The Birthmark

The Birthmark

By Jane Scoggins

A hot July day in Southend On Sea and Jackie and Julie linked arms and strolled along the seafront towards the ice-cream kiosk.

‘Not a cloud in the sky’ said Jackie as she raised her face to the sun. ‘What a perfect day’

Julie squeezed her mum’s arm and felt a bit sad as she felt the thinness of her arm. and put to the back of her mind her Mum’s sadness. How unfair she thought to herself before turning and beaming at her mum.

‘I told you it would be a beautiful day today and Southend  has come up trumps.’

Southend had been a last minute decision for a day out.

‘There are a couple of deckchairs free over there, you go and sit on one and I will get us ice-cream.

Julie came back laughing with two ice creams melting down the sides of the cones and dropped down into the second deckchair beside Jackie. They sat silently for a few minutes eating their ice creams conscious of the hot sun in a race to melt them before they were reduced to a completely sticky mess.

They sat watching the world go by secretly storing up their observations to share and talk about later when they were out of earshot of the subjects of their observations.

They had always loved people watching and it was something that bound them together as mother and daughter. They had the same sense of amusement. Julies Dad hadn’t quite got it but he was always tolerant and indulgent and accepted that he was not on their wavelength as far as humour was concerned.  Today was the second anniversary of his death, and wife and daughter had visited his grave first thing that morning and laid down two red roses beside his headstone. Dad had been so proud of his ‘two beauties’ as he had called them, with their thick auburn hair and brown eyes. A thorn between two roses he had called himself as he put his arm around the pair of them.  He had always wondered how a geek like himself had managed to capture the heart of such a beautiful vivacious girl as Jackie. But capture her heart he had, and many happy years together had followed.

A simple tale of love and loss. A group of teenagers laughing and jostling, chatting and happy went passed. The girls in cut off denim shorts with wide leather belts on their hips and skimpy striped bikini tops with shoestring ties.  Growing up Julie had always been conscious of an operation scar on her chest and shoulder and had always been reluctant to show much upper body bare skin in public.

Mother and daughter sat for a while longer enjoying the day and observing the passers by. A middle aged couple strolled passed holding hands and Julie thought ‘That should be my mum and dad.’ When the man turned around to look at her Julie thought she must have spoken out loud without realising, felt a bit embarrassed and automatically put her hand to her mouth as if to stop any further inappropriate thoughts escaping.

The man paused and the woman looked on expectantly as he looked again at Julie and then to her mother.  His hand also went to his mouth as if wanting to delay his speech before he committed himself to speaking.

He directed his words carefully and hesitatingly to Jackie.‘You aren’t by any chance Jackie Mills are you?' Julie looked at her mum and Jackie looked at the man and for a couple of seconds there was silence as she looked searchingly at his face.

‘Yes I am' she said hesitatingly, clearly not as yet making any connection with whoever the man was... And then the penny dropped and with caution she said

‘And are you Dave Fox by any chance?’

Simultaneously they both beamed at one another in complete recognition.

Jackie rose as quickly and as elegantly as was possible from the awkward position of sitting in a low slung deckchair and clutching a handbag and cardigan.

 Dave Fox stepped forward and took her hand. ‘Jackie Mills I can't believe it, after all these years. You have hardly changed at all.

 Jackie’s hand self consciously went to smooth her once abundant burnished chestnut hair that had been her crowning glory, and for which she was known and recognised through her teens. She had turned the heads of many a young man with her pretty face and gorgeous hair. Dave had been one of those young men. To look at him now, a man that had not reached middle age unscathed in terms of hair thinning and lines on his face he was not readily identifiable to the untrained eye as the cool handsome slinky hipped youth who sang with a band and had a following of girls as long as your arm.

‘Well I never., can it really be you?’ Jackie looked into his face and then turned to her daughter. ‘Dave this is my daughter Julie.’

I can see that, she is the living spit of you. And this is my wife Mandy.’

By way of explanation Jackie explained to Julie that they had hung out together when they were young and that she used to travel about with him in a crowd when the band went to play at clubs and festivals.

After Dave and Mandy had said their goodbyes and gone on their way Julie and Jackie sat down again whilst Jackie gathered together her memories and shared them with Julie explaining that Dave was known as ‘The Fox that rocks’ Julie began to get a new view of her mother, as a rock chick, a groupie even. Julies mind is suddenly opened up to another world, one that she had not imagined her mother inhabiting. Her father had been a much more serious sort of man than Dave. She considered the contrast.

When they got up to walk along the seafront to look for somewhere to eat Jackie continued to chat about the past and the meeting with Dave that had prompted the dormant memories.

Julie also found herself thinking about Dave and her observations of him. True his face was no longer that of a handsome young rock singer, but he certainly had a twinkle in his eye. The most impressive part of him was his well honed tanned upper body above his jeans. The day was hot and he had his T-shirt thrown across his shoulder.

It was not until he pulled his T-shirt from his shoulder as he said goodbye and turned to go that Julie could see the full extent of a rather beautiful and intricate tattoo that swept across his right shoulder and down onto his chest. Beneath the tattoo, she was sure she could see an irregular patch of pink skin that was not tanned, and as if by coincidence almost matched the same scarred area on her shoulder and chest where she had had a large birthmark removed as a child.

Copyright Jane Scoggins

THE PRICE OF SUCCESS – PART ONE

THE PRICE OF SUCCESS – PART ONE

By Bob French

Julie pulled open the door of the classroom and froze.  There standing in front of her was Mandy Thriftwood, the school bully.  Just behind her in the shadows of the corridor were her three bodyguards; Phillipa McGregor, Miriam Smith and Rashi Mohammad.

          “You’re late!”  Before Julie could explain, she felt the stinging slap across her face.  “Come on you little turd, hand over your lunch money, I haven’t got all day.”  There was hatred in her voice and Julie knew that if she hesitated or tried to give an excuse she’d receive a few more slaps and a couple of kicks from her three goons.

          Reluctantly, Julie slowly put her hand into her blazer pocket and took out the three pound coins her Mother had given her at breakfast this morning and handed them over.  Mandy snatched the coins from her hand, pushed her aside and vanished into the darkened corridor.  Miriam Smith, a particularly nasty person barged into her, knocking her against the door frame, then turned and smiled as though she was waiting for Julie to say something, her yellow crooked teeth showing in the dim light.  Then she too vanished into the darkened corridor.

          Julie felt as though the whole world was pressing down on her shoulders.  She had mentioned it to Miss Graham, her English teacher, who said that she would raise the issue with the Head, but she knew she hadn’t.  She sat looking at the small apple she had taken from the kitchen bowl on the way out to school when suddenly she felt someone climb in onto the bench next to her.  She froze again, thinking it was Thriftwood and her henchwomen.

“Hi Julie, you look down in the dumps today.  Anything I can help with?”

She turned and forced a grin.  She liked Jimmy. They had met up on the first day of their schooling at St Peter's Infant School.  That was ten years ago and they had remained friends ever since.

Julie thought for a moment, then turned to Jimmy.  “I’ve got a problem and it is really bothering me.  But I don’t know how to fix it.”  Jimmy looked down at the tray in front of Julie.

“Have you had lunch yet?”

“No, that’s the problem.  Thriftwood and her three goons demanded my lunch money again.  It was that, or get another good slap across the face.  I dread to think what that Smith girl would do to me given half a chance. I know my Mum can’t afford it, but….”  Her voice trailed off into silence.

Jimmy pushed his tray across in front of her.  “Here, it's a Marmite and cheese sandwich.  Get stuck in.  You have got to eat something while I think of a cunning plan.”

Julie discretely squeezed his hand, making sure that she was not seen by her friends on nearby tables and thanked him and began to tuck into the sandwich. suddenly Jimmy sat bold upright.

“What is it?”  Julie stared at him with a mouth full of sandwich.  Jimmy went on. “Pick up your sandwich and let’s find somewhere quiet.”

They walked out into the warm air of the mid-day and headed for the wide-open space of the sports field and sat in the middle of it.

“What’s the plan then?”

“First thing is for me to speak to Jenifer.  You know her, she’s in your maths class. She works in the offices at ECHO, the huge supermarket just outside town, at weekends.  Jimmy had known this because he had seen her on a Saturday afternoon in her posh uniform and had also seen, on numerous occasions, the McGregor’s doing their shopping there.  “Then I think I need to spend some time with Frankie and his brother Louis, see if they can help me.”  Julie studied the expression on Jimmy’s face.  He seemed miles away.  The voice of Alex interrupted the silence and both turned to see Alex walking toward them.  Julie noticed that Alex had hitched up her school kilt a little and smiled as she noticed the fresh coat of lip-stick on her face.

          Julia turned and faced Jimmy who by now had a worried expression on his face, then he swore under his breath.  Jimmy stood and brushed himself down as Alex came up to him and stood very close to him.

“What you doing all the way out here then Jimmy?” ignoring the presence of Julia altogether.  “I thought we were going to have lunch together.”

“Sorry Alex, something came up.”  Then he turned to Julia.  “What I need you to do, is to carry on as normal OK, but try and keep out of the way of Mandy Thriftwood and her goons.”

Alex, not wanting to be outdone by Julia, linked her arm through Jimmy’s and steered him back to the school building.

On the stroll back across the sports field, Jimmy asked Alex if she would be prepared to help in his plan.  Alex was reluctant at first, but when she realized that she herself would not be involved, she agreed.  It took him fifteen minutes to go over what he wanted her to explain to her elder sister who worked in Dalton’s, the fashion shop before she finally agreed.  Her only question was that Dalton’s weren’t having a sale, but Jimmy explained that Dalton’s always had huge signs in their windows declaring a sale. Alex nodded her agreement, then stipulated that for her contribution to his plan, he had to promise to be taken on a real date; to a place of her time and choosing.  Jimmy nodded and reluctantly agreed.

That afternoon Jimmy met up with Jenifer and talked through a theory of his about ordering food and things online and having them delivered.  After a few minutes, Jenifer became suspicious and asked him what he was up to?  Jimmy explained what he had in mind. When he had finished, she readily agreed to help.  Her weekend job at ECHO was to consolidate all the orders taken during the week, including all the last minute orders or things forgotten from the original lists; cost them, check credit card payment details, then organize the drops for the following week. The last thing Jimmy asked her was to make sure the McGregor’s got their delivery on Friday morning, the thirteenth.  Jenifer smiled and nodded and when she left, was already working out her part of the plan.

It wasn’t until the end of the school day that Jimmy caught up with Frankie and his brother Louis.  They talked for about half an hour about the plan.  Jimmy kept emphasizing the need for timing. After some impressive bargaining, Jimmy agreed that if Frankie pulled off the task, he would reluctantly give him his card collection of the Brazilian football team; Jimmy thought the trade-off was worth it. 

On the way home, he caught up with Mark, a timid boy who had a stutter and was in the year below Jimmy.  Mark had fallen prey to Thriftwood and her bullies on many occasions.  After a few minutes, Mark agreed to participate in the plan.  Jimmy wasn’t after the direct services of young Mark, but his elder brother, who worked for the local gazette.  Jimmy promised he would let Mark know when and where his brother should be if he wanted to get an exclusive.

Saturday morning, after his paper round, Jimmy dropped his bike outside the newspaper shop, then walked along the depressing row of shops on the High Street, many already closed down and boarded up due to lack of customers or rents being too high. When he reached the narrow alleyway next to the Betting Shop, he slipped down into the darkness and the smells of another world.  He knew, like any street-wise kid, that on Saturday, just after mid-day, Josh would be in one of the garages selling his Kentucky Blue or Mexican Red tablets to those who wish to really enjoy their Saturday night rave, which was coming up next Saturday.

As he came up to the entrance of one of the dimly lit garages, a tall black kid who had hatred in his eyes, intercepted him.

“What the hell do you want ya, little runt?”

“I want a word with my mate Josh.” And went to push past the guard.

The black kid grabbed Jimmy by his hair and yanked him up against the wall.  Jimmy yelled out in pain.  Suddenly Josh appeared.

“Leave him be Bert.  He’s a friend.”

Jimmy straightened his hair then nodded to the back of the garage, indicating that he wanted to speak.

“Thanks, Josh, can I ask a favour?”

“Sure, what is it?”

I want you to set-up a real nasty piece of work at school, you know full blow drugs raid at school and her home torn to pieces.”

Josh studied the litter strewn floor of the garage, then looked up at him. “Who is it? Do I know her?”

“Yes. Her name is Philippa McGregor.  If I’m not mistaken, her Dad was the guy who blew the whistle on Barry last year.  He claims to be an upstanding man of the local community, but he’s a crook, always on the take. If he can be dragged down as well, all the better. Oh, and can you lay your hands on a couple of stolen credit cards?”

Josh nodded to confirm he knew who McGregor was. “Give me a couple of days notice to set things up.”  They spoke for ten minutes, going over details whilst the big black kid stood guard at the entrance.  When he was done, Jimmy thanked Josh and left, nodding to the black kid as though he was family.

At Sunday School, Jimmy made a point of sitting next to Padma, an Indian girl whose family lived five doors down on the same street as he did and were Christians. He liked her because she sometimes helped him with his homework.  When they broke up into groups, Jimmy asked if he could have a chat with her after.  With a puzzled look on her face, Padma agreed.

They sat on the benches in the church courtyard and talked quietly for a bit.  He could see from the expression on her face that she did not like what he was proposing, but when she weighed up the brutal racist treatment, she had received from Rashi Mohammad and her friend Smith, she agreed.  As she left the bench she turned and told him in no uncertain terms that he had to make absolutely sure the plan would work.  Jimmy stood, crossed his heart as a promise “Hope to die.”

Copyright Bob French

The Crows Nest

The Crows Nest – Inspired by (The Bell Rock Lighthouse ~ JMW Turner)

 By Robert Kingston

A seascape reflection for the hardy types,

Spirits of the deep they’re calling, predicting a fight.

Jagged headlands, waves crashing,

White froth, forming, foaming, smashing,

Winds howling, lighthouse flashing,

Eyes burning through sea salt lashing,

Bells sounding, a storm at night,

A melee, the seas raging delight,

It’s natures given right.

Storm escalating, sailors fighting,

Hull rising, boughs breaking,

Sails furling, unfurling, ripping, slapping,

Ropes trailing flailing whipping lashing

Pulleys screeching burning breaking smashing

Clouds storming, winds scowling, thunder bashing

Waves transforming, crashing, heaving forming

Skies of greys, twisting curling

Forks of blue, pointing, zigging, zagging, stretching,

Boat rising, creaking, falling,

Sailors slipping, sliding, gripping

Muscles flexing, ripping, bruising,

Some onboard appealing, scorning,

Hear the captains call, they shout,

Hear the captain call.

Pull the rigging, a command a call,

Drop the mainsail, let her stall,

Cast the jib sail, open glory,

A careful captain, he’s no fool.

Ride the wave, tiller the stern,

Pitch the head into the rise,

With the wind, she’ll pull through

With great courage, all! Remain calm. 
                                                                                  

The storm abating, calmer waters,

Grey clouds dispersing, blue sky forming,

Sun now rising. Bright sky birthing,

Relax and sit, reflect what’s been,

For on dry land it will have been

A sailor’s adventure all at sea.

Copyright Robert Kingston        

Would he come?

Would he come?

By Len Morgan

She gazes expectantly from an upstairs window, Would he come?

Costumed children wander up and down the street shaking plastic buckets, yelling, "Trick or Treat."

Would he come?  He said he would come.  Seven-thirty on the dot, he'd said.  It was now eight twenty-five.  

Almost an hour late, "Where are you, Daddy?"  Maybe he wasn't coming, she rubbed her eyes, slowly walking away from the window. Gazing at her witches costume in the mirror, one last time.  Tears started on her cheeks.  She sat at the end of her bed.

Her bones ached, her hands were stiff and gnarled.  A taxi pulled up outside and she dashed for the door.  But, the man who entered was a stranger.

"Hello Mum," he said, taking her into his arms. 

Who is he? she wondered. 

"You do know who I am don't you mum?" he asks.

Then in a moment of clarity, she replies. "Mr Altzheimer?"

Copyright Len Morgan

TRUST ME

TRUST ME

by Rosemary Clarke

Trust me to get it wrong
My song sheet has a different song.
Trust me to do the wrong thing
My life to your life doesn't swing.
Trust me to ruin it all
When all I had to do was call.
Trust me to make a noise
Now I know I have a choice.
Trust me to blame myself
I've seen what that's done to my health.
Trust me to keep you calm
I'll protect you from any harm.
Trust me…

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

THE TADPOLES ON THE PAGE

This story was read at a meeting of Rayleigh Writers in Rayleigh Library on 14 March 2019. The first paragraph was written in response to concerns that some stories previously read in the library were unsuitable for children likely to overhear them.                    

THE TADPOLES ON THE PAGE

by Richard Banks

             

Before I properly begin I wish to make clear that this is a nice story. Unlike other stories you may hear this afternoon it contains nothing that will offend those of tender years or sheltered upbringing. It has been constructed from only the nicest words and I have endeavoured to arrange these in an order that is not only logical but fully accords with grammatical principles. It is also an improving sort of story that, while very dull in the reading, will avoid and indeed discourage the arousal of unseemly emotions. I want you to know that you are in a safe place, a place so far unvisited by a single apostrophe and, although they have yet to arrive, when they do they will in no way distract the text from its determination not to offend.

         However, their importance can not, and should not, be underestimated; they bring order, dispel doubt and are the pretext, if not the inspiration, for the feeble tale that follows. But first of all, a joke. Never date an apostrophe. Yes, I know that’s an absurd notion but there are people who care passionately for them and are dedicated to their well being. There is even an Apostrophe Protection Society. But enough of that, I don’t want you stirred up so let’s return to the joke which, if it is to work, must be spoken by an apostrophe, who says, “I will never date another apostrophe the last one was too possessive.” Yes, I agree it isn’t very funny, but as the undeniable function of many apostrophes is to be possessive this underwhelming attempt at humour, unlike some other jokes, won’t cause offence. If you can’t raise a smile at least avoid a snarl.

         By the way, did you notice that the first apostrophe arrived a few lines ago; it has since been joined by five others. Like the library visitors of my distant youth, they have come silently, without fuss, determined to abide by the rules. But the rules have changed I tell them. The sound of their voices will no longer be censored by the stern shushing of the librarian; they can now talk as loudly as they wish on any subject related or unrelated to the books that line the library shelves.

         The apostrophes listen to me, patiently, without interruption, but will not be distracted from their mission which has been set down in learned books of grammar. There is nothing in these which says that apostrophes should talk and until one is written which says that they must they will remain silent adjuncts of the written word.

         On reflection, this is probably just as well. There is only so much they can say about their literary functions and having said it they would be bound to move onto other subjects on which they are less informed. I mean, what would an apostrophe within a history of the Hundred Years War have to say about our modern day relationship with France?  Or, what would an apostrophe in a cookery book be likely to contribute to a discussion on ethical food policy or Government subsidies to the farming industry. The unintended repercussions might be more numerous than for Brexit, and as we are struggling to cope with that, it is as well that the apostrophes stick to what they know best.

         Indeed, no one understands their role in life better than an apostrophe and if they were allowed to organise themselves the errors and omissions presently besetting them and the reader would henceforth cease to exist.  I therefore, beseech you to support the Apostrophe Liberation Front in their campaign to confer on them self governing status free of human control. The need for this reform is well illustrated by the misadventures of Dr Stephen De’ath, a general practitioner on the Caribbean island of St Lucia.

         By the way, this is where the story I promised you six paragraphs ago begins. It is an eventful narrative but one likely to be short in the telling, so please don’t fall asleep or lose concentration for it will soon be over.

         Even before the events, I am about to relate Dr De’ath was acutely aware that apostrophes had already played a significant part in his life. Had it not been for the one between the e and a of his surname, he would have been Dr Death, an unfortunate name most worrying to patients likely to conclude that the rival practice of Dr Smiles offered more satisfactory outcomes.

         If Dr De’ath considered that apostrophes were only important in the writing of his name the events of August 2015 were to prove that they could literally be the difference between life and death.

         On the fifteenth of August Hurricane Mavis changed course in the Atlantic Ocean and set off towards St Lucia with a malevolence not normally associated with that name. The news was duly reported in the St Lucia Herald which, in the stop press of its evening edition, reported that ‘the storms devastating winds’ were expected to arrive the following morning. Dr De’ath and his wife therefore removed themselves to the depths of their cellar intending to stay there until all possibility of danger had passed.

         At 8am they arose from the camp bed on which they had been sleeping to find that the violent winds of the hurricane could no longer be heard. Returning to the rooms above them they were relieved to find the wind abated and the sky a cloudless blue. Encouraged that all might be well they immediately went out into their long back garden where an inspection of the house revealed only minor damage to its roof and walls. They were in the process of righting a Wendy house in which Dr De’ath kept his gardening tools when the weather took an unexpected turn for the worse and the storm suddenly returned with all its former violence. Realising that the wind was too strong for them to get back to the house they instead sought shelter in the Wendy house which, almost immediately, was lifted high into the sky and blown far away from land. As the winds again slackened it dropped down into the shallow waters surrounding an uninhabited island. Although the Wendy house broke up on impact with sea and sand the De’aths were virtually unscathed and waded ashore onto a wide beach of white sand, which, in normal circumstances, would have been very much to their liking.

         It had all ended safely but would never have happened in the first place had it not been for the missing apostrophe in the stop press of the St Lucia Herald. Its warning of, the storms devastating winds, contained not a single apostrophe whereas the insertion of one beyond the second ‘s’ in storms would have told Dr De’ath that two storms rather than one were on their way.

         During the becalmed, sun drenched days that followed, Dr De’ath gave much thought to  their rescue and return to St Lucia. Reasoning that helicopters and spotter planes would be out looking for them and other victims of the storms he endeavoured to signal their presence by scrawling in the sand the following message: We’re here. At least that’s what he meant to write but by omitting the apostrophe within We’re the message as written was, Were here. Unsurprisingly the pilots overflying the small island concluded that the person or persons leaving the message had departed and that the search for survivors should continue elsewhere.

         Sadly for the De’aths eighteen months were to pass before a holidaying yachtsman spotted them and alerted the Coastguard who finally returned them to St Lucia. Regrettably, their homecoming was not the happy event that it should have been. Dr De’ath’s practice had been irreparably damaged by the departure of his patients to Dr Smiles, while his house was occupied by unrelated persons who had purchased it from the beneficiary of Dr De’ath’s will. Despairing that neither situation was likely to be resolved for several years or more De’ath moved to America where he dedicated himself to the liberation of apostrophes from the tyranny and misuse of their human oppressors. Indeed it was he who founded the Apostrophe Liberation Front which now has over fifteen million paid-up members.

         Due to its lobbying, August 16^th – the date on which the De’aths were blown out to sea – has been designated International Apostrophe Day. On that day later this year Alf, as the organisation is affectionately known, will be opening its first UK office in Knightsbridge, on the ground floor of Dr De’ath’s London mansion. Your support is essential to its success. Please send your application for membership, plus an initial payment of £25 to: Richard Banks, C/O Rayleigh Library, Rayleigh, Essex. Like Dr De’ath he has come to understand that the value of apostrophes goes far beyond their literary functions. As the proverb goes, ‘It’s an ill wind that blows no one good’. Get writing those cheques!

 Copyright Richard Banks

              

My First Flight.

My First Flight.

By Len Morgan

I have to cast my mind back to 1948~49, when I first found I could leap from tall buildings with impunity.  Just before splattering on the ground I would close my eyes and open them again, and I would find myself lying snugly in my bed.  After the first time, I would regularly wake up from my dreams by jumping off cliffs or tall buildings.  It all began when my friend Tony told me he'd heard that if you die in a dream you will never wake up.  Being a fearless/foolhardy four-year-old I thought I'd like to disprove his assertion. 

My theory was "I'm the hero of this picture if anything happens to me the world will come to an end..."

A short time after that first jump I thought I would spread my arms and try to fly, and I did.  I jumped and instead of falling I rose into the air and flew over lush countryside, following rivers, diving down into towns and cities where I hovered and watched people and animals; they didn't seem to notice me passing.  That was when I realised that in my dreams I was invisible and invincible.  I flew higher and higher until I could see the curvature of the earth, and the sky became darker.   I dived down until I was skimming the surface of the sea at incredible speeds.  I saw ships on the sea and buzzed them, In my euphoria.  Then into the sea viewing boats on the surface from below.  Initially, I held my breath underwater, then I realised I didn't have to breathe.  I saw shoals of fishes and swam amongst them.  I sat on the conning tower of a submarine, played tag with dolphins; they for some reason could see me perfectly well and chattered excitedly in their high pitched voices.  I flew up into the dark sky, towards the sun; the heat didn't increase as I drew near.  So I went, into a sunspot and witnessed a magical firework display I emerged on the opposite side of the orb, and saw Jupiter in the distance.  I crashed into Jupiter's misty smoke and liquid gas, It tingled, but there was no aroma.  I wasn't aware of its constituents then: Hydrogen, Helium, Ammonia & Methane (very pungent).  I flew high above the Solar system and looked down, I felt like a god, master of all I surveyed.  I consciously grew larger, expanding until I could view the Universe without moving my head; hundreds of thousands of stars... 

Mum shook me gently.  "Time to get up Lenny, breakfast is on the table, boiled eggs with toast soldiers."

Sadly, somewhere between 9 and 10 my best friend Tony was drowned while on holiday, about that time I lost my powers; I've not been able to dream fly since.

My first memorable flight in an aircraft was a boring affair in comparison.  I was in the army; I'd been posted to The Middle Eastern State of Sharjah.  We travelled by VC10 to Bahrain.  We took off from Brize Norton at 0800hrs Spent 15 hours in the air, continually buffeted by winds and air turbulence, which banished any opportunity for sleep.  There were plenty of sick bags employed on that flight.  We were issued with Army packed lunches, and bottled water: tea and coffee were also on offer in flight.  At Bahrain, we were transferred to a small RAF transport aircraft.  There were no seats, just hammocks.  Freight was secured at the rear and we were housed along the outer walls.  The aircraft was an ancient turboprop plane that crabbed through the sky, it found every bump and hit every thermal.  We rolled out at Sharjah and were conveyed to barracks for the night.  We were issued with salt and malaria tablets and given 48 hours to acclimatize.  During those first two days in Sharjah the average wet-bulb temperature, over the 24hr period reached 136 degrees; the highest temperature ever recorded in an inhabited area at that time.

Ah the British Army such a wondrous place!  You can catch sunburn whilst training in the desert and be charged with causing damage to government property, through 'self-inflicted wounds': Yo!  I think the sun had something to do with it too, don't you?

 Just a year earlier I had spent a month in Lillehammer (Norway), undergoing winter warfare training.  The temperatures there dropped as low as -40degrees; it wasn't a record but I doubt many have experienced a temperature variation of 176 degrees within a 12 month period.

Ah!  The memory is a wonderful thing, but fallible.  We drove to Norway in Land Rovers from Lippstadt West Germany.  To get there I had to fly from Gatwick to Hannover.  A completely uneventful trip about which I have no memory.  I don't even recall the return trip.

As to having knowledge of astronomy at the age of four?  I now view that with suspicion.  I can confirm that everything that came later was accurate. 

In the immortal words of Eric Morecombe: "I replayed all the right journeys, but not necessarily in the right order."

 So, on balance I would suggest you take what I’ve said, with a pinch of nutmeg…

Copyright Len Morgan