It’s in the pocket. It’s unbelievable. The game has come back to him.              

I had a link of my own that they were unaware of though. I knew Loophamlet better than Anthony Vangelis and Cleopatra Xzenia suspected, or realised.
They both then mentioned that the reason they had a framed map of Loophamlet on the wall was because it was kind of a special place for them – the word honeymoon was in there somewhere. They’d been impressed I guess, as much as to showcase the place in this way. A couple’s heirloom then of great significance to reignite the memory.
From within my own deep thinking ♌︎mindset, I couldn’t help aligning the coincidences together, because there were some.
But, was there any point in linking the multiple coincidences together? The

Page 80                                  Red ball x 11.

mention of honeymoon for starters. Different people yes, and in two different places yes, but, the tie for me being artwork, maps, place, reason.
Mmm . . . . probably not worth going there. Why link all these coincidences together? We were different people after all. Let’s face it, this came from my own perception of how things were related to each other. Anyone else wouldn’t have the same vision. That said, the ties just were there. I wasn’t prepared to ignore that.

Its White on Red again. Cue the ball and. . .  shoot. There it goes, the
White ball heading towards the Red. The Red ball goes straight into the pocket, no problem. Ready all over again for another go at the Black.

It felt literally unbelievable. Almost too much of a coincidence to be real. On a scale of one to ten in terms of unimagined, this rated as a ten if I were to shove numbers into the equation. The scenario occurring – of there being something actually in common with these neighbours here; exactly what I was not expecting.
It got me wondering a little more deeply. Something must have drawn this couple (these neighbours here) to Loophamlet in the first place. There was no question it was a popular destination for folk whilst out and about, enjoying good scenes, views and much less populated coastline.
Yeah but . . .  do you know what?, was never going to know the answer to that and it was none of my business anyway.
Time to get back to the present. Perhaps I was being a bit too weird now. It’s funny how the mind can wonder off on a tangent. Off in all sorts of directions at the mere mention of a single word. In this case the mention of honeymoon, of all things. Just because my own honeymoon (which had been in Paris) had
been a disaster.
Although utterly fantastic as a city experience, Paris as far as I was concerned
didn’t deserve its own place in a frame as a map print on the wall because it would have brought back all those memories of a relationship in decline. A marriage on the rocks before it started was not a good reason for hanging a reminder of it on the wall. Speaking for myself.
Anthony Vangelis and Cleopatra Xenia quickly reiterated the relevance to the

Page 81                                          Black ball x 11.

map sketch and it’s reason for being there.
    ‘That’s awesome, I know Loophamlet. I know it really well’. My reply accepted gracefully by both. Probably lingered in terms of meaning for a full millisecond before being left behind by further socialising.
A link! A realisation that these two people (whose house I was now stood inside) had knowledge of the same place I went to every other weekend.
The very same place I helped out doing garden work.
Not only that, I’d spent time farming there at Loophamlet too. In all the places in all the world, Loophamlet figured on numerous occasions when it came to being a place frequented by myself. Proudly I could say that my own farm boss from where I had worked after my college apprenticeship as a teenager had seen fit to contract me out to an agricultural project on the local farm there. The why’s and wherefores at the time: not my concern. That time was when it had become blatantly clear just how hilly and how steep those hills were, there.
Yes, farming and gardening figured highly there at Loophamlet. Other addresses from Loophamlet soon were added to my list of contacts for such tasks as lawn cutting and building related work too. It worked out well for me. As the place didn’t have very many full time residents, I’d placed myself well when it came to work there. Amazing what a few fliers through a few doors can achieve when you’re looking for work.
A flood of memories, all part of life’s great tapestry. Stitched and threaded. The more I thought about it the more I had done there. I couldn’t believe I was involved with house renovations there too, once, for the building firm I had worked for. It was the very same building firm, or more precisely the future father in law (back then) of whose truck I had been using on the day of the wooden chest discovery here. Almost as if a heavenly force had created that
very (and all the rest of the Loophamlet coincidences too) occasion for a reason. Namely this reason on this day, here in the hallway of my neighbours.
The house renovation was a project I had been drafted in as a labourer for. I
wouldn’t forget that in a hurry. I hadn’t wanted any part of it. Yeah .  . . I think
that was the start of the downward spiral between the working relationship of that father in law and myself. But apart from that, an unexpected lull in proceedings down at that property had seen me strolling down the farm house

Page 82                                           Black ball x 11.

driveway during a bit of free time. I had walked straight into a Vipers nest that day. An eye opener if there ever was one. Kicking a sheet of galvanised metal with my foot had revealed in all its glory a mother Adder snake complete with loads of baby snakes. A scary memory that one.
I had spare time spent there too. The hills and cliffs definitely a part of the
draw at Loophamlet as a place to visit for just ordinary country walks and some dedicated folk with a particular hobby in mind. That time cast landscape lending itself well to jumping off the top of the hill attached to a glider making all those hobbyists almost as much a part of the landscape as the landscape itself. Lots of good places in the county to go hang gliding, but none probably better than this one where the sea meets land and its associated thermals almost visible, to drift around upon, taking them out above the coastline. What a view, floating in the sky above Loophamlet!
I’d spent many a lunch hour with Evangalisa Zsofia sat in a car at the top of the big hill there, in the early days. Quite often watching hang gliders. Those lunch hours squeezed into a Loophamlet garden weekend work day. She was as aware of Loophamlet as myself from that point of view. My gardening at weekends left me clear to enjoy my lunch breaks however I chose and that was how it worked out. We’d meet up on the top of the hill. As a destination, it wasn’t the first meeting place we’d had outside of work, but it definitely became a regular. And what an unbelievable coincidence that should be, all by itself. Nowhere else came with the same qualities.
Yeah . . . I knew Loophamlet very well.

With that last Red ball down he lines up on another Black and chips it for an easy pot. Hopefully that White ball can pot the next Red from there.             

Anthony Vangelis and Cleopatra Xzenia both appeared neither convinced nor otherwise. Adopting a sort of middle ground, I supposed.
Let’s be honest here, what possible connection to Loophamlet was myself, (as
the new neighbour in town) going to have that made the slightest difference to anything at all. Anyone (such as myself) who had come from a lot further South to our present position right now (whilst stood there in the hallway), stood a
good chance of knowing Loophamlet. I was aware that they (Anthony Vangelis

Page 83

and Cleopatra Xzenia) knew I wasn’t from this part of the county. I had guessed (in the heat of the moment) that they probably were more aware (or at least having been drawn to conclude – maybe) of the fact that as Evangalisa Zsofia and I had met at work, the assumption would always have been that because work was better placed close to Loophamlet than where we were in their house, then I would probably at least know of Loophamlet. But passing through is one thing, really knowing it is another.
Obviously right there, at that point in the evening, there was enough of  a thread to keep things going on this subject. Not just shut it down.
Now it was Anthony Vangelis and Cleopatra Xzenia who began to recite something in particular of which they had experienced along the way whilst out there at Loophamlet.

Well, in the grand scheme of things, Loophamlet had history if nothing else. Evolution history. And it was lowland at sea level as well as hills. To be precise – the hills close by looking down onto it.
Our great coastline is the envy of the world in some respects. The land there at
Loophamlet itself and for miles around represented a period of evolution beyond our wildest imagination. If Jurassic Park was brought to life it could be right here, at Loophamlet. It’s not known as the Jurassic coast for no reason. A gazillion ton sea level drop during planetry evolution, revealing in all its glory the sea bed as it was hundreds of millions of years ago – at least to a small extent.
Loophamlet had served its own location well during the twentieth century too.
There was an old fort there which had been used by troops from various nationalities during various confrontations. The odd pillar box and ground works as evidence, and other accompanying effect too.
All of it history, both natural and man-made.
The next chapter of history was confined more to myself and Loophamlet, and
then myself and the neighbours at the other end of the Close, and Loophamlet.

The social side of things whilst stood here in their hallway, slowly creeped forwards. Talk of the map on the wall had been initially covered; the reason
itself for it being there: incredible. The place on the map now pinpointed as a

Page 84

place as having been to as a part of one lifetime specific purpose – initially and
included in at any rate. For Anthony Vangelis and Cleopatra Xzenia it had been a destination that would signify a place of unforgettable memory.
For myself, Loophamlet and I had a twenty year alliance.
Something, somewhere, was meshing in the most profound way. Just like those imaginary cogs on the compass were meshed to engage, now the stars were meshing to engage.
Then came an insight into life at Loophamlet as they had experienced it.
Cleopatra Xzenia’s continued description and reminiscing gathered pace.
    ‘Yeah’, we went for a walk there one day. Thought we’d have a good look around the place. You know it’s lovely there, right on the coast and all that, yeah?’
I knew that for sure. I’d spent the last – roughly twenty years, gardening at a property there. At weekends it had become like a second home in some ways.
    ‘Mmmmmm,  we were . . . ‘ Cleopatra Xzenia stopped momentarily. I detected what I thought was a stall moment in the recovered memory. A bit like an inner mind blip which could see the conversation go either way, based (I guessed at, at any rate) on whether the story had any merit all by itself; it being a story with reference to a map of all things. But she carried on anyway, talking, obviously thinking better of any reason not to carry on.  
. . . ‘walking through a field. We were a bit lost so we aimed for a property we could see in the distance. ’
My mind’s eye saw in perfect clarity the fields present there at Loophamlet. There weren’t that many. Of course, I knew, I could work it out from those few words exactly where they would have been. That was easy. From half a dozen fields or so, there would only be one possible field whereby someone could maybe feel a bit lost, but more to the point, see a property to head towards.
    ‘As we got closer we could see someone doing the gardening at that property’, Cleopatra Xzenia continues.
That figures, I thought to myself. If they had seen a property in the distance,
they had definitely been in the field I imagined them to be in. If they had seen someone doing the gardening at that property they were heading towards, they would definitely have been coming from the direction I imagined them to have been coming from. Therefore, being a bit lost would have been

Page 85                                           

understandable. It made perfect sense.

Weird though, listening to some neighbours talking about adventures they had
experienced in a land I knew well. Them not realising just how well I did know it. More to the point, I knew exactly who they could see doing the gardening.
That property they had been heading towards was none other than the
property where I spent my spare time doing the gardening.
Now that things were on a roll it was good to observe both Cleopatra Xenia and Anthony Vangelis recounting those memories. There was smiles and pursed lips and wonder and surprise. Strangely, I thought I detected that stumbling block, or possible hurdle, to be present constantly, as opposed to just the once – earlier, at the very beginning of the memory recall. Always just hovering around the conversation as it progressed further and further. Like a presence threatening to stop it going any further. Two people continually judging up the worthiness of the tale as it unfolded. So it (almost sporadically) flowed until a point. Then, a wish to – maybe avoid? or not to disclose any more detail, it seemed!
    ‘That’s right, we wondered over to this bloke who we could see doing the gardening. As we got closer we could sort of see. Well, it was a hot day, let’s put it that way.’ Anthony Vangelis and Cleopatra Xzenia’s description of a day whilst lost in Loophamlet looked like it was taking aim somewhere specific. Then there was that hurdle. There surely had to be a punchline coming, otherwise, why go down this route in the first place. They exchanged looks.
I imagined in my mind’s eye doing the gardening on a hot day down there at Loophamlet in what would have been the early years for me. I’d done plenty of hot days down there.
I had changed over the years it was true. In later years I’d wanted to come over as more professional like in appearance. Workwear of choice had been overalls – all the time, in later years. Back in the early years though – not the case. I wore as little as I could get away with. Perhaps too much of a carefree
approach, in retrospect.
    ‘Yeah. Well you wouldn’t believe it really, but when we got closer to this bloke we could see he um . . . well, . . . anyway.’
I’m like thinking hard at this point, concentrating and focusing. They didn’t

Page 86                             Red ball x 12, Black ball x 12.

know yet that I had worked it out, which property they had aimed for and
which gardener it was that they had approached. The suspense was incredible.
I interrupted.
    ‘Heh, that’s the place where I do all the gardening at the weekends. I’ve been doing it for years. And I still do it now.’

He aims for the Red and . . . yes, clipped it with the White ball there. An easy pocket, of course. It was always going to go into the pocket from there. That was nice.              

    ‘No, seriously? That’s the place you go gardening? I mean, how would you know that? We were in a field and we were lost so how could you know we were at the place you do your gardening?’
Oh yes, Cleopatra Xzenia, and Anthony Vangelis, you didn’t see this one coming, did you?
A respectful and properly delivered answer required here. I needed to tread carefully not to show too much in the way of lead character, after all, all of a sudden it wasn’t my story.
    ‘Definitely, I’ve been going there for a long time. I know that place really well. I’ve had a few gardening jobs down there over the years, three properties in fact. Yeah, actually, do you know what, the more work I did down there the
more work I got. That’s just the way it worked out.’
I felt empowered, permitted to add finer points from days at Loophamlet. ‘I did some work down there for some folk once. It was really funny. I couldn’t help it – you know, one of those moments. It was a little bit embarrassing but at the same time, I couldn’t help laughing. I tried to stifle it but couldn’t. Difficult. Yeah . . . this woman, the daughter, she suffered from hay fever, right? Well, I’d just cut the lawn with a hover mower and . . . well, it was funny because I suffered from hay fever too, but not as bad as she did. She was streaming and made a thing of it. She shouldn’t have because it only made me laugh even more. I’m just made that way, simple as that really. Anyway, that was something from Loophamlet.’

Here we go on another Black. And that one is fairly simple. Drops into the pocket without any difficulty.              

Page 87                                             Red ball x 13.

I was in luck. A tailor made story for me to be fully involved in.
    ‘Well how long exactly?’ Cleopatra Xzenia asks.
    ‘Twenty odd years now. Huh, can hardly believe it myself come to think of it.’ Had I really been gardening down there at Loophamlet for all that time.
So, another of those stall moments, I saw it coming. Was it going to stop things, or were they going to think better of it and carry on the story that they had begun. 
Cleopatra Xzenia did resume talking. Well hoorah for that, was a relief for me that the story got the better of a lapse in flow. With any luck we’d get to the end of this story and I would find out what the fascination was on that day in history. I was beginning to wonder whether we may not.
    ‘Anyway, we asked this bloke which way to go, where we were exactly and’.
I stopped the conversation mid track. Cleopatra Xzenia’s recollection of their day at Loophamlet, or more to the point the meeting between them and myself as gardener, wasn’t in my memory. Something wasn’t right.
When she’d asked the question earlier –  ‘Well how long exactly’, I was left wondering – why ask? She’d asked a question and I’d answered it honestly, without exaggeration. My answer was clear, but she seemed unsure to . . .  apportion, I suppose. Like there was a relevance to something that only she was aware of

Lining up for the Red ball. Confidence not so high.
Off we go, aiming for the Red for a super tricky shot into the
pocket. Drum roll here – It’s IN. Phew, wasn’t so sure that would work.

    ‘Hang on a minute’, I said. ‘I’m trying to remember that day. It’s not coming to me yet, I need to think deep a minute. So you come wondering up the field and ask for directions, yeah?’
    ‘Yes, that’s right’, both Anthony Vangelis and Cleopatra Xzenia reply.
By now, in the hallway of their house, I felt more relaxed, more known, more synced, more . . . accepted.

Page 80                             Black ball x 13, Red ball x 14. 

Why don’t I just refer to them as Ant and Cleo from now on, I thought to myself. It feels friendly here.
The thing is, I just had trouble picturing that particular day. Nothing more,
nothing less. Timewise, the dates pointed to me there doing the gardening; it
was my job back then.
    ‘Ok, the only reason I would have been down there at that part of the garden would have been for the potatoes.’ Come on self, think, think, think!
‘That’s all Golan Archimedes ever plants down in that part. Obviously I have to dig it. It wouldn’t have been any other part of the garden. Unless it . . . . . .

It’s White on Black and here we go again. No fuss, quick as you like. Easily into the pocket goes the Black.              

. . .  was the meadow. Hang on, let me think. No, not the meadow. That’s just a meadow. There was a goat there once.’
The punchline was not getting any nearer at this rate. Cleo continues.
     ‘Yeah, well like I was saying, you know, how to get back to civilisation and stuff. We tried to look as unconcerned as possible, you know, like it was no big deal. I suppose it wasn’t for him, I mean why else would he have been voluntarily talking to us in broad daylight like that. We didn’t, or tried not to look concerned. It was none of our business.’
My acceptance of this explanation of a stranger’s meet and greet must have seemed bizarre – to Ant and Cleo. Me not understanding at the time what the ending to the story was. I focused my mind into the past and said anything at all to keep the conversation going.

Now we’re getting closer to the Reds all down, so he . . .  oooohhhhhh, it’s a wibbly, wobbly one, but he pots that Red ball again. Didn’t go down so easily, that one. Got a bit of a wobble on, struck the Red ball and we thought it was all over there. Went in though. A shaky moment.              

    ‘I’m trying to remember that day, let me think. It’s not coming back to me. I’ve been there a long time doing the gardening, say around twenty years. Was it . . . ? ‘

Page 89

    ‘It was really hot’ said Cleo, ‘we . . . you know, just stopped by and asked. I
don’t think it was you. Well, not being funny, we don’t . . we’re not doubting
you did the gardening there, it’s just that . . .’
Not being able to specifically remember two walkers stopping and asking for directions wasn’t like me. But from the rear of the property? That wasn’t normal. I would have remembered that. In point of fact, it happened quite frequently – lost people wanting directions – from the road end. I was struggling to see in my mind’s eye an approach from the other end of the garden.
But you can’t doubt the facts. Ant and Cleo had seemed quite adamant.
    ‘It must have . . . hang on, you sure you didn’t go around the road side?’ I asked. ‘Cos I’m sure I . . . yeah, that’s it, it’s coming back. Two people asking.
When did you say that was?’

Things are hotting up. Balls going down quickly, frame being completed as a maximum score. Let’s hope it stays that way. Not all of them as easy as he would like, including this next Black ball. Bit of a difficult one that. Let’s just watch and . . . . 

Cleo and Ant both answered together. ‘It’s going back a few years now’. Then
the conversation moved away. We heard then how they had used known
public footpaths dotted about, specifically a footpath which wasn’t anywhere near to the garden where I was employed as the gardener. As if the added  conversation piece then became a diversion to throw me off the scent of the previous tale. There’s that hurdle once again.

. . . Come on, concentrate. That Black will go in from there. All he’s got to do is not let anything distract him from what needs to be done here. Confidence seems to be lacking now, a bit. Is the frame getting away from him? It’s clear it can work. Just have to make it work.

My time, my opportunity to be more sociable than normal would have to come soon or the thread here was going to be completely lost. ‘Hang on, I’m still

Page 90                                           Black ball x 14.

thinking. Ok, yes, two people from the field end’. Come on self, think. They both said the same. No question was it right, so all I’ve got to do is remember.
If I can’t remember I coul . . . . .. No. I didn’t want to go down that route. I wasn’t prepared to make it up just to make it fit. This story was based on facts, not make believe.
Or should I just openly admit to not being able to remember that event. It wasn’t like me. Loophamlet was like a second home in some respects. I would have remembered that. If I admitted defeat here, where’s the story to continue? No, that couldn’t happen, not now and not here. The show must go on.

Ooohhhhh . . .  yes, that was good. He struck the White and it’s rolling like it’s on an imaginary bend in the table. White ball hits the Black. A real bendy shot but it worked. That’s the Black ball down. Almost can’t believe it. It was a curve ball. In the pocket – job done.              

Cleo and Ant together aim to square the conversation up. It’s gone on a little too long now.
And that’s the way the cookie crumbles! It all goes away from me, when once it was there at one’s fingertips. That’s the social deficits coming into play, the ones that I felt I had to deal with all the time.
 Mother of god, how many times? This was like the normal for me.
Here we were, at one of our closest neighbours, and now it seemed as though the drive of the conversation was to close it down rather than go any further.
We hadn’t gotten as far as the punchline yet. Or at least I hadn’t. The thing is, just what had been the aim of the conversation? I began to wonder.
I brought the conversation right back to where it had been before it had hit the hurdle. Muttered something relevant just to kick start it all over again. Interrupting and making an arse of myself – once again. But it was too late to take it back. They’d wanted to change track and I wanted to bring it right back again. Now I’d put them in a position whereby they obviously felt like they had to finish a story which had been full of hurdles.
Thankfully, my continued focus didn’t waver. I kick started the tale right back into play once again.

Page 91                                         Red ball x 15.

    ‘Well the thing is’ Cleo says. She takes a quick look at Ant, who looks back as
if for confirmation.
    ‘Yeah . . . the bloke we spoke to was, well . . .  he didn’t have anything on. Let’s put it that way.’
And there is the hurdle. Crash, bang, wallop!
    ‘What’ I said. ‘Nothing on? You can’t be serious?’
    ‘Yes’ both Ant and Cleo replied at the same time. ‘He was naked. We don’t think it was you, at least . . . well, we can’t be su . .  .no, he was an older guy. I mean, well, it was a while ago. It’s a job to remember, you know’.

Red ball for the fifteenth and final time. He’s got to make this one work if this is going to be a full house score. Let’s face it shall we, it’s been a positive journey to get this far. OK, a few wobbles along the way, but everything has looked good so those wobbles just a minor blip along the way. This has got to work. Too much to lose if it all goes wrong now.
He lines up on the Red ball and hits the cue onto the White ball. Bam, yes it’s a hard hit. Off the Red ball goes down the table and . . .  straight into
the pocket.
Wow, yes. All Red balls pocketed. Just the colours to go in the right order. That can be the hardest part of the frame of course. Let’s see how it plays out.

    ‘Look’ I said, ‘I’ve done the gardening down there for the last twenty years or so and I can’t remember anyone gardening down there without any clothes on, hot day or not. I can’t imagine Golan Archimedes digging potatoes in the buff. Why would he? I mean that’s just ridiculous. I’m not saying it didn’t happen,
obviously, I just can’t . . . well, you know . . . um . it’s just a bit weird that’s all’
    ‘Well we’re only saying what we saw that day’ Cleo reiterates. Ant is quick to back her up. ‘Yes, he was naked alright. Didn’t have any clothes on at all.’
    ‘Ok, when you spoke to him, did he try to hide anything, you know like using the fork handle or something? I start doing some quick thinking. If I’d been
caught with no clothes on, what would I have done?
I tried not to let this train of thought be shown. I didn’t want Ant nor Cleo to pick up that it even could have been me. The trick now would be to deflect the

Page 92                                             Yellow ball x 1.

conversation either elsewhere completely, or bring it to a suitable conclusion – one in which didn’t highlight myself as being the gardener with no clothes on.
    ‘Well no, not really, he just stood there and talked back to us when we asked where we were. Just like it was completely normal to stand there in the garden with nothing on.’
I wasn’t aware that such a scenario could have happened. Something wasn’t right here. I did the maths in my head again; the years to date that I’d been gardening down there at Loophamlet. Then – how far back in terms of years to the day of the neighbours being lost in Loophamlet, of which I could only take a rough guess at.
I was getting confused in my head now. Simply put, if you went backwards in years, the one person for who could have been there naked that day doing the
gardening could quite easily have been me. The maths doesn’t lie. It was worrying.
    ‘OK, like you said, it was a long time ago’. I considered the state of play. Probably best just to veer off elsewhere. Easy enough. Shouldn’t have pushed for a continuation of the story when it had lulled the first time. But somethings just won’t lie. I couldn’t help myself.

Now it’s the turn of the colours and lining up on the Yellow seems like it will
be an easy pot. Ooooohhhh. . . it’s another wobbly one, but, in goes the Yellow.                 

Ant and Cleo couldn’t say who it was. I’d been stood there in their hallway and . . . was there suspicion that it could have been me? They didn’t say it definitely wasn’t. On the other hand they didn’t say it definitely was. If Ant and Cleo suspected that it could have been me, how then was I appearing in their view? I was a new neighbour with a suspect history all of a sudden.
I didn’t know what to say next, not really. Here we all were at the end of an inconclusive conversation. But . . . .  the timespan pretty much said it all. They must be thinking it had been me who they saw that day. I was the gardener down there after all.
My best approach I decided would be to shut this conversation down. As much as had I wanted this conversational topic to be mine, now it had to be stopped.

Page 93                                          Brown ball x 1.

Taking aim for the Brown ball. Come on, don’t let your focus wonder now.
That’s a fast clip on the White ball, enough to spin the Brown ball in the pocket.
Yes, Brown ball down. That’s it, here we go. This looks to be heading for a top score frame, as good as it gets. Now it’s the turn of the Green ball. Come on matey, keep it tidy there. Just a few more to go.

    ‘Look’ I said, ‘I can’t imagine for one second Golan Archimedes out there
doing the gardening naked. It’s just not even plausible. There’s no way it was him. I’ve known both them down there for the last twenty years and I can tell you sure as eggs is eggs that they are both way too respectable to even consider anything like that.
On the other hand, it wasn’t me’.
Ant and Cleo seemed unsure about who it was they spoke with that day. They were both trying to move things on as though the subject should be changed. Why ruin the evening before the evening got going proper.
Was my last statement enough for conversation closure here? I hoped so.
Cleo reaffirmed that. ‘Yeah, it must have been someone else, I mean the bloke
who. . .uh, well, not you anyway. I think we would know if it had been you, wouldn’t we, Ant?’
    ‘Yes, yes, it must have been someone else. I think the bloke might have been . . . . . well, had to be someone else. It was a long time ago, you know.’
That wasn’t absolute, but was as good as it was going to get.
The one conversation piece in all my years that was too good to be true was now only worthy of forgetting. I was actually happy to move it on. Trouble was, there wasn’t anything I could say from that point onwards which didn’t leave me looking like I was someone with something to hide.

The evening carried on. In my head it was difficult. Practically it was difficult too. For one I was struggling with hearing what was being said. And because
the hearing was hard, it kind of looked as though my mind was elsewhere. That then made me look as though I could have been thinking about something else.
All through the evening I tried to figure out an answer in my mind, whilst at the

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same time trying to pay attention to the social side of things.
No bigger a mystery in my mind, at that time. If it wasn’t me, then who had it been. Down there at Loophamlet they had never had a trusted gardener before myself. The only persons responsible for any gardening down there had
been Golan Archimedes and his missus.
Ant and Cleo had been sure about one thing. They had definitely spoken with someone who hadn’t got any clothes on at the time. Not only that, he had been gardening at the time and had been perfectly happy about it. He had stood his ground and spoken about whatever he had been asked. At the time of the event, Ant and Cleo had been talking to this guy as though nothing was out of order. They had to. It was a commitment thing. They hadn’t been aware he was gardening without clothes – weren’t even looking once they’d decided to head for this guy they could see doing the gardening in the distance. So strolling up to someone to ask the way was just normal. It wasn’t Ant and Cleo’s fault. They’d done nothing wrong. And then, because the gardener was acting entirely normally, I guess it was also pretty normal to accept this as an everyday occurrence. The gardener was on private property, whereas Ant and Cleo were in a field. No need for the gardener to come up with any excuse or explanation. Whose business of anyone’s was it to question how the gardening got done on private property. He hadn’t requested that two people approach from the field side of the property.
The whole shemozzle couldn’t have been avoided. It absolutely is acceptable to see someone in the distance and head towards them. It’s not natural to laser focus on that person having made the decision to approach them. If anything I guess there was some light relief there, as whilst being lost it was nice knowing that there was someone to head towards, over there in the distance.

No one could be blamed as such for this subject coming to the fore. Coincidences and attached dramas made it seem a worthy tale to tell, initially. Stalled moments during recital had moved on, one way or another. The story could have stopped at one or two points before the punchline. Maybe I

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shouldn’t have pushed for that punchline. It wasn’t (I detected, as we closed in on the punchline) the most favoured of stories to be told, in retrospect.   
Still, just in the same way I had thought I had a great story to tell after having been invited over to the neighbours’ house and spotting that map on the wall, I now had an equally interesting story to tell the folks down there at Loophamlet. Or should I just leave it be? The damage done in revisiting a past time was not significant after all. Maybe better to leave it there than cause an issue which for the past twenty years or so lay dormant. My problem (and one that I couldn’t see or appreciate at the time) was that it remained an unanswered tale and one that I felt I should find that answer to. Partially because I was in the frame. And that was my problem. It would have been so easy to forget it and move on. Let folk think what they want. Whichever way they could accept this weird tale and if they were to assume I did the gardening with no clothes on, then fair enough, I guess.
Worse for everyone involved was that I decided I would raise this story with the folks down there at Loophamlet. If only I could have just left it.
But wait a minute. As it involved them, I could end up in a corner if there was no evidence to anything out of the ordinary occurring down there at Loophamlet in the garden. I would have to tread carefully, no doubt about that. Whichever way they chose to take it, I feared I may be walking into a
Vipers nest once again. You see, the thing is – did I hear everything correctly on the doorstep of my neighbour’s house. Sometimes because of being hard of hearing, it’s easier to go a certain way with a conversation; one which doesn’t offend. Maybe as easy as saying yes to anything at all, without actually hearing what was being said. It can happen!
However, the mystery to the guy in the garden without any clothes on was quite perplexing. Between us as a group that evening, Ant and Cleo hadn’t unequivocally identified who that was. The jury was out on that one.
On the one hand it was important for me to be able to get the facts straight so that in the fullness of time, the neighbours could and would see myself the correct way. It was perfectly fair to expect Ant and Cleo to have thought it was me down there at Loophamlet. And I suspected as much. My look of guilt all evening long was tantamount to admitting it, wasn’t it? Did I look guilty, or was I just struggling to hear? Struggling to concentrate on what was being said. Not coming up with valid answers, reasons, or suitable responses to various contemplations and questions throughout the evening. Unable to even follow

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the simplest of conversations whilst his mind is apparently elsewhere.
On the other hand, I didn’t want to create a storm.
In the end, a dilemma. Even more so because the importance of setting the bar straight would lose its importance as time went by. It all could have been forgotten already.
Come garden day at Loophamlet, there would be much to think about.

Neighbours –
Social evening done, pandoras box open. That’s about the sum of it as far as
introductions went. Whatever the outcome of the Loophamlet mystery, the mere possibility of everything marrying up like it had done was unexpected. The probability – extraordinarily odds against. On a positive note, the gardening at weekends would continue as before. My due date to garden at Loophamlet would be the following weekend, at which point I arrived there for more of the same: normal weekend, normal garden activity.
There was routine I followed on a normal weekend like this, which didn’t include knocking on doors. My workload didn’t require it. In fact if I were to knock on the door then it would definitely be seen as different.  
Today would be different.
Both the daughters were there that day. I hadn’t known in advance that would be the case. It just happened that way. So who better to approach than the very people who would no doubt have all the answers, or none at all. I knew my best chance of resolving the matter of the gardener with no clothes on was here, at the very place where the meeting took place between the gardener and my neighbours.
On the face of it, broaching the subject would be awkward. I felt embarrassed that I should know such information; which given any credence would have been a private matter. The only reason I had any intention of raising this subject with the daughters was because it had been a story I had learnt of, one that involved my new neighbours – neighbours of which the daughters didn’t know I had, or lived next to.
Actually do you know what, it was none of my business. Any of it.
But it was the neighbours that were key here. Their story persuaded me that I needed to find the answer, if only it were to negate myself. Because now I had

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this kind of cloud shadowing me. That would be one side of the argument.
The other would be to leave it because it’s got nothing to do with anyone anymore. But then, if it weren’t for them, where’s the mystery? All said and done, I was kind of like in no man’s land at home because I didn’t know how Ant and Cleo now viewed myself. There’d been some guilt showing that evening at the neighbours’ place. How could it have appeared as anything else? Couldn’t be sure whether they’d homed in on it or not. Nothing I did or said would have made the slightest difference once the story was out in the open.
So, some things just have to be followed through.
I guess a small part of delving into the past here was knowing that for instance – Golan Archimedes was gone. One thing was for sure, I wouldn’t upset him.
Did that make it even worse then that I chose to pursue this line of enquiry?

After a knock on the front door down there at Loophamlet; which was answered by both daughters, we end up in conversation. As my intended conversation piece included an element of the unknown to them (that element of which would be our neighbours), it wasn’t then too difficult to deflect that of which was to be the main point (the gardener with no clothes) away from
exactly that and then morph that into the tale as being the conversation piece
to cover here on the doorstep – hopefully with some kind of closure to follow.

A nice touch on the Green ball to send it straight into the pocket and allow for the White ball to line up nicely on the Blue ball.              

I ran through the episode (which was the social evening that had included my new neighbours), and in doing covered the whole tale quicker than I had beforehand  imagined would be the case. The story seemed to lack punch as it was retold. My story telling revealing itself as the lacklustre ability it always had been.
It mattered not in the end. Or did it, really? The daughters confirmed that Golan Archimedes did in fact like to garden with no clothes on. That was just one of his quirks.
 Mother of God. Who’d have thought it. The neighbours had been right all

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along. And I’d made them tell me a story they probably had wished they hadn’t had to. Just who had that social evening been more embarrassing for in the end?
It was satisfying on the one hand – to know that my neighbours knew of this place known as Loophamlet. Awkward on another, considering the enigma
attached with it, or to be more precise the enigma attached with it for decades now. But, not so much with the inconsistency it had just minutes before been labelled with, on approaching the girls down there at Loophamlet. Not for me anyway.
I felt happy in myself. The girls there at Loophamlet had been more than happy to recite to me certain facts concerning the past. I sensed they had no qualms talking about their dad. Better still, there was an air of happiness. Like it was good to talk, reminisce and so on.
For the neighbours? Possibly no. Would they even care at the end of the day? Had they given this a second thought since we had left their house that previous evening. Some closure found here would set the record straight. If from their point of view it was even needed.
The problem here (and not seen or understood by myself at the time) was that the only person looking for answers was myself.

That’s it. Blue ball down. What a shot. Completely convincing. The White ball lined up perfectly to run that Blue ball home and into the pocket for what’s looking like a full house score.              

I hadn’t known it was going to have been so easy. I’d turned up that day at Loophamlet full of nerves. About to put a theory to some people who most likely in my mind would not want to hear what I was going to say. It could even have had a seriously negative effect on that long lasting relationship that was
the folks at Loophamlet and myself.
But they’d been happy to tell me. The two daughters left me in no doubt.
The most annoying aspect of all this was once the girls began to affirm the 
Back home, I recited the conversation from earlier – back to Evangalisa Zsofia. There was no convincing required there. It was more about me having the answers to a tale that I hadn’t before known needed answers.

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Now all I had to do was go back to my near neighbours and update them.   

Pink ball to pot. If this one goes down the pocket we’re nearly there. What a frame it will have been too. A few wobbles but no flunks. A bit of a
strange frame in fact.                

The thing is, would the ending to this tale – the one that I was now going to recite back to my new neighbours, look like a get out clause? Would it appear as though I had come up with an answer to side swipe the focus on that unidentified person in the garden with no clothes on being someone else, as
opposed to the gardener who had been gardening down there for the past twenty or so years; which under the circumstances was a fair bet that they should think that way – even though I knew it was different. Would these neighbours even care anymore?
The more I thought about it the more it didn’t seem relevant any longer. The neighbours speaking to a gardener who dressed (or didn’t) his way in the garden had happened so long ago that for them it was just one of those things. A blip in a day. Long forgotten until I reminded them.
It was me who had opened a can of worms here. No one else had asked for any of this.
For me it was all about finding an answer. And now I had it. It filled me with joy that I could tell my neighbours. So much so that I felt like I had rhythm. I was possessed even. The thought of marching right up to my neighbours’ doorstep and being able to finally tick that box of theirs that had remained open for such a short while but from such a long time ago was quite the thrill.
I didn’t wait long.

Here we go, the second last ball on the table. Pink followed by Black for a full house score.
Cue the White ball and . . . ooohh, it’s a wobbly hit.
Unbelievable! The White ball staggers down the table and hits the Pink ball but not squarely. The Pink ball moves towards the pocket but IS IT JUST
A BIT TOO SLOW? It’s not the hard hitting contact that was expected. WHAT HAS HE DONE? it’s a disaster. Never seen anything like it. His

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confidence was just too much.
There’d never been any guarantee mind you, but he must have approached this last ball like there was one. Surely he’s not going to fail this frame.
Oh dear. You have to sympathise with him here. This whole episode was a
masterclass of a frame, only to end up with that Pink ball barely moving towards the pocket which it should be dropping into.
I hope the Pink ball pots, or it’s all in vein.              

I almost danced up to Ant and Cleo’s doorstep a few days later. On a high with  information you couldn’t buy. The door was answered after a knock and I went
full swing into the correct facts regarding their unusual meeting whilst on holiday in years gone by.
But something was wrong. The acceptance of my version didn’t appear convincing, Cleopatra Xzenia casting a look of doubt into the validity of this priceless piece of info.
That was ok though. A quick mind search ensured me that maybe, just maybe, I would have reacted the same way if the shoe had been on the other foot. Let’s
face it, it did appear as some kind of get out excuse on my behalf. I mean, who
was the gardener down there at Loophamlet? Was it me or was it not me? I’d been proud to tell my neighbours it was me. Then, when certain information came to light implying that someone down there at Loophamlet – (at the very same house garden where I had worked for decades) strolled around the garden without any clothes on, and all of a sudden it wasn’t me.
It all looked a bit suspicious, didn’t it?

Oohhh, we didn’t see that one coming. The White ball struck the Pink ball off centre and now the Pink ball teeters towards the edge of the pocket. OH NO,  . . . SURELY NOT, NOT NOW. It looks as though it’s going to stop rolling. It’s almost too much to watch. Zooming in, it’s just a little too hard to make out, can’t quite be sure. Will it fall into that pocket or is it
going to stop right on the edge.
Well, I’ve got to say this – it’s been a monumental journey to get this far and right at the very end it’s all – possibly gone haywire.
Hang on though, the Pink ball HAS gone far enough. It plops into the

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pocket in a most unconvincing way. OOhhhh yeesss, never saw that one coming. Thought it was all done and dusted after that . . . umm . . . not sure how to say it – a botched attempt if you like. There again, who cares. It’s in the pocket and that’s the main thing here.            

The gained knowledge regarding the identity of the gardener with no clothes
on and the anticipation with which I felt I needed to offload that info filled me with a real desire to showcase a different side to me. Like a wakeup call.
It hadn’t been easy asking folk to disclose matters of privacy, but now that they
had, then now I knew the answer. The neighbours now knew too – assuming they believed a word I said. Everyone that needed to know knew.
The low down? It hadn’t been me. It never was me. It couldn’t have been me.
Funny thing that, in a position of trying, knowing, believing, but unconvincing in story delivery. Oh well . . . .
So there it was.
But actually though, did these neighbours believe me? I could cast doubt of my own into the acceptance (or possibly not, judging by the blank look) of the explanation given to them by myself. On the face of it, why should they even care.
I was wary as to whether the whole shemozzle had appeared as some attempt
at playing the joker in the pack. It wasn’t the ace it had intended to be. I didn’t feel like I had gotten the full understanding I’d been looking for.
Maybe I should have just left it. Was it really that important? At the time the incident had occurred, the identity of the gardener with no clothes on meant nothing. Now, because of me, it meant everything. Only just previously to my hugely anticipated talk with my close and friendly new neighbours (not five minutes earlier), I’d been hyper with a flow of something; an adrenalin flow maybe, one that would define my rhythm. A rhythm that could bring out the
real and hidden me; the one that was opposite to someone who thought
something, but acted without the confidence.
Right now on the doorstep, I was filled with anticipation, so much so that I could dance with joy.
I could sing out loud.

Here we go. Next up is the Black to complete the set. If he gets this one

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it will be a great frame.
Well, what can he do from here. Let’s just soak up the atmosphere. Crucial
to get this one right. What a frame it’s been so far. After watching that Pink ball mysteriously falling into the pocket, was a huge surprise to all of us. And then the last and final Black in a difficult position to pot. Awkward yes, but not impossible. Watching this frame at the max score stage of the proceedings; it’s a real hell raiser.

Hang on a minute though, something was wrong. I hadn’t convinced the neighbours. My clarified interpretation of an event long ago had indeed appeared like a get out clause.
Look at it from the outside, self. You just told your neighbours a story – something that in doing, ordinarily would be not one of your best qualities. Other people had the gift, the knack to capture attention of the listener. Not me. I could see it in people’s faces when I swung into action, the blank stares said it all. The drooping of the eyelids another tell-tale indication that somewhere along the line the attention had been lost.
I’d heard it (the answer) from the girls at Loophamlet in one such way. Then, when it came to spinning it as an answer worthy of  hearing to the neighbours, it ended up sounding like something I had made up.
I mean, the daughters there at Loophamlet – they’d been happy to hear me out. I’d rushed in and there had been no build up. The anticipation of a bang for your buck punch line negated by the fact that because you can’t tell a story, self, the jist of it was lost.
Yes, come on, face it, self. I thought I could make it out, you know. Convinced myself even, that I had detected an envisaged different angle for my approach whilst retelling it to the neighbours here.
Aiming to tell them one thing and hoping for acceptance when all along the interest had long since been lost. I’d even yet to convince them of the significance of gardening at weekends when all along it meant everything to myself and had no meaning to them.
Basically, did I even have an audience?

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My point in being a part of this tale, as told to the girls down there at Loophamlet, was about living close by to people who had visited Loophamlet. Had experienced something unusual at Loophamlet. Whereas the point I was picking up from the girls down there at Loophamlet, was that I knew of somebody who wondered around the garden without clothing. And that was the whole problem all of a sudden. The two were supposed to be related. The two though seemed separated by a presumed misunderstanding.  
I should have just left it alone. Because more weirdly than anything so far was that after talking with the girls down there at Loophamlet, recognition of being told this once before surfaced within my own mind. I’d gotten the full story once before. The more I thought about it the more I remembered being told this by Anfisa Karissa in the early days down there at Loophamlet. I’d just allowed myself to forget. It wasn’t any of my business and that was why I had allowed it to remain forgotten about. 

Only just a few moments earlier I thought I knew I could do it – confide and
convince. However, an imagined knock back here on the doorstep of the
neighbours’ house from where I didn’t expect it, kind of put paid to that. The blank look said it all; for one it didn’t matter and for two – was that really the case?
Furthermore, because of this apparent knock back, then sent my mind wondering all the way back to my doorstep meeting with the two daughters, back there in Loophamlet. I started to wonder. It hadn’t been immediately apparent to myself once I had told the two daughters my story. It wasn’t until later I processed the fact that during that talk, the fact that it directly involved neighbours of mine hadn’t seemed to register with the two daughters. To both of them it was like a story from nowhere; no reason for a start to it, the story itself – fanciful, the ending to it a pointless reminder. Like the whole thing was something made up for a good yarn. Because to be honest, the two daughters knew where I used to live during the larger part of the time that I worked down there at Loophamlet and it wasn’t in the village North of the county where I was now living. I hadn’t told them I had moved home at the latter stages of my time down there at Loophamlet. As far as they knew, I lived where there weren’t any neighbours.

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Anfisa Karissa knew I had moved, I’d told her so. It was probably unlikely she had made anything of that known to her own family – why the need?

It’s the last Black ball on the table. A fantastic full house score in the offing here. And . . . . bang, yes there we go. He hits the White ball square on with quite a hard hit. Obviously wants to be sure the ball goes straight
into the pocket, no question.
SHIT  .  .  .  .  , DID YOU SEE THAT?
The Black ball went straight into the pocket and then because he hit it so hard it just bounced back out again. It’s NOT a full house score. UNBELIEVABLE!

It wasn’t the expected outcome. Did I, in the end, only frame myself?
Well, so doesn’t end ‘th the mystery of the gardener with no clothes then. Not everyone it seems is fully on board. That casual acceptance by Cleopatra Xzenia when I had revealed to her the detail behind the mystery – not wholly understood (was my belief whilst stood there on her doorstep once again.)
That detail had created, heightened my rhythm. It was me on a high. Only moments before I could sing it out loud, it was exhilarating. I’d felt like I could showcase that very rhythm. I’d walked up the pathway with a feeling of jubilation, anticipating that I’d go down that pathway and 🎶 Walk like an Egyptian🎵 .