Anton's Ideas

Anton Wills-Eve on world news & random ideas

Category: flash fiction/ twist

MIND OUT


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fairytale/”>Dream</a&gt;

Ah! a chance to ramble in aphasia and still be sane.

MIND OUT

To sleep, perchance to wake up with cramp or the ageing need to use the loo. And it is still only about half past two in the morning. Still, I think I shall take a pill. One of those strong one’s that won’t let me stir. Six hours of solid snoring through, what wonders for such a span of time will my mind prepare?

First I saw that I was very handsome, was it really me? Well the beauties chasing after me seemed to think so, and oh  the pleasure I would get to know  when they descended on my bed.  But half-life is not like that; as the first girl who sat beside me was squat and fat.

Toothless she grinned saying “Ullo, dearie.” My soul was clean but so uneasy. In fantasy it had wanted to play with fire, and satisfy its lustful desire. But we all know dreams are not so accommodating, they twist and turn and leave  us waiting for all we want to appear before us while asleep. This must be lest awake we might sin, you cannot do that when your will’s not plugged in, for God only punishes sinners who know what they are doing.

Then my mind took a bellicose turn, and sword in hand, I confronted a fearsome cut  throat band of desperadoes with one aim, to cut me down and expunge my name from the list of people their kingdom  feared. A jungle of sorts, with temples and palm trees then appeared, surrounding me and the band all cleared. Wandering through falling fruit as my uncontrolled mind, asleep in a waking world, went on its unreasonable yet exciting way. Next I was invited to play a piano concerto , an orchestra was there already and the conductor beckoned with his baton. I asked what he wanted me to play, Mozart number 21 was what he said but the noise from the orchestra filled me with dread, and the piano keys numbered three hundred and four.  But The cut throats returned and to loud applause I bowed and returned to my earlier dream

This time a fair beauty with lips like peaches and cream, have you ever tasted them even in a dream? They were lovely , but melted as she then melted all over me, and the pills ceased working as I rose for a pee.

Two hours more sleep I had had, some good and some bad. But none of it memorable or if it was, I have no recall and think that such dreams are  far from what I expected at all. So disconnected, and the book that had fallen on the floor, with the light still on just by the door, was entitled “How to write poetry when you are asleep”.

Time for my alarm by the bed to  bleep. The stupid thing thinks I’m still asleep!

AWE

 

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TWIN PEEKS


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/nothin-but-a-good-time/”>Nothin’ But A Good Time</a>

Clint Eastwood has  told us how to “Make my Day”,here’s a story of how my friend’s day recently wasn’t made. 

TWIN PEEKS

I will always remember the joy that rang out round Roy and Patricia’s house in mid-October 2002 when ‘Trish’, as everyone called her, brought her lovely twin daughters, Sarah and Janet, home from the maternity hospital, just five days old. The couple were some years younger than my wife and I but Roy, then 21, played cricket for the same club as our youngest son who was in the juniors, so we all knew each other as neighbours do.

Well None of us are millionaires but we were well enough off to have our children educated at good, reasonably expensive schools. It soon became obvious as the twins grew up that they were very bright as well as pretty and popular with adults and other children as well. Mind you, identical twin attractive girls would always have started life with an advantage.

But, as I have said our son was some 12 years older than them and so never really played or socialised with them except at family friends’ parties at Christmas and occasional birthdays. But he did know the older brothers of boys whose little sisters were at Sarah and Janet’s school. By all accounts Roy and Trish had given life to a pair of geniuses. Between the ages of four and eleven they came top in everything and were also really good tennis and hockey players.

Under the UK education system you often change school at the start of the school year beginning in the September after your eleventh birthday, for obvious reasons. But even if you go to an expensive, private school where you are educated from four to eighteen, at eleven the school buildings are kept apart with separate playing fields etc between them. This was the case in the top girls school where Sarah and Janet had been sent.

Often the classes that taught the eleven to thirteen year-olds were called middle schools to distinguish them from the junior or preparatory schools and the senior school where they could stay to eighteen or nineteen. Well this summer Trish and Roy were on edge waiting for the girls’ school reports for the end of their first full year in the middle school. There they would have started all the subjects they would carry on doing as they chose for seven years. They wanted to see how clever the twins really were as the half yearly exams had seen them really shine.

The one non-academic subject that all girls started that year, the school had to get parents’ permission, was called Personal Hygene (PH) lessons, which covered all aspects of female pubescent development. In fact all the parents were quite happy with the five sessions in the year. But, as with all subjects they of course had ‘PH’ exams in it.

Well Trish was at home on her own the day that the twins rushed in after their lessons with the envelopes which had their exam results and teachers’ reports in them. The parent or guardian had to see them first.

“Mummy, mummy which of us did best? Please mummy.” Trish opened the exam envelope first and just stared. She could not believe it. Comparing both sets of marks and grades Janet had come first in six subjects and Sarah in the other six. And they were both second in all the rest. Except one, in which they had each been given 100%. Trish hugged them and was over the moon until she looked at the equal first, maximum marks exam. It was PH. A little disturbed, she asked her daughters,

“Do you two discuss this subject a lot between you?” The girls blushed.

“Mummy”, piped up Sarah, “you see Priscilla and Karen had this great idea. You know the day games were washed out by that storm? Well nine of us went round to their empty house and watched two hours of hard porn on the internet. It was great. But our teacher, Miss Frobisher, said she didn’t understand most of our exam answers, asked the headmistress what they meant, fainted, and has resigned. The head marked the papers and she said she’s written to you personally in another envelope.”

AWE

HASTA LA VISITOR


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/history-of-language/”>History of Language</a>

“third time’s the charm.” 100% true to the prompt but PLEASE forgive the title.

HASTA LA VISITOR

Poor  Maria. All the children in the village were going to the festivities to celebrate the great feast day, but la  pobrecita had to stay at home. Her mother was very ill and there was nobody else to look after her. She was especially upset because she had met a great young chap at her nineteenth birthday party the week before and had hoped to go to the fun and games with him. But she did shed a tear as she saw him laughing with the others and holding  Consuela’s hand. She turned on the television and was horrified.She hated Westerns and quickly turned it off. The widow, Isabella de Catana y Alcantara, in the next street would also be on her own so she’d go and cheer her up while her mother nodded off for a nap. As she entered the widow’s room she heard the cd player blaring out some lovely waltz music so Maria sat and listened.

A minute later a middle aged man knocked on the door and the lady called, “Ah, come in Alfonso. They are playing our tune.” Both of them laughed and the widow actually stood up to attempt a dance with him but her legs were not up to it. “Dance with Maria, then, she is very good.” Maria had to agree but, Oh, la pobre nina. The man stank of garlic and was a pretty awful dancer as well. When the music ended she politely excused herself. Just before she reached her door, however, a horse came charging round the corner with a rough looking man in the saddle looking scared stiff. As he drew level with her he fell from his mount which carried on into the dusty distance. He clutched his leg.

Maria knelt down to see how badly hurt he was, and got a nasty shock. The man could not stand up. “What are you afraid of?” asked Maria as she could see a dark dread in his eyes. He looked up at her and decided she could be trusted,

“I am Diego and I am running away from my Ranch manager. He caught me trying to steal money from his house and he is much bigger than I am. Can you shelter me? Por el amor de dios” He looked both hurt and desparate, so Maria helped him into her house and offered him some soup. But as she approached him with the bowl he tried to grab her and force unwelcome kisses all over her face. She screamed, waking her mother, but also attracting a man pacing up and down outside. It was the ranch manager and he guessed Diego was inside. Drawing a gun he dashed into the room where the screams rang out. Diego spun round,

“Luis! Have mercy on me. Do not shoot. I will return the money and do whatever you say! “But Luis was not looking at him. He had eyes only for Maria and they were not wasted. Maria had never seen such a handsome, charming man and her heart went out to him in her distress at being found in such a situation. But he understood and took her in his arms crying. “Cual es su nombre, cosa joven y bella?” All she replied was ‘Maria’.

At this a new American voice from the doorway shouted, “Okay, everyone, cut. That’ll do for today. Three scenes, not bad. You were great Dolores, but Henrique, not so much Spanish, eh? This ain’t going to be shown in Spain or Mexico. It’s for the European market.

Anton Wills-Eve

WHAT A DAY !


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/festivus-for-the-rest-of-us/”>Festivus for the Rest of Us</a>

the day I was elected ruler of the uiverse

WHAT A DAY !

Heavens that was close! Five recounts. Of the 17 planets we could contact eight had the Venusian first and eight had me first, and the final count was Venus. But they don’t count like we do so we had to have five recounts before they conceded and I was ruler of the universe.

It’s a great feeling, but fortunately a very humiliating one as well. The entire part of all reachable living people had at last come to an agreement to work together to keep all living beings able to devise a safe way of carrying on living. Planet earth’s major problem was still how to preserve the energy sources it had, how to stop them diminishing and how to ensure that all people on earth should have a living wage and that what food there was was rationed fairly amongst the 220 nations ruled by the United Nations. It was the plan which I had devised to do this that had led to the world choosing me as their representative in the ruler of the universe contest. I still don’t know how I won.

But I had been a leading planetanian since leaving Oxford University with a first in Universality and then a doctorate in the subject. As a Scots Australian I qualified to work in the top echelons of the UN and having working command of seven earth languages and four different planets’ method of communication I soon rose to the top in inter-planet conferences. But what were the problems facing me most urgently when I took the highest office ever created?

For a start four planets had problems exactly opposite to ours. They had a fuel and food surplus of 330% and were only too happy to come to some sort of an agreement with earth over how to help each other. Transport was the biggest difficulty as you can imagine. Then the newest discovered planet that we could talk to, Luvya, had a ratio of ingestible water and vegetation of 3-7 against the people. They were on the edge of starvation and had a population in which there were twice as many women as men. I could see my first job would be trafsering food from Pogo, a very comfortably off planet, to nearby Luvya as fast as possible. Again transport was the problem.

It was Hans Von Lederhosen, from the leading Austrian Universe study Centre, who solved this problem by devising ‘cracking’, a method of shooting bundles of matter through space at an unbelievable speed, unharmed, who went on to win the first Nobel Universe Prize in 2631AD. The ad was retained when it was dicovered that eleven of the planets were Christian. You really must read the story of how this came about. It’s the best true story you’ll ever read.

But I think I’m digressing. I’ve been asked to tell you how I would celebrate my election. I’m afraid I don’t think I would. Well, not in the sense the prompt setter means. I would certainly mark the occasion, but my emphasis would be on them not me. For a start I would introduce a new currency, the Universalis. It would be a seventeen sided titanium coin worth one per cent of a Uni, the main note in circulation. Don’t ask me how its relative value was worked out to satisfy each planet but a Martian called Klunk was the economist behind the scheme which won him the 2632 Nobel economics prize. I held up the first minted coin in my right hand as the orb of office was placed in my left which just about had the strength to hang onto it while I took the oath of office. “ I, Anton 1st, protector of the Universe, do hereby swear, by that deity in whom I believe, to devote my tenure of this office entirely to the good of all inhabitants of the seventeen planets that come within the boundaries of my jurisdiction.”

Not very long, I know, but mt left arm had nearly come off so it was long enough. There was to be a celebretory banquet, or street party as they are called on earth, in every planet at which at least one item of food from each other planet was part of the feast. Now for Lvyans, for instance, it was hardly a treat, but what mattered was that it made them feel part of a brotherhood and sisterhood of all living creatures everywhere and this bucked them up no end. Each one was also presented with a Unorbisate. The was a medal on a chain worn round the neck, or a suitable part of that planet’s inhabitants’ anatomy.

But for me, the best part of that day was that all my own family were present with me as I was invested protector of everyone. My wife Francesca could not keep back her tears, while my seven children, Maria 13, Giovanni 12, the twins Lucia 10, Violetta 10, Dido 8, Aeneus 7 and little six year old Edgardo, lined up three on each side of me at the ceremony. But it was not the pomp and glory of the day that I will always remember but cheeky little Eddie, whom I could not see, waving a banner saying “My dad can beat your dad any day. And now it’s official.” It had to be Eddie.

An elbow dug into my ribs, and the fingers of a soft, tickly hand awoke me fully. “What are you dreaming he’s done now, David?” Francesca’s lovely voice asked me as she kissed my neck.

“Oh I’ve just become ruler of the universe, I sleepily replied. “

“Oh poor everbody,” said my adorable Francesca as she could not stop laughing.

Anton Wills-Eve

 

VOLARE SU TUTTE LE FURIE


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/mad-as-a-hatter/”>Mad as a Hatter</a>

the last time you flew into a rage.

VOLARE SU TUTTE LE FURIE

Personally I have never flown into a rage in my life. I fell into one once when ski-ing in the Alps and missed a slalom gate. Boy was I flaming as I shot off the piste into the spectators. I really was piste off.

But rages and flying and I have yet to form a triumvirate. I drove into a rage when I was nineteen and had had a few drinks too many on the cobbled streets of Brussels. They found the front of my sports car, complete with unharmed driver, wrapped round a lamp post and the rear seat and wheels some one hundred metres further up the road. I loved that car, it was my first genuine racer. But the rage came when I was told my ‘accident’, what unwitnessed highway stupidities are called in Europe, meant I was withdrawn from that weekend’s formula two motor race at Francorchamps. Imagine missing a key race in a series you were leading and in your first season in the sport. Now that really was being driven to distraction. Rage time with a vengeance.

I have encountered rage in other ways too. Have you ever stormed into a rage? Not easy to do usually, but this was in a thunderstorm on the cliff road between Barcelona and the Pyrenees and in persuit of a felon who I had watched knock down a small child. It was twlight and the summer sheets of lightning were throwing walls of fire across the Western end of the Mediterranean sea. Incredibly spectacular but I was more concerned with catching my crook. The boy was not very badly hurt but I did not know that as set off after the villain. It really was straight out of Edgar Wallace, without the cups of tea. My father’s German saloon car was no match for the baddy’s Spanish tortoise and I finally pinned him on a corner overtaking him on the coast side of the cliff where he least expected me. The Spanish police hailed me as a hero and the French police as an idiot who could have killed himself driving like that in such an ‘orage’. I had never forgiven the officer who called me that until today when it allowed me to make the most awful bi-lingual pun!

Another brush with rage came when my wife dropped one of a pair of crystal champagne flutes which had been given to us as a wedding present. Hand crafted for us, too, by a leading glass blower in Florence, and a true work of art. How I kept my temper I do not know to this day. But she wept so contritely as she brushed up the shards of glass that the scene ended in rag time, not rage time; the pair of us just cuddling each other until our love outlived our chagrin.

So, you can see that though I have a temper of sorts,  it is simply something into which I have never flown. But I have a friend who flies into rages all the time. He is in the Royal Air Force and his wife’s name really is Rafaella. Apparently they fly into rages regularly, but always out of them again afterwards, deo gratias! But you’ll never believe the tag line to this story. His name really is Roger Wilco.

AWE

AN INVERSE CURE


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/fool-me-once/”>Fool Me Once</a>

 

An Inverse Cure

A student, in his early days,
Could not resist the tempting ways
That ladies of the night used daily,
Together with parties, drink and gaily
Lit bars which led in turn to sin,
Committed in low lit rooms within
The poorest quarter of the town.
There his passion rose as he laid down.
To satisfy his carnal needs
He indulged in the most immoral deeds.

But soon his tutors realised his work
Was declining, so gave him quite a jerk.
To make this sinner mend his ways
They changed his studies, so they might praise
His academic texts and talks,
They even bade him take long walks,
And made him give up Greek and Latin,
(Ending his lounging on couches of satin).
They added theology, that he might seek
An understanding, deep but meek,
Of morals and how they could be applied
If he wished to reach Heaven when he died.
And so, happily, he learned to keep God’s laws,
By putting Descartes before the whores.

AWE

 

A RANDOM KISS


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/what-a-twist/”>What a Twist!</a>

after a prose twist a poetry twist

 

A RANDOM KISS

just a groupie at the big gig
hoping only for a kiss
laden with spring flowers
to say thanks for random bliss

soon the features I had prayed for
were close to me, oh so divine,
those lips needed no seduction
they knew already they were mine

we crept away into the darkness
the blaring music fading fast
locked together,tongues caressing
may our ecstasy, forever last

for breath our lips briefly parted
and I heard a sweet voice say
“You do realise I’m a fellah?”
“Of course, can’t you tell I’m gay?”

 

AWE

THE I OF THE BEHOLDER


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/what-a-twist/”>What a Twist!</a>

 

THE I OF THE BEHOLDER

Beauty was in the eye of the beholder as he beheld her across Piccadilly Circus with a dumb and gasping awe. Now Cupid, being at that moment in a whimsical mood, drew his bow at this adventure and also pierced Beauty’s heart, making her equally struck with a heart beating  passion as she glanced sideways to be sure he was looking at her. I can assure you not even Romeo or Juliet felt a passion such as theirs as they stared at each other.
  But, as with the Italian lovers, our hero and heroine suffered from parental problems. His was that, to his knowledge, he had none. He had had a hard and orphaned upbringing in the lowest class of society and only his philosophically resilient attitude to his lot had allowed him to mature as he had. Nevertheless, he was still extremely handsome in her aristocratic eyes.
  Yet she too had a Cross to bear. The darling of her family, she alone was worth every penny of £750,000, but still life was extremely cruel to her. What use were refined manners, unimpeachable ancestry and a beautiful coiffure when one was never allowed to spend an unattended second with a member of the opposite sex? Strong indeed was the family hold on her when any undesirable beaux were present.
  So, as he crossed Piccadilly Circus, a sad but adoring look was cast at him by his inamorata. Sad, because even as she blushed at him she was bundled into a Rolls Royce and hastily driven away from the object of her desire leaving him in no doubt as to the futility of his quest.
  And as he strolled into the middle of the Circus, he sighed saying silently to himself, “And sod you too mate!” as he lifted his left hind leg and urinated on the base of Eros’ column.

Anton Wills-Eve

CASCIA


Is there a place in the world you never want to visit? Where, and why not?

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/no-thanks/”>No, Thanks</a>

                                                   CASCIA

In 1944 when I was two, my father jokingly said to my mother, on getting a free weekend at our family home on the Thames in Buckinghamshire, “Well, with all our bombing of mainland Germany hotting up at least I will never have to visit Berlin. I can think of nowhere in the world I would hate visiting more!” Mum merely smiled. Two weeks later the news organisation for which he worked as a war correspondent told him that he was to join the invasion forces on D-Day.

Yes, you’ve guessed it, by the following late Spring dad was one of the first journalists to enter bombed out Berlin where he found it as close to hell as he expected. My mother merely chuckled and remarked that her superstitions should  be taken more seriously.

It got worse. Dad hated everything to do with racial discrimination and swore he would never cover any stories which involved him having to obey discriminatory regimes. So of course March 1960 found him in deepest South Africa covering the Sharpeville massacre and its aftermath and not being allowed to publicly oppose apartheid!  I can well remember my own dislike of all aridly dry  countries and how I could not get out of my first free-lance assignment. During the university vacation I found myself covering the Franco Algerian war in North Africa for my father. I had to go, the money was too good.

And so it went on . I moved from the Sorbonne to follow in dad’s footsteps which saw me in Vietnam for three years after swearing I would never set foot in the place. The fighting in Northern Ireland really upset me mentally. As an English Catholic I literally prayed I would never be asked to see the Emerald Isle only from the bloody viewpoint of bigotry and bloodshed. My three years in Belfast were probably the worst of the lot. I started to wonder if I had inherited my mother’s superstitious premonitionary accuracy. A happy marriage and family of my own led me to change to writing about European politics from 1985 onwards and I started to work in places I quite liked. But I was very careful not to promise I would never visit places I really did not think I would like.

All my life I have had a favourite saint who has stood by me, protected me, loved me and helped me retain my faith through some of the most awful places on God’s earth. St.Rita, the patron saint of hopeless causes, we really get on well together. She’s great and has never let me down in my life. I am currently fighting my third cancer in the last five years which is why my sister queried me, wide eyed with astonishment, when she heard me telling a friend I hoped I would never be asked to visit Cascia. It is in Umbria, central Italy, and is the city where St.Rita lived in the middle ages and is entombed.  “But I thought you loved her?” my sister said.

The train tickets I showed her, from Rome to Perugia and on to Cascia, were all the reply I needed.

Anton Wills-Eve

“WHO DO YOU LOVE, BABY?”


Here’s the title of your post: “An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse.”

Set a timer for ten minutes, and write it. Go!

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/race-the-clock/”>Race the Clock</a>

 

   WHO DO YOU LOVE BABY?

 

Old Dr. Faustus was nearing that age  when his love for Margarita was not so much seen as a Romeo and Juliet affair, you know where little Miss J turns it on so hot for gallant Master R that he cannot resist her tempting eyes and Marylin Monroe figure, but more as a simple dirty old man with throbbing lusting loins ogling a pretty young  wench.

This is where the booming voice from the skies makes him an offer he cannot refuse.

“Lovely isn’t she? You really want her, don’t you? ‘Course you do! Well I’ll make an offer you can’t refuse. You’ve been offered seven years with her, haven’t you, as long as you agree to go to hades afterwards. Right?

Faustus nodded.

“Well, here’s my offer.Forget the troloppe and you can spend  eternity in paradise with me and all my lovely angels and saints. What do you think?”

“Wow, God, you sure know how to get your man. Yippee! Heaven here I come. And as for you Maggie, you can go to the devil!”

Anton Wills-Eve

5 minutes 53 seconds writing and 1 minute 28 seconds editing.

 

Quo Vadis Sat Nav?


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/connect-the-dots/”>Connect the Dots</a>Oh no! I’ve picked up the telephone directory. That means I have to write a wordpress  post which includes, and I quote ,  the first sentence my hand falls on! it turns out to be; “77 Blackwell Road, London.” Are these WordPress people for real? Have they ever seen Blackwell Road? It’s the backside of the world. And I mean world.

                                 Quo Vadis Sat Nav?

Jeremy Jones had been trying to come to terms with his sat nav for some five weeks, but he still could not make it work.

“Left, you idiot. Left, can’t you read?” Alexandra was getting madder by the minute. “Look at the bloody thing. What does it say for Saint Paul’s Cathedral? WEll?

“Oh, shit! How did you miss that bus? Have you got a driving licence?”

Jerry began to lose patience with his girl friend. “Belt up or I’ll hit the next one on purpose.  What do you expect if you keep making me look away from the road and at that stupid thing you’ve stuck on the dashboard? Eh? Just shut it!”

The girl curled up in a sudden mixture of rage and disappointment. “So that’s all you think of the birthday present I bought you, is it? I looked everywhere for something original, Jerry. I thought you’d love it with your mania for everything to do with motoring. I also wanted to get to the Cathedral in time for the lunchtime concert, but we’ll never make that now. How could you be so thick Jerry? And where on earth are we anyway?”

Jerry did not have a clue but he was not going to admit he was lost. “Only slightly out of our way, love, don’t worry, that ‘sat’ thing will tell you.What does it say for where we are? 77,Blackwell road,London? Where’s that? I suppose it must be here, wherever THAT is!  Still,  we may yet make the city centre in time. I’ll take the next right and then you can direct me using the sat nav. ” Alexandra was slightly mollified and smiled at Jerry. She was very fond of him and regretted her outburst. But not for long. The first right was straight into a ‘no entry’ one way road and Jerry drove his sports car straight into an oncoming truck that thought it owned the road. Which in this case it did. The somewhat rough spoken driver was not amused.

“‘Ere mate. Wot the bleedin ‘ell de yer fink yer doing? If yer must drive a poncey little car to impress yer bird , take a driving test first.” As he was also some six foot five tall and as wide as he was high, Jerry was reluctant to challenge him. 

“I’m  awfully sorry, my dear fellow, but I am a bit lost around these parts and didn’t know this was a one way street. If you give me your documents I’ll see that my insurance company pays for all the damage. I really am sorry.”

The truck driver was about to explain to Jerry that he didn’t bother with expensive extras like insurance, or car tax, or even a driving licence. He was about to ask for a very large cheque or Jerry would answer to ‘his friends’, when the noise of the affray attracted a passing police  car which sped to the scene. The truck driver went white. “Bloody ‘ell. The rozzers. Gawd, I’m orf! ”

But ‘off’ was the one thing he was not. The policemen recognised him and had handcuffed him before he could move. Then they bombarded him with unanswerable questions like, was it his truck? where had he stolen it? did he have a licence? etc etc  and the curtain came down on the farce with the law officers leading the truck driver away. But as they turned to make sure that Jerry and Alexandra would be able to find their way back to the main thoroughfare one of them turned to Alex and smiled,

“Oh, but you’ll be okay, Miss. I see you’ve got a sat nav. You’ll not have any bother finding your way with that, will you?” 

Anton Wills-Eve