Act your age.

[MANICHAEAN]

ACT YOUR AGE:
PART 1: SENIOR CITIZEN.

When Albert Higgs won the lottery, he decided to do nothing about it for a year. He’d read all about those winners, whose lives had changed for the worst. Random individuals who had lost their real friends and gained only superficial fair weather ones, and how a numerical chance of fate had resulted in lucky claimants being buried under the onslaught of scavengers that exist in the underworld of professional begging letter writers and investment consultant experts.

So when Albert opened that white recorded delivery letter, back last summer and found that he had won 67 million pounds sterling, and had, almost as an off-hand gesture to the Gods, ticked the anonymity box, he was quietly chuffed.

He was a likable old cove; a senior citizen in fact, living in a small council flat up in a Hertfordshire town north of London, and he had lost his wife five years ago. He got by on his pension, walked to the shops every second day, and like many old people in Britain kept himself to himself. So for a year basically, his life to all outward appearances did not change. Apart that is, from the secret knowledge that lay inside him and the Lloyds bank teller whose eyeballs widened perceptibly every time she checked his account when he drew out cash to pay for food or to settle bills. Actually, there was one occasion, when the bank manager, suitably tipped off by the aforesaid cashier ambushed him gently while he was leaving, and enquired if he would like advice on more rumunative options open to him on his funds.

“Nope” said Albert, “Leave it all in the current account and I don’t need none of those fancy plastic cards either.”

But a year had passed and Albert had pondered and reflected and then reflected more.

“I’m 68 years old now” he thought. “A few more and I might be going downhill fast. No real family to think of, apart from that greedy sod of a brother of mine who never contacts me. Might as well splash a bit out while I’ve still got body and soul together.”

So he considered his options.

“New house? Not really. I’m settled, and too many memories of the wife about this place.”

“Expensive holiday? Not much fun on my own, but then I suppose I could get a young bit of stuff to keep my bones warm in the winter? No, not a good idea either. She would tire me out with all her sexual demands and an old bird would just want to boss me about and take all my money. Lets face it; I’m not going to get another Doris.”

The reality had dawned. Real money could not guarantee him anything of substance, or ensure that which had real meaning.

“So what can I really treat myself to?” he pondered.

Then he remembered his dear old Dad getting a Ford Consul back in the 50s when he was a boy. “God, how Dad loved that car! But then, what with the fuel and tax, insurance, MOT, and servicing, he had given it up as beyond his means.”

“What you reckon Dad? Shall I go for it? Get a real car and dream the dream you aspired to, but were obliged to lose?”

[MatthewFarlow]

More! More! More!

It's a great place to end it (as the writer) because its a terrible place to end it (for the reader).

The monologues were also well done.

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 2: THE PURCHASE.

The salesman at the BMW Salesroom that day regarded himself as a professional in his trade, but he could not help but groan inwardly when Albert entered an otherwise empty showroom just outside of Hatfield’s main town. This was not helped by the fact that Albert had developed the habit of shuffling his feet when he moved and he had developed a slight slope of the spine which appeared to age him further. For initial external appearances he was going to be a real waste of time and irksome to an extreme. He seemed to all extents and purposes, one of those eccentrics that get their jollys by pretending to be interested in something way outside their means. It was play acting Walter Mitty stuff, and if you could not get rid of them and you got drawn in, you were obliged to assume the role of a male whore. Play the part, pretend the pretense, and pray to whoever was up there, that your services would not result in fool’s gold.

“I’d like to see your latest model” said Albert eying him benignly.

“Yes of course Sir, let me show you the latest BMW 7 Series which you might appreciate”

Albert noted too much emphasis on the “S” in “Sir” and the implication behind “appreciate” did not exactly endear him either.

“Cocky, young bugger” he thought. “Just hold your fire for a bit”

The salesman showed Albert a 2011 BMW Active Hybrid 7 and commenced the usual patter “This model Sir, normally only sold in the States, is a mild hybrid and features a 0.4 kWH lithium-ion battery pack. The electric motor is combined with BMW’s 4.4-liter twin-turbo V8 and new 8-speed automatic transmission to accelerate from 0 – 60 mph in just 4.7 seconds.

“Is that fast?” asked Albert.

“Silly old fool” thought the Salesman “Oh yes Sir, I’m sure you will be more than satisfied.

Albert viewed the beauty of the car; the silver shine of the paintwork, the sleek lines of a mechanical predator, the soft sensuous womb of the leather interior, the complete presence of the beast.

“I’ll take it” he said.

The salesman was fumbling to find the correct words; having been wrong footed and for a moment lost his composure’

“Eh, eh. Good Sir. How exactly would you like to pay?”

“I’ll give you a cheque now” said Albert.

“We would of course have to have it cleared first” responded the Salesman a little too quickly. It was a reaction somewhat similar to that in the barber profession.

“No problem. I’ll pick it up the weekend. Does the price include a tank of petrol, or do you want me to add that to the cheque?”

“No Sir that won’t be necessary. It runs on electric!” He was still struggling to compose himself as the reality of the situation hit him. “We do have quite a good credit plan Sir that you might like to consider”

“Nope” said Albert “I’ll settle in one go. Is there a problem with that?”

“No No, of course not Sir. Its just that most of our Clients do not pay such a large sum in one go.”

“Well” said Albert “You’ve either got it or you ain’t, and I’ve got it.”

He wrote a cheque for 102,475 pounds and handed it over like a man settling a monthly gas bill. “Thank you young man and goodbye till Saturday.”

Upon that, Albert turned, smiled and walked through the swing doors. It had been a very good day so far.

[sweety]

A lovely, easy to read story.
Please forward my begging email to Albert.
S

[Delta40]

I love these two instalments M. The sudden lull in my heart when Albert feels no amount of money will improve him and then a glimpse of hope with the car. I'm thinking this story could go in any direction from here on in but I must tell you I'm cheering for Albert and hoping for a wild ride with a great ending....

[Jerrybaldy]

Great stuff Mr Man. My work puts me in contact daily with people such as this, with bloated bank accounts, that can bring no joy and I am glad for your second installment. Putting some arrogant git in his place is one sure pleasure of unknown wealth.
cheers.

[Steven Hunley]

As always, a satisfying story. Well told. But I hope you're aware of this:

Albert viewed the beauty of the car; the silver shine of the paintwork, the sleek lines of a mechanical predator, the soft sensuous womb of the leather interior, the complete presence of the beast.

No doubt some over zealous executive from BMW has already got out his thesaurus, planning to substitute every adjective, and is at this very minute ready to get a raise in salary for his recently penned new BMW commercial.
He is going to sell plenty of cars off your talent as a writer.

You should charge him a percent or two. (give me half a percent for suggesting the idea)

It made me want one right away! Where is my Beemer?!!

[MANICHAEAN]

Matthew, sweety, Delta, Jerry,Steve

Thank you all for your kind comments.

M.

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 3: GRAND PRIX.

He drove his brand new BMW 7 out of the car salesroom the next Saturday as planned. The salesman was now addressing him as “Mr. Higgs Sir,” and his Manager was in tow, equally obsequious.

Taking off down the A1 motorway through Hertfordshire, he floored it to 90 mph, enjoying the wind through the open window, blowing through what little hair he had left. He’d purchased a Rolling Stones CD as another little treat and Mick was belting out “Brown Sugar.”

"What do you think Dad? Amazing ain’t it!" he thought as he flew effortlessly down the fast lane, enjoying pushing the pedal to the floor even more. The big car responded like a lover in heat. Looking in his rear view mirror, he saw a police car behind him, blue lights flashing and siren blaring.

"I can get away from him - no problem!" thought Albert as he floored it to 110 mph, then 120, then 130 mph. At each straight stretch of road he effortlessly let his baby run, full throated and full of pride. At each acceleration he was pushed deeper into the control seat of this animal. He broke wind. Man and Machine in ultimate harmony. He had laid his spore. This was his car, his territory.

Suddenly, he thought, "What on earth am I doing? I'm too old for this nonsense!"

So he pulled over to the side of the road and waited for the police car to catch up with him.

Pulling in behind, a composed youngish police officer of serious demeanor walked up to the driver's side of the BMW, looked at his watch, and in that way of understatement unique to British coppers said, "Preparing for take off are we Sir?”

Albert, looked at the policeman, and replied, “Sorry Officer, I never realized the speed I was doing.”

“I must caution you Sir that the speed limit on this motorway is 70 mph & I recorded you reaching up to 130. I must further tell you” said the policeman, producing a note book, “That this is a very serious offence and that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”

Albert rose to the occasion. He was having such a good time! He replied quite specifically and slowly,

“It’s a fair cop guvner. You got me bang to rights!”

The policeman paused, his pen had stopped moving. He stood up straight. Both cars were on the hard shoulder. The policeman looked around. No other vehicles were stopping and the traffic was sporadic and smooth. He leaned over and looked into Albert’s eyes. A depth of devilment, a spirit unquenched that refused to die looked back.

“If you think I’m going to stand up in a court of law, in front of a judge and lawyers and repeat the words you have just uttered, you can think again! Now bugger off you daft old codger and act your age!”


With that, he stood up straight, away from the car window.

"Have a good day, Sir," said the policeman.

“And you too Son” said Albert, “I wont do it again” and winked.

[iamnobody]

It just keeps getting better!

[MANICHAEAN]

Thanks i
Glad you liked it. Great fun to write as well.
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 4: COUNTRY PUBS.

Albert was in love. His car was like a new woman in his life and the neighbours either side, noted the new found spring in his step. Daily he checked the oil & tyre pressures and two brothers down the street were contracted at 20 pounds a week to lovingly wash and clean and polish inside and out.

Of course there was the gossip on where the car came from and how could he afford to run such a thing on his pension? Albert kept “shtum” about the whole thing. In fact after being assumed for most of his life, a little notoriety was quite stimulating.

He no longer walked to the shops in the town centre, but drove the beast to the local Tesco’s, and parked in the most prominent position available, even if it was just to get a carton of milk or some special offer. The petrol used on such trips, invariably cost more than what he was buying, but what the hell!

Gradually, almost imperceptibly he started venturing further afield. He had never really enjoyed the pubs in Hatfield town before. They were more the hangouts of the unemployed, the loud mouths or those pushing drugs on the weekend.

But he started to explore some of the pubs tucked away in the surrounding countryside. These were invariably the haunts of retired colonels, senior civil servants, horsey types and tended to be a bit clique in their cliental composition. But they served good country bitter with ample ploughman lunches and the adjoining gardens were secluded and peaceful overlooking adjacent fields of earthy root vegetables or swaying yellow rape.

Albert drawing up in front of such establishments in the elegant silver BMW was guaranteed an automatic acceptance by those within. The car defined money and taste and class and an element of mystery about the owner.

Some in life feel a need to flaunt their wealth in the face of those that have it not. But Albert wore it lightly, almost casually. His jacket had leather elbow patches, and his watch was no Rolex, but a Timex his late wife had brought him all those years ago for his 60th birthday.

Anyway, one summer’s day in July about noon he had wound his way gently up the country lanes to the Horseshoe Pub near the village of Horseheath for a few pints of their current guest beer and had stayed longer than intended. Life was good. The beer was strong and slightly chilled as the British prefer, a blackbird eyed him suspiciously from the attached garden hedge, and the smell of cut grass hung in the gentle breeze.

When he decided to leave, he rose, strode down to the car, clicked the remote and slipped into the seat. Gently slipping the automatic lever into drive he eased out onto the main lane connecting two nearby villages and proceeded towards Hatfield.

A police car slipped out in unison from cover further down and followed him. They noted that the BMW was meandering slightly on the road. In fact Albert was unaware of their presence. He was ensconced in his upholstered leather seat, one arm resting on the window and was steering lightly, almost casually with the other. Mick the Lips was into the second stanza of “Hey You Get Off Of My Cloud” and Albert concurred with the aforesaid musician completely.

The siren of the police car gave a short wail, rather like a coven convention interruptus and Albert pulled over.

“Good morning Sir” said the policeman. “Is this your car?”

“Oh yes Officer, anything wrong?”

“Well actually yes Sir. We could not help but notice that when you left the licensed premises further back that your driving seemed a bit erratic. Have you been drinking Sir?”

“Yes Officer, just a few.”

“That’s OK then Sir, but I must ask you to take a sobriety test. Would you mind blowing into this please?”

[everyadventure]

What? You're stopping there? I hope you don't have anything planned today, because I do not want to wait long...

Fun story, can't wait to see where it takes us...

[DickZ]

Very nice job, MANICHAEAN. The story flows well and the installments are sized perfectly. I'm anxiously awaiting the continuation. In the meanwhile, can you tell us 'foreigners' what MOT (near the end of Part 1) stands for?

[MANICHAEAN]

EA
You might have to wait another day. I've got the next instalment in my mind, (Albert up before the Magistrate), but today must earn my living.

Dick
MOT in the UK is when a car is over a certain age and has to get an annual Ministry of Transport inspection that its in a roadworthy condition. You have most probably got it in the States, but under a different name.

Thank you both for your kind comments.
M.

[jajdude]

Very Enjoyable. Looking forward to more.

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 5: MAGISTRATES COURT.

The local Magistrate before whom Albert was scheduled to make an appearance was named Julian Dehart and was regarded throughout his austere profession as “one of the old school”. Erudite, educated and of a classical disposition, he was energetic and of an inquisitive nature. In fact he was somewhat like a living boys own adventure, in that he had never really grown up. He had never lost his zest for all that life held, but there were drawbacks. He had married well in terms of fortune and social standing to Harriett, his wife of thirty years. But he was, and had always been a man of impulse and unrestrained exuberance, whose channels of energy required careful attention and control. Thus, as he had attained a more sedentary physical aspect with the increasing years, she had, with seemingly innocuous subterfuge gently introduced him to the pursuit of painting which he now only indulged in on a sporadic basis.

That passion sated she had even recently had him join a Literature Forum on the internet. The latter had been a great disaster, as he had crossed swords with all sorts of individuals, whose work he had addressed critically, almost as if they were standing before him in his capacity as Chief Magistrate for the South Hertfordshire Region. The final straw was when he threatened to have horse whipped, one “Garibaldi” for lack of respect to established norms and of conduct unbecoming those who inhabited “This Sacred Isle set in a Silver Sea.” Julian’s membership had after several warnings from an exasperated moderator, been subsequently withdrawn.

He was not pleased at the rebuke and it was in this frame of mind that he sat this day to deal with what he regarded as a motley crew of riff raff, raggedly arsed miscreants, charged with everything from; shoplifting to causing a public affray and one case of driving under the influence of alcohol.

[Delta40]

lol. Part 5 is pure cheek! Will Albert pay a higher than normal price for DD thanks to Lit-net?

[MANICHAEAN]

I'm in my bunker waiting for incoming from Jerry!

[Delta40]

Ah Jerrybaldy. I will now duck for cover....

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 6: BRITISH JUSTICE.

The Magistrate informed the Clerk of the Court to schedule the drunken driving case first, as in his experience it could be dealt with quickly and thus one could move on more expediently to other matters.

Albert took the stand, stated his name and the charge was read out; “That on the 25th June 2010, at 1pm he had been stopped on the B437 outside Horseheath, been breathalyzed by the Police and was subsequently found to be over the legal limit.”

The Magistrate leaned quickly forward in his chair, his arms resting purposefully on the table in front of him and addressed Albert.

“Anything to say on the matter?”

Albert stood ramrod straight, thumbs at the side creases of his trousers, chest out, chin in, looking straight ahead.

“No M’Lud. Guilty as charged.”

There is an old saying that “You can take a man out of the military, but you can never take the military out of the man.” There is thus, an unspoken bond that transcends class and circumstance when two such individuals meet. The Magistrate viewed the bearing of the man in front of him, noted the sharp, clear reply and was intrigued.

“Where did you learn to drive Mr. Higgs?”

“In the British Army M’Lud.”

“You were in the Army? Which regiment?”

“The Royal Ulster Rifles, Sir.”

“Um, I was in the Guards myself” said the Magistrate.
“The Blues.”

“See any action?”

“Yes Sir” replied Albert “Korea”

“Good man” said the Magistrate warming to him by instinct. “One hell of a show, I believe?”

“Bloody cold Sir. A bit hairy when those bugles sounded and all those waves of Chinese were attacking. But you have to stand your ground.”

From then on, in that particular courtroom, on that particular day, the entire judicial processes of the English Legal System commenced to unwind, as both individuals passed effortlessly from military reminiscences, to how the youth of today would benefit from a good haircut and the delights of boot camp.

The Clerk of the Court sighed. The Police apprehending officer for the case moved from foot to foot, his evidence uncalled for and ignored.

The Clerk motioned to the Magistrate that time was proceeding. In fact the accused and the accuser had lost touch with eternity.

“Umm right” said the Magistrate, being disagreeably called back into his official capacity, from what was a most delightful conversation.

“I’ve reviewed this case and after closely questioning the accused, I’m of the opinion that Mr. Higgs is of good character and was foolish enough to have involuntarily made an error of judgment.”

He looked at the Clerk and said “Any previous convictions? Speeding, alcohol related?”

“No Sir” replied the Clerk, “Nothing on record.”

“Case dismissed, and I don’t want to see you in front of me again in this court. Do you understand Mr. Higgs?”

“Yes Sir. My apologies for the trouble I’ve caused.”

Albert saluted. The Magistrate nodded. Albert turned on his heel and left the Courtroom.

By the door, the Police Patrol Constable moved in close against Albert and murmured out of the corner of his mouth, “Proper little one man crime wave you’re becoming Higgs. We’ll be keeping an eye out for you.”

“Thanks Officer” said Albert, “Fancy a lift back to the station?”

[Delta40]

This just get more intriguing Man. Although I did think there may be a clash of between the two and as there was not, I wonder if the judge will figure in the story again...

[MANICHAEAN]

The Magistrate was originally intended as an "opposites attract" figure vis a vis Albert, but you know what its like; he just grew!
Take care.
M.

[DickZ]

This is great, MANICHAEN. I'm sitting on the edge of my chair waiting for more.

[MANICHAEAN]

One more chapter Dick, then thats it.
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 7: THE END.

Ten years passed and Albert still got up to his usual mischief, but although he became frailer, his worldly sins seemed to lie lightly upon him. This was a product of his personal outlook. Being a Catholic, he attended Mass weekly at St John’s on Hillcrest, but Father Mark could never quite tie him strictly to the rigid tenets of the Faith.

He asked him once at confession, “Do you repent for your sins?”

“Oh no Father” Albert replied honestly.

“But you really should my Son, if you want to be reconciled to God.”

“I don’t see it that way Father.”

“I don’t understand my son. How do you see it?”

“Well it’s like this Father. Its ok for men like you, men of the cloth like. But for blokes like me, there is a difference between what God commands, and what he allows. He’s all powerful anyway and knows our frailties. Do you know what I mean?”

The priest sighed, his head bowed in formal supplication, for by now he understood intimately the nature of the man behind the other side of the wire screen connecting window.

Over the years he had used Albert & his BMW to help visit the poor, and to ostensibly take the lonely and housebound of the parish on rides out into the surrounding country. He knew of the bags of carrots and tomatoes that he distributed from his allotments, and the sheaves of bank notes quietly slipped in between the veg. Sometimes he went over the top and took old age pensioners from the sheltered housing unit out for one too many pints at the Horseshoe Pub. The local Police like Archangels in blue, always followed discreetly to see less he dashed his feet and those he succored against stones.

As the years advanced, Albert’s body and some of his faculties declined, but the spirit was unquenchable. The two boys down the road had been jointly given ownership of the BMW, thus improving significantly their pulling power with the local girls as they attained manhood. But the brothers were always available when Albert determined to go forth on one of his local missions and forays.

Take care less you find yourself in the company of angels, and throughout the community of that small town, they recognized the goodness that emanated from the man, and they accepted him into their homes and their hearts as one of their own. Father Mark guided the spiritual side of his journey as best he could, and in his devotions, before retiring each evening, thanked the Eternal Father for his servant’s existence.

Albert reached 98 years of age, one late October and passed away peaceably in an old people’s home where he had been consistently doted on by staff and friends. Nothing had been too much for those whose hearts he had touched.

Just prior to his passing away, the two boys, (or grown men as they were now), lightly held both hands at the side of the bed after a long night’s vigil.

Albert saw his Dad walk into the room.

“Come on son. Playtime’s finished. Let’s go and meet the big fella.”

Albert was buried in the community cemetery south of Hatfield, and the coffin itself was specially built in the shape of a BMW 7 Series. A police car from South Herts Headquarters slowly led the procession, its blue light slowly revolving. Some wag, said it was to stop Albert from breaking the speed limit on his way to the grave!

A week later when his last will & testament was read, it contained a few surprises. The rented flat had been returned back to the Council and the car had legally been given to the two boys 10 years back. Thus it was not part of his estate. But then it was revealed that the total balance in his bank account was the grand sum of five pounds and ten pence. It also transpired that there was a cheque written and signed the week before his death, in a shaky but acceptable handwriting to the Inland Revenue and it bounced!

Albert sat on a cloud above the town with his father and viewed the proceedings.

“What you reckon Dad?”

“Timed to perfection son, timed to perfection!”

[jajdude]

Great story!

[MANICHAEAN]

Thanks jajdude.

Whats the flag on your personal profile by the way?

Best regards
M.

[jajdude]

Hmm, you know, I don't even remember putting that there, but it is flag of Newfoundland before she joined Canada (in 1949).

[MANICHAEAN]

Jajdude

I was always gently enamoured by the workers I met from Newfoundland, when I worked for two years in Fort McMurry. There seemed to be more from that Province than from Alberta & even the main supermarkets had aisles purely with food from that region.

The other thing I found amazing was how some spoke with distinct Scotch or Irish accents, but had never left Canada. I'm presuming they were third generation Canadians or even further back.

God. How I could do with a good cold Canadian beer now!

Best regards
M.

[AuntShecky]

Well, I took a look at this yesterday and again just now.
As yours fooly has often typed before on the LitNet, please, please take the following with the proverbial grain of salt, as my critical skills, though in use for decades, aren't quite on the level of Christopher Lehmann-Haupt, if you catch my
drift.

In any event, here goes. Couple of days ago there was an initial registration posting of a woman claiming to be an "editor from a major publishing house" and her short message decried the lack of writing skills exhibited by some (thankfully) unnamed LitNutter. I believe she suggested that some of us should study up our "English
101." I mention this because the minute I read her diatribe I thought, "Well, she certainly can't be talking about folks like MANICHEAN." In fact, I'm sure she wasn't,for whenever I read any of your postings I seldom if ever notice any grammatical mistakes, not even the common ones, such as confusing "its" with "it's" and "your" with
"you're." Although you don't need the likes of me telling you this, your grammar and spelling are quite above par. In this day of age, that is quite something.

Secondly, the character of Albert whom you've created is fresh and appealing. His escapades reminded me very much of the tone and style of the great, but sadly under-praised movie, "The Life and Times of Colonel Blimp" by Michael Powell and E. Pressburger. The movie itself was quite "cinematic" --

--which brings me to the only "negative" comment I have to say, which is merely a question of style and structure. If you've seen that movie, it opens with a quite exciting, yet puzzling scene, which makes the audience wonder just what's going on. Another feature of "Colonel Blimp" was the effective use of flashbacks. I think your story could be improved both by cutting the lengthier
narrative sections with judiciously shorter flashbacks-- which sometimes could consist of just a sentence or two--and by opening the piece itself with an action-packed scene "in medias res," say in the auto showroom(reply #3.) By the bye, you had your wits about you in alluding to the two-faced salesman; however, instead of letting us in on the salesman's thoughts it would have been more subtle to show his swarminess in the things he actually says.

So the problem --though it may,as I say just be a stylistic preference on the part of yours fooly--is with the structure. It could truly use some tightening, and less dependence on narrative description of Albert's character, such as this passage, well-written, yet doesn't show us actually exhibiting these qualities:
In fact he was somewhat like a living boys own adventure, in that he had never really grown up. He had never lost his zest for all that life held, but there were drawbacks. He had married well in terms of fortune and social standing to Harriett, his wife of thirty years. But he was, and had always been a man of impulse and unrestrained exuberance, whose channels of energy required careful attention and control. Thus, as he had attained a more sedentary physical aspect with the increasing years, she had, with seemingly innocuous subterfuge gently introduced him to the pursuit of painting which he now only indulged in on a sporadic basis.

Despite that, there were some sly observations, as when Albert tells the judge that there was "a difference between what God commands and what he allows."

As we're told --though we'd prefer being shown, he was a "likeable old cove."

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear Aunty
Thank you for my February 2011 school report. I’m so pleased that my grammar and spelling are improving and “ain’t wat it used to be when I was a nipper back in London town.”

I must confess that I am somewhat ambivalent these days regard standards of writing, not just on forums such as these, but in general. My secretary with long legs and blond hair, trying to compose a letter is a case in point. But then we must play to our strengths and work on the weaknesses. The fact that efforts are made by anyone to write and to create, is a plus. The results of such efforts are, on occasions, somewhat in the guise of negative virtues! But I have had many hilarious moments reading some contributions. Hillwalker has the patience of Job in gently correcting and guiding contributor’s energies and this is a commendable trait I aspire to follow.

Regards “Albert,” what can I say, except that I always appreciate critique and review. There is nothing more dispiriting than to write and then appear to be ignored. Criticism above all I welcome, and I take on board all your points especially regards the “structure” of the story.

Not that I concur completely, as it’s difficult, especially the way a tale flows in my mind when I start. Perhaps reading too much Hemingway has confused my brain? In “Fiesta” for example, the back and forth narrative is lengthy, and quite sparse in the conventions of “He said” / “She mused” etc. I try and keep the conversations tight and relevant, but feel I can add so much more to the spice of content, by not just assuming the reader can work it out himself and create his own imagery, but also by giving him/her my analysis as well. Perhaps that’s selfish, too patronizing and force fed motivated, but then, there is nothing to say the writer should not get a “kick” as well out of their own work.

Thanks again & best wishes.
M.