SOS - or How Many Police Officers Does It Take To Mend A Broken Leg

Mrs G and I decided to take Coco The Wonder Dog, for a mid morning trot on Haresfield Beacon this morning. We arrived at the car park after a long slow climb up the long slow hill leading from the M5. The car park was full and unusually, there were two ambulances and a few ambulance persons wandering about. We spoke to a few other dog walkers, but no one seemed to know what was going on.

We decided to let Wonder Dog have his usual twenty mile run (we walk half a mile - he runs twenty) across the beacon. Then, behind us we heard the sound of several sirens. Three police cars arrives, blue lights flashing and screeched into the car park.

This is a National Trust site. It looked like a crime scene. We wandered off toward the Severn view with a couple of cops taking a parallel path a little lower down. There was some activity on the edge of the escarpment, but we kept a safe distance.

A brief distraction as Coco met Fudge and darted around rolling and tumbling while we passed the time of day with the Grandpuppy Sitters as they described themselves.

Boy, it was cold, so after chatting we did a U turn and headed back. Then, across the fields trundled a cross between a golf buggy and a tank, heading toward the officers and a bundle huddled at the edge...

We kept our distance again.

Back in the car park, there were even more police vehicles. We looked up for a helicopter, but there was none.

The Sitters told us that someone they knew, Irene, was walking her dog and he toppled her over and she had broken her leg. Hence the police and ambulance activity.

Goodness knows how many would turn up if there was a crime. And, if any of the criminal fraternity caught wind of the whereabouts of the police - the crime rate in the villages around the Beacon probably rose considerably.

Irene is okay. But how much did this all cost? Should I be reassured if I am toppled over by The Wonder Dog?

Mrs G would probably drag me back to the car and still expect me to drive home...

All Hallow's Eve, All Saints Day

We have four children and most of them are Scorpios... I'm not sure what the star sign characteristics are, but we have raised four fiercely independent individuals - and that includes the Gemini child.

Our youngest was born on All Saints Day. He came early. It was on a Sunday and we were not quite prepared. His first diaper belonged to his brother, almost exactly two years older and was akin to putting the poor child in a bucket seat.

We used to call him our 'Rainbow Baby'. First of all he turned blue and we had to rush him of to hospital. Did I mention that most of our children were born at home? We lived in the Netherlands. Children were born at home. So, with the labour beginning on Halloween... You get the picture. It was quite a night. Carrie was not the film Mrs G should have been watching.

So he turned blue and was whisked off and put in an incubator with   little portholes on the side and him in aviator sunglasses. Well that's what they looked like.

And then he turned yellow. Jaundice.

We always knew he would turn out to be an artistic child.

These days, I'm not sure what I think of Halloween. Despite the somewhat gruesome nature of my books, I am quite squeamish. But, in the mid nineties we lived in a large and sprawling Gothic school building out in the polders. And we gave the most amazing Halloween parties. Always fancy dress, always full of the most exotic guests in the most exotic costumes. The house would be lit only by candles, we would decorate throughout and with the dry ice machines and spooky music everywhere, those parties were the talk of the town for months.

The biggest problem was that, even though the youngest children were away for the night, they would arrive back the next morning for their birthday celebrations. And the house would be full of the evidence of the evening's doings. Gravestones, candle wax and the odd body lying around.

Those were the days.

Back in the UK, we just don't do those things any more. Plus, I confine my ghoulishness to the pages of my writing.

I will be using one of those parties as the backdrop to a scene in Red House - out in 2013.

So, tomorrow, we celebrate in gentler style. No party. And one of youngest son's gifts was a 'Knitting For Men' course at the local Art's Centre. Then on to brunch at our favourite cafe. What a Rock & Roll lifestyle we have!

Halloween. Scorpions and knitting. What a combination.

Enjoy your trick or treating, wherever you are. And if you were at one of our parties...I hope you found your way back home...

(an aside...someone who was at one of those parties contacted me last evening...oh, the power of blogging!)

Welcome To Burlesque

You would be forgiven for thinking that we authors spend much of our time in the solitude of our studios committing our creative outpourings to the hard drive. There is much truth in that thought - writing requires a great level of solitary concentration and sheer determination and key bashing. But where do those words come from?

The answer is everywhere and anywhere.

Part of my life involves event organising, primarily in the fashion industry, and over the past few years I have seen the rise of the strange and wonderful world of Burlesque.

Living in Amsterdam, as I did for a quarter of a century, I was party to the ongoing Continental heritage that is cabaret. Amsterdam still has at its heart the extraordinary core of political satire that expresses itself in music, dance and mime. In Germany, too, you will find the remnants of political satire and even in the 1980s it was possible to visit one of the infamous 'telephone bars' in a town somewhere. Let me explain.

The plush interior of such a bar was filled with small intimate tables, each with a couple of chairs, each with an ornate telephone atop its numbered table. And at one end of the room, a small stage complete with husky voiced beauty of indeterminable age or sex offering songs of lost love to a smoky crowded room. And then the phone at your table might ring. Well, not so much a ring as a flashing light. To lift the receiver was a thrill. To hear the low voice whisper their table number another. Ok, so it was Mrs G having a laugh, but you get the picture.

Back to the stage. In a lone spotlight, accompanied only by a pianist at a baby grand, the singer began in earnest. Pale white face, red painted lips and rouged cheeks and a blond wig to die for.

'Falling in love again, never wanted to...what's a girl to do? Can't help it!'

Close your eyes and it could have been Ms Dietrich. (I'd had a couple of Campari's) And then the clothes began to come off...

The Cotswolds. 2009. Mrs G and I have been invited to an evening of burlesque at a local venue. Of course we go. Dressed in our finery we enter another world. I'm back in the little German town again. All around are hordes of punters, dressed to the nines, eager for an evening of glamour. The Mistress Of Ceremonies takes to the stage. Miss Demeanor, or something akin, she could have stepped out of Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge, and the effect was almost perfect. I say 'almost perfect', because everything was fine until Miss D announced the raffle and pointed out to us the buffet. The prize was a hamper full of pies (baked by Miss D's mum) and the buffet consisted almost entirely of more pies, both savoury and sweet, all identical in size and shape and un-labelled! Not a great start for a vegetarian! Beef & Onion - or Apple? You get the picture.

But the evening was fun. A mixed bag of entertainment. A music hall singer, several strippers, a fearsome solo female bass guitarist who screamed out neo-punk songs for far too long, and Miss D herself, who sang sweetly and took off far too much.

I didn't win the hamper, but I did win a set of nipple tassels.  Pasties to you!

Now, everywhere you look in the UK you'll see the influence of Burlesque. The Forties and Fifties look, the red lips, the careful coiffures, the corsets and feathers. And for the most part it is wonderful. In a time of recession, everyone needs a little cheering up. And Burlesque is one of those looks where being a size 6 is not a requirement. The big girls out there finally have their day! This is good. To see them rejoicing in their curves and size is a delight. An industry is burgeoning. There are websites galore. Clubs and events starting up. Magazines on the High Street dedicated to the look and lifestyle.

Now me, I always favoured the straight up-and-down look of the thirties, but to see this much fun in straight-laced England (it's not the Swinging Sixties anymore...) has to be a positive thing.

Mika said it best; 'Big girls, you are beautiful!'

So...come on down to The Butterfly Lounge - welcome to Burlesque!

Watch Mika's Big Girls

Now...how did I get started here? Oh yes, inspiration. Slow Poison has it, Red House full of even more...

Burlesque? You ain't see nothing yet!


These photos are of choice pieces from our vintage store, Time After time in the Cotswolds, speciallt photographed by Gloucester photographer Will Davis...check us out at stroudvintage.com

Slow Poison - The First Reviews

Slow Poison has been available on Amazon for a few weeks now, so I thought I would share a few of the reviews I have received so far. I love to know what you think too.

For those of you who have yet to sample Slow Poison, here is a link to Chapter One: Slow Poison Chapter One 

Surprisingly different, unique and elegant but shockingly dark

  2 Oct 2012

By It’s Only Me "JK"

Slow Poison is beautifully written and has a darkness, a violence, that creeps up on you and comes as a total surprise. I can honestly say that I haven’t read anything like this before, it’s certainly unique, and I enjoyed it. This is a story of how slow, creeping revenge can reach out from the past and effect what’s happening right now, and not in a good way. There’s a shocking case of mistaken identity which leaves a killer at large but; there’s also a diary with a world of darkness at it’s heart. There are multiple layers of planning and plotting as you travel from one era to the next, one location to the next, but it’s handled well and you don’t feel lost. Strange, quirky, took me a while to get into the style of writing but certainly worth downloading because it’s so different.   (from http://manorfarmbooks.co.uk/slow-poison/)

3.0 out of 5 stars Disturbing and not implausible, 19 Oct 2012

By 

Martin C (UK) - See all my reviews

This review is from: Slow Poison (Kindle Edition)

This is a good play on mistaken identity - the imprisonment of a youth for a shocking murder in Amsterdam when, it eventually transpires, the real murderer is another person who has an agenda of death to meet on others in vengeance for the mayhem he once experienced on a seedy Gloucestershire estate.
I was first attracted to this book because of the contrast between the beautiful Cotswolds, which I know quite well, and the brutality which, I had thought, irreconcilable with such a place.
Perhaps more interesting though, is that the killer is incited to commit his trail of murders by coming under the influence of a diary written about the WWII death camps and I do sometimes wonder whether, even today, society somewhere, in some country, might still be so fragile as to have failed to recognise when evil can creep back again.
The story has pace and though it didn't have the love of the language that I like to find in an author, it stimulated thought and awakened me from some of my too comfortable preconceptions.

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4.0 out of 5 stars

 So much potential, 16 Oct 2012

By 

Darcey - See all my reviews

This review is from: Slow Poison (Kindle Edition)

I think that with a bit of editing, this book would have been a masterpiece. The electronic version at least is quite hard to follow in places as the chapters etc are not clearly marked. However the content made up for some of this. I love the style; page upon page of beautifully written prose, always with a dark edge. Some of the scenes are very graphic in their violence and sexual content, but with so much more lying under the surface.
I was left with a lot of open questions, which is just how I like my books. I would love to quiz the author. The scenes that took place on the council estate touch areas that are seldom explored, and I found myself both fascinated and repelled by the characters.
I would definitely read more by this author.

Gale Force Winds and Starlit Skies

Gale Force Winds and Starlit Skies

The drama of the Pembrokeshire coast confronts us every day we are here. An October break is the perfect thing for us. I think I lay on a sun lounger once on a recent trip to Malta. It felt as though I had spent the entire day on the contraption. We think it was actually about twenty minutes tops. Just not my idea of a holiday. If we’re not up and doing, it all feels like wasted time and opportunity.

Consequently, we have visited table-top fairs, extraordinary beaches, fish restaurants, vintage dealers…and that was just Monday!

We are doing anything but relaxing. Well, there is a hot tub at the cliff-top farm cottage we are renting. Beats the sun-lounger any day. Lying back among the bubbles, watching the clouds scud across the sky, whether blue or star studded is pure joy.

And then, yesterday morning, the gales hit the coast. Torrential rain interspersed with brilliant sun and the sea whipping up into a frenzy. The tides were thrown out of kilter and the long dog walk was out of the question. So, the boys hiked through the forest, while Mrs G and I roamed the antique centres of the gentrified towns a little inland. (The green feather 1930s cloche was worth the trip alone…)

Mah Jongh was promised for the evening, but the wild sea drew us down the hill. We moored the Rover in the pub car park and braved the elements. The sheer power of the sea was overwhelming. The rattle of the pebbles as the retreating waves dragged them back was thunderous. We stayed to watch for half an hour. Not more.

Then back for a trio of games, then bed with the backdrop of the wind and the sea. The stars were bright. 

Off for a beach-side breakfast now, then on to Marloes, followed by fish then some live music.

Mrs G is calling. Time to go...

Link to video of Barafundle

Rechargeable Batteries

The skies over the Severn Plains are crisp and blue and clear. There is that feeling of anticipation in the air.

Maybe it's just me, but when October rolls around and the autumnal colour hits the leaves, I start to get that creative tingling creeping through me.

Monday will arrive bringing my birthday with it. That could be part of the tingling thing. But really, I've had far too many to still be experiencing any kind of excitement. Ah, but when you write for a living, every single thought has potential, every act has a literary passage lurking somewhere in the background. So, of course I'm tingling!

This year's birthday gift from Mrs G is a goodie! It involves the re-charging of the batteries. Big time.

Sunday morning early will find us heading out toward the Severn, taking the far road to Ross for a little R&R at the boot sale at the old cattle market. (We'll avoid the greasy spoon breakfast of dead pig slices and beans however...)

And then we take the open road that will lead us to the magic world of Pembrokeshire. Dog and one son will be with us, another son will join us later.

We'll be staying at one of our favourite haunts in a farmhouse overlooking the ocean. There s something wonderful about returning to a tried and tested spot: the home-made scones will be waiting, a bottle of red and some dog biscuits and a ten minute chat with Ann from the farm and then we begin the recharging process.

Our one regret is that we raved too much about the place when we had first visited it - now it's hard to find a free spot to take our breaks. So this year, joy of joys, the free spot is my birthday present.

We are only ever here during this season and somehow we always have to most beautiful weather. Blue skies, bright days, warm sea...

I may become a little silent for the next few days - the internet connection there is patchy. But I'll be back, fully charged, raring to go and officially one year older.

Mrs G is good at choosing birthday presents. Yay!

Follow this link to share a taste of the gentle calm I hope to find.

Barafundle

Casimir Greenfield joins the Author Marketing Club

As a new author, finding the best way to promote the work can be an absolute minefield. With Slow Poison on Amazon (and selling...) the marketing process is well and truly under-way. 

Then I happened to come across the Author Marketing Club. For a debut author like myself, this is turning out to be an absolute treasure of a find.

With their help, Slow Poison will continue to grow the band of readers that have discovered my work.

I've added a link below so that you too can check out the site.

Cas




http://www.authormarketingclub.com

Slow Poison Out Now On Amazon

Click on the link to check out the book: Slow Poison now available on Amazon


I recently uploaded the first chapter of Slow Poison. The response has been overwhelming. The book was briefly available as a free download and reached the heights of the Amazon top 15, with over 25.000 downloads over the two special offer days.

Following that amazing reaction, Double Infinity Publishing released the final edit on October 1st at a special low price of $2.99.

Apologies for the shameless plug, but it has been an exciting week!

So, while Slow Poison does whatever it's destined to do, I'm cracking on with the writing and editing of Red House.

The cover is ready, the ending (of sorts) is in place and it is turning out to be a dark and wondrous thing...

I'll keep you posted.

Feedback on anything and everything most welcome.

Cas

Double Rainbows, Fields Of Gold

I'm an early riser. Mrs G is allowed to sleep on as I begin my breathless morning write - as many words as I can before the world wakes up.

Wednesday morning began early with rain on the skylight, but when the sun rose it hit the maize fields at the back of the stables and flooded the entire plain with gold. The backdrop of the sky was, however, near black and threatening.

And then, the most perfect rainbow I have ever seen began forming. Rising in a majestic arc, beginning (or ending) in the fields of gold and ending (or beginning) somewhere in the distant estate.

So, Mrs G was woken with more than her coffee and muesli.

By the time we had opened the skylights to get a better view things had changed.

For the better.

A second arc had formed above the first, just as bright, just as perfect. We were blessed.

I can only imagine the impact of a natural phenomenon such as this in simpler days, before technology, before media. It would have been seen as an omen of sorts. A good one, surely?

Blessed indeed. Our day (our shared day) began in spectacular fashion.

Images? No. We simply gazed in wonder and let nature leave an indelible imprint on our memory.

Aah, look at the colours!

Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain

Do you have a favourite mnemonic?

Now...back to the books: Bloodstones & Slow Poison

Slow Poison Chapter One - have a read on me!

...and why not? Here's Chapter One of Slow Poison as published on Amazon - click here for the link: Slow Poison on Amazon

(Let me know what you think and I'll post Chapter Two...)

Chapter One

Amsterdam, December 6th

A man was waiting for The Six, huddled in Armani camel, watching the doorway of the Casa Rosa. The red lights glowed like cinders in the crisp December air. Snow had not yet fallen, but the night was keen with pre-frost whispers. This was the third night and they were repeating the ragged routine of the past two days, clattering noisily through the back streets toward the plush surroundings of the Victoria Hotel. Bulls they were, looking for china shops.

Den, Pete, 'Dog' Barker, Mart, Kev and Richie; careering through the City of Love, leaving a trail of phlegm and expensive scratches, yob-high on Mercedes lacquer.

On that first evening in the Victoria, they had exploded into the restaurant, destroying his reverie. On an impulse he had followed them into the night. They could be useful. He would need someone like them. He closed the leather-bound diary he was reading to watch the swell and swagger of denim. His chest felt tight, his mouth was dry and he hardened. The city was nervous of them. Wild things, sniffing the cosmopolitan air like rutting beasts.

On the morning of the third day, he had watched them spew through the steel exit doors of the Sleep-Inn on the Rozengracht, groping their way into the bright winter sunshine, unwashed and unshaven, a breakfast of beer in progress. He watched them gesticulate and curse at the waves of cyclists teetering through their group, bells clamouring.

'Fuckin' Cloggies! Why don't ya watch where yer fuckin' goin'..? '

When at last The Six emerged from the deep red core of the Casa Rosa, he limped behind them as closely as he could.  They roared on before him down the urinous alleyways of The Walletjes, singing their City anthems in tuneless tenors and baritones. Few windows in those dark clefts escaped the lick of their Pentels.

He watched them crumble their hash into roll-ups in shadowy doorways. He watched one of them crack the window of a Showarma bar on the Kloveniersburgwal, watched them run from the honing steel of the Israeli owner who chased after them, cursing them in Hebrew. He located them again, homing in on the noise. They stormed the Victoria. The waiters armed themselves with small change and haughty sneers.

'Shit! ', said one of them, built like a flamenco dancer. 'The scum are back!’

They stomped their way into the hotel, rattling the ashtrays and coffee cups in the glazed sidewalk conservatory.

'You don't know nuffin about fucking tactics...'

'Lissen! The fuckin' ref was well out of order.'

'Yeah…yeah... '

So much sarcasm squeezed into two little words.

'Who was there? Well...go on...I was fuckin' well there..!'

The man sat at a corner table and felt for the diary in his coat pocket and laid it on the table. The flamenco waiter was suddenly at his shoulder, pen poised.

‘Meneer?’

'Spa Citroen, alsjeblieft.'

The man turned to the diary. He glanced at a yellowed page, at pencil marks that had faded almost to invisibility. In the half-light of the piano bar, it was hard to make out the words. He pulled the decorative candle closer, but not too close. Just near enough to enable reading.

'July 3rd 1939. The summer cottage. The two of us, sequestered in pastoral seclusion. Lowing cattle, bleating rams, sheep. We find green berries ripening in the hedgerow. Behind the cottage, wisps of early mist rise above the clover. Ghosts, listlessly undecided between earthly delights and paradise...’

He struggled over the forgotten words, this disease of a language that none of their droning had prepared him for. His heart slowed to its regular beat as the two couples looked up at the noise. The Six were mobile again, slamming themselves into the outer edge of the Bechstein.

The man closed the diary and leaned back into the shadows. He sipped his Spa Citroen and looked around the bar. He lit a Sobranie and blew the smoke into the candle flame. At the other table, two couples were giving their orders to the flamenco waiter. He tapped out a staccato exit into the blaze of the kitchen lights.

'The whole damn place is full of the bloody English tonight’ he muttered to the kitchen staff. It was true. The piano bar was occupied solely by the English. By coincidence and chance.  

In the street a barrel organ played, catching the last of the rush hour crowds, infusing the air with merry calliope renditions of Arlen and Berlin tunes. Inside, the Bechstein resonated with the percussive rapping of the grubby fingers of The Six. 'Fuck this and fuck that...'

The two couples sat at their table half-hidden from the man. Fretwork shadows played over their faces, candlelight gleaming in their eyes. The men and one of the women were in their early forties, the other woman was younger. Glyn and Janet, Fred and Becky.

Fred Farthing was a big muscular man. Black hair, brush-cut, and a broad tanned face with full lips part hidden by a bushy moustache. He sat grinning, his fat unmanicured fingers curled around his glass, warming the cheap champagne.

'I'm looking forward to this!', said Fred, rubbing his ample belly.

'You eat too much for your own good!', laughed Becky.

'When I lose sight of me shoes, I'll start worrying!'

'It's not yer shoes you should be worrying about!' said Glyn.

Glyn Wood was plump, with wispy ginger hair showing advanced signs of receding. He and his wife Janet were holidaying with the Farthings. The party were in a bright mood. This evening's meal was Fred's treat. Glyn had done the honours the night before. Champagne and a small phial of AnaisAnais for each of the ladies. Glyn was a software salesman, his first respectable job. Janet all M&S and Waitrose, worked in 'Pumpkin Pie', a wholefood restaurant in Stroud. Glyn and Janet were pleasant friends.

'Right!'

Fred was standing, raised glass in hand.

'I'VE got a surprise for the girls tonight.'

He winked knowingly at Glyn, who smiled bemusedly. Fred handed Becky and Janet a small gift-wrapped cube, first to Becky, then to Janet. Sinterklaas paper. A sticker read 'SURPRISE' Fred watched them both excitedly with his grin widening across his flushed face.

'Oh, Fred... it's beautiful..!'

Inside the packages were small black cases, which hinged open to reveal tiny diamond pendants hanging from fine gold chains.

'Oh, Fred...I don't know what to say...I've never seen anything so lovely...' said Becky.

Fred moved behind Becky's chair. He helped her clasp the pendant around her neck. He stooped to kiss the nape of her neck before sitting down.

'Love you!' He whispered.

Janet held her gold chain taut, sending the diamond spinning, catching candlelight in the facets, filling dark filigree shadows with unwanted light. The man started at the unaccustomed brilliance.

'Come on, Glyn - do the honours!'

Janet angled her neck so that Glyn too could act the gallant. He fumbled with the clasp and leaned over to Fred.

'I dunno Fred, you're a dark horse. I wondered where you went thisafty.'

Glyn put his arm around Janet's shoulder as he sat down. Becky smiled at Janet. Fred slipped his big hand between Becky's thighs under the cover of the tablecloth and drew her attention back to him.

'I must say WE were wondering where you'd got to as well.' Said Janet in a voice full of mock rebuke, 'This is a wicked city for an innocent little lad like you to be let loose in...' Right Becky?

The meal arrived. Steak, chips, runner beans from a can, applesauce and limp winter lettuce. A wholly unsuitable last supper. The flamenco waiter left them to it.

'Great. Look at this!', Said Fred, sprinkling his meal liberally with salt and pepper. They all helped themselves to the vegetables and salad and began to eat.

'Oh god..!' Becky spluttered into her napkin,' My beans taste of Lifebuoy Soap.'

Becky explored her mouth with a tentative tongue, wary of what else she might discover.

Fred knew the taste of Lifebuoy Soap. Oh yes. Stonehouse Primary. Caught saying 'bugger' during morning assembly. During the Lord's Prayer.

'Our Mother, who art in the kitchen, buggered be thy tits...'

Horsefall had pounced, his thunderclap voice riveting the gigglers and fiddlers to the spot.

'FARTHING!'

Fred, eight, was lifted inches from the ground by the scruff of his grimy neck, and carried into the cloakroom. The cloakroom; pegs in rows, names and pictures, coats and hats, and at the far end the double sink.

'You vile little insect!', Horsefall hissed into his face. The stench of peppermints made Fred fart.

 'WHAT ARE YOU?'

'...insect sir...'

'AND WHAT DO WE DO WITH FOUL MOUTHED LITTLE INSECTS, FARTHING?'

Impale them with pins? Stamp on them? Cover them with chocolate and give them as booby prizes on 'Open the Box'

'Dunno sir...'

'WE MAKE SURE THEY NEVER, EVER DO IT AGAIN, INSECT!'

Horsefall picked up a bar of slimy pink Carbolic and ground it into Fred's astonished mouth. O. Horsefall panted and sweated. Fred wriggled and retched and gurgled ghastly sounds. Horsefall cuffed him about the ears for good measure and sent him flying across the cloakroom. Fred landed among the duffel coats, jarring his right elbow on the white tiled wall. He watched with a mixture pain and bemusement as Horsefall leaned back against the wall, panting heavily, eyes closed, flecks of white spittle at the corners of his mouth, hands groping at his groin. Indelible ink.

Voices drifted across from the Bechstein.

'...Fuckin' will, you know! I'll fuckin' bottle 'em!'

Fred looked up, looked across, clenched his fists, and shouted at The Six.

'Keep it down, lads. There's ladies present...'

'Can't fuckin' see none!'

Fred laid his napkin down and began to rise.

'Don't be daft, mate.', Glyn echoed, 'you can see how pissed they are!'

Fred tried to ignore them, but the mood was gone, Becky was suddenly distant, swirling Merlot to freshen her mouth. Fred pulled his chair closer to the table. Glyn attempted to stitch together the lost moments.

'Here's to us!' he said, 'Cheers!'

The four friends raised their glasses once more and clinked them together. Fred finished his steak and half of Becky's in silence, and they ordered exotic ices from the flamenco waiter.

'Aaah!', said Glyn. 'This is the life'

'TWATS! I'll fuckin' 'ave 'em!'

The Bechstein.

'Coffee?'

'TWATS! I'll fuckin' nail 'em!'

'No I'll have tea.’ said Becky. 'I'm dying for a cup.'

Music filled the piano bar. Not the distant barrel organ, not the muzak from the foyer. The music came from the sextet of savage voices humping the piano.

'CIT-TEE! CIT-TEE!'

The taut strings of the grand boomed out under the flat of their callused palms.

 'CIT-TEE! CIT-TEE!'

The flamenco waiter looked on helplessly, their cropped skulls and rude tattoos beyond his wildest dreams.

 'CIT-TEE! CIT-TEE!'

Two trams in convoy rumbled down their rails toward the Dam bulging at the welds with commuters, windows dripping like monstera leaves in a sultry rain forest, passengers peering out from the safety at the straggles of vociferous groups, long December scarves in warrior colours, rattles and rosettes, echoing through the night streets and countless nervous bars.

'CIT-TEE'

The coffee came, biscuits nestling in saucers. The four shifted uneasily on their chairs.

'I thought you wanted tea.’

Fred was bristling.

'It's all right...coffee's fine...'

'I'll change it...'

'No...don't make a fuss...'

But the flamenco waiter had already escaped.

They began to make plans for the evening ahead. Glyn had tried unsuccessfully each night to steer the ladies toward the blush tints of the Red Light District.

'It's only a bit of fun. Why not?'

A party of Americans came in noisily and set the candles shivering in their slipstream. The bar was filling up.

'I'm not going into any of those shows...', Janet insisted.

'We'll just go window shopping!', Insisted Glyn. 'Just a bit of fun...that's all.'

Three girls with wet stringy hair came through from the foyer and sat at a table near the window, near the man. The flamenco waiter glided in to serve the party of Americans with their Cokes and beers. Fred called him over on his way back to the kitchen.

'Waiter...'

Castanets. A poised pen. A trembling hand.

'We'll have some more coffee, and some Drambuie...'

Fred covered a noiseless burp with his hand and shifted slightly on his chair.

'I'm off to the Gents' All this booze has got to me...'

Glyn rose and followed Fred into the foyer. Den and 'Dog' swivelled round on their bar stools. Kev muttered something under his breath that made them all snicker. Then Den and 'Dog' turned a full circle.

The Gents' was in the souterrain, reached by a dimly lit narrow flight of freestanding filigree stairs. The dainty treads were carpeted in deep purple plush. The hallway between the Heren W.C. and the basement disco was floored with terracotta. The disco, promisingly named 'Madonna's' had not yet opened. The dance floor was unlit and grimy, pitted by nights of stilettos and smouldering cigarettes. A malodorous melange of drink and perfume oozed from the open doorway. The DJ and a cocktail waitress were chatting just inside the entrance. To the left was the Heren W.C. with its three glass partitioned urinals, two blue-lit junky-proof booths, a washbasin, an air-drier, no towel, and a contraceptive machine.

'Thirty five cents for a bloody slash!' , Fred complained.

The two friends stood side by side, relieving themselves.

'Are you all right, mate? You seemed a bit funny earlier on... I dunno...'

'Nah, nothin' wrong with me, mate...', Fred replied.