Getting a Kick (Out of You)

 

Getting a Kick (Out of You)

 

The air keeps running out of it like an insect

trapped between your legs and jeans,

who knows what, a louse, a flea? Possibly,

but to investigate this fully would mean

scratching your blunt fingers in between,

so let’s bear it in a futile pressing of cloth.

Anyway, this football cost, and he insisted,

put your hands in pockets, your arm twisted

although here’s cheaper ones available,

Grandson. Now of course it bloody leaks,

a couple of good kicks, it’s mud streaked

and flatter than a Lincolnshire care home.

Well, you can’t kick ball to each other alone,

and this one’s keen, learning new tricks

daily, and here’s old Grandad keeping pace,

managing the odd jog and panting face,

congratulating all those stepovers and flicks,

waiting for days he runs onto the Bernabeu,

and on his Barca shirt it’s written somehow.

Strange, at his age, I wasn’t awful keen,

dreamt of playing bass or penning books,

less about the football, more about the hooks,

but I could never deflate young dream to score

so, let's pump this ball and puff some more.

Rough Winds Do Shake

 

Rough Winds Do Shake

 

Listen to sounds of temper; vented fury

of battered trunks and splintered knots

who swell in pitch, fork sinister screw,

clashing shades of battered bitter green,

blacking eyes with her boundless hues.

It’s foolish to try to scour this prospect:

you will never be able to count them all

and if you call on greystone skies to obey

her twists will field weak voice far away.

Uncork your infinite uncouth squalling,

unseasoned rains to red smack cheeks,

muttered threats you sense her speak

loom in watchtowers, further showers

to douse in sea my unlit wrecking fires.

Hear bulwarks shatter and hearts crack

while I am only shouldering it forwards,

but love’s strength lacks and turns back,

our times still smashed amongst others

are gone and only thoughts of us remain.

Lives once bedded under summer's sun

to flourish in flowers and plump fruits,

glow in soft palettes of lavender’s rose

are weather beaten bits to decompose,

these blasted trees will remember well

those storms who toss and toll our knell.

Soul Love

 

Soul Love

 

Those who habitually wear worn down shoes,

reckon there’s still some life in the old uppers yet,

here’s a lick of black polish to cover any perish

and those aren’t holes, they’re lived in soles.

I hear you; I still believe, I am one of those

reluctant to let go, but she loves me, you know?

She replaces older dreams, like changing channels

or interrupting you at least, coalescing from static

into potential, kinetic, something like charismatic,

her smile is only soul love. And the truth is, dear,

you changed your shoes long before I thought

to stop window shopping. You let me fall long ago,

cut cobbled stitches and let love’s true soul grow.

Settled for Less

 Settled for Less

 

Settle sit backed against stone wall, any wall,

rest on top a coffin drop or some sort of box,

open up, pull out; you’ll need a flop for the night

and here comes that candle to light you to bed,

 

that settles it, done his bit, downed tools,

kissed the mistress that one last time for luck,

shed tears, you put her years into it, not counting,

it’s all over there bar the shouting, he’s jet set,

 

she’s settled down, that must be all, forty year

back against classroom walls, now get used to it,

here’s grit in your eye, we’re in for the short haul

final drop, not a lot, grist to the mill, bitter pills,

 

let’s settle here, Spain’s good this time of year,

don’t open mouths dear, we might have to talk,

let’s walk, open empty space on phone alone

come that chopper to chop off dead heads.

Cleaning Out

 Cleaning Out

 

So, this year I thought I’d clean her car;

no mean undertaking, believe me,

scrubbing hard at that matted shag pile

flicking those ancient rocks in your eye

because you’re squatting far too near the pan.

Oh, it’s down by the seaside sifting sand,

includes grease is the word, banana splits,

and 12 other of your greatest grits.

Legs sticking straight out the driver’s side,

it shifts gearstick in your racing mind,

soon becomes a matter of fixed pride.

You started with obstinate resentment,

end by thinking some unique present

this will be. Clobber in every orifice,

glove compartments packed with trash,

give her space; she’ll fill it, still wants more,

split seams and look at the bulging garage door.

Not as if it’s one of those grand ones, anyway,

59, just a spit before that big six-oh,

probably only chalked up by grim greeters,

card makers and profit seekers,

where every day’s some cause for celebration,

the unguent of this vacant nation.

And look, if you barely walk and monosyllables

pass for talk, this is more than just a great deal,

she can always bitch about how it made her feel.

Yesterday Lingers

 

Yesterday Lingers

 

Yesterday, I thought I saw you; it was a dream

and hard to know if I’m awake or dreaming still.

So often the same, when summer rain tumbles,

spills from heavy skies, washing wet sleepy eyes,

heaven hung lakes of lunar sea plunge evermore

water, floating so airthick you must swim ashore,

rubbing sodden eyes that can't be entirely sure.

Oh, I’m not sore. You’ll find me roving this beat,

worn lookout eyes of grungy leather foot soldiers

marching as to war, but suing for keeping peace

in our time, rehearsing all this in jubilant speech

should we meet, so often I've memorised scripts.

Of course it goes just so, I say words, you say no,

then off to lay beside us in some drowsy hollow

explore the other’s loss with slumber’s fingers.

It lingers. A sun struggle in hibernating tortoise

that cannot quite thrust his blind headed screw

through our stubborn woollen pull over the top,

it’s all two legs entangled together in one pant,

as when we awake into sleep, drifting so deep

among drowning dreams that stalk and creep.

Yesterday Dreams

 Yesterday Dreams

 

Only yesterday you dreamed you saw me

but I wasn’t seen amongst clotted weeds,

nor did I smiling reply, hold out my arms,

entwine us both in unpractised charms.

Drained clouds dripping listless overhead

returning you the things you think we said,

that I called you Mistress, you me Master,

grief passing until we lovers sleep forever,

giving assent for we both have others now

but love remains somehow. Push ploughs

over small talk shared between you and I

hiding in your head under umbered skies,

built static congesting in your aching brain

stuffs hollow spaces, blocks holes in drains

as waters sprint to satisfy all empty cracks

below nimbostratus painting futures black,

little left to motivate leaves who hang slack

stirless and they haven’t even checked back

or dared a breath. Your wilful rainfall drums,

drowns summer places where I didn't come.

Influence That

 Influence That

 

Remember that

all you Ghouls

or maybe you forgot

your Chapman took aim

squeezed trigger and shot

for what

if you filleted his brain

you’d find not a lot

eviscerate his soul

disembowel

his stinking innards

unfurl coiled guts

with a soothsayer’s

toothpick stick

vacuum shallow insides

inhale deep

until you’re sick

you could not tell truths

in gizzards such as these

indeed

you find no sense

for no one was in our tree

your taken path

your easiest way

Ghouls open your traps

rattle off

death’s bucket list

gorge on midden scraps

Chapman’s scum

thick ejaculating

sick dribbling tacky glue

defiles a platform near you

diagnose influencer’s envy

in Hades’ soiled arsehole

beggars sponging it

come the day

you need to save your souls

get you to a mirror

Chapman’s Ghouls

go and stare

find your reflection’s reflection

pollutes our clean air

hide you behind

your weakly mother’s skirts

get thee to a rattery

to call you dogs

is to smack you up good

with flattery

the shelter of the rabid mob

will hide all Ghouls

but remember the next Chapman

is coming for you.

Influence that.

Night’s Last Mare

 

Night’s Last Mare

 

No brushstrokes broad of boot black pitch,

can ever overpaint her cold canvas of the mind,

some scored etchings never can be disguised

and symbols do battle behind sleeping eyes,

stream stifled pasts amid his insentient sighs.

Looped memories under droning tanpura glitch

her unfolding in foggy billows of rolling cloak,

swamp hope, dump tidal bores of misanthrope

as how the full moon births misshapen things,

blooming from a lost without to toss within.

Like bludgeoning hooves stir up choking dust

so rusty spectres coalesce upon drowsy sleep

approach existence then in fragment retreat,

galloping past returns to her a glossy mane,

removes ancient lines, rebuilds youth’s frame.

She up rears aloft, brandishing Terror’s lust,

parting curtains of remembrance in harvest,

where pure children play but he is farthest

planted among daisies that no longer chain

with no buttercupped gold to guild her chin.

Her words given life’s breath that might seem,

can never penetrate into darkness of dreams,

ooze like healing oils, fill time’s inmost theme.

She conjures warmth but lets slip sterner stuff,

and revulsion which was, will be ever enough.

Yummies

Yummies

Tweeted - like hey, you! It’s my 69 today

and I would like your world to know it,

swinging from my veranda kicking heels,

and it’s time to have that decking put in

I will decompose outside, swigging gin.

There’s my balloons, two pictures posts

my profile side on, then full faced smug

blonde hair mopped up as bleached rug,

but sod all here to get worked up about:

hey, it does not make you want to shout,

or bush my baby, yeah, don’t pull it out;

my dried up crack snap-twigs litter drops

are useless for quick games of stick ball,

even if you could whip it, whip it good.

Maybe I will invite two daughters over,

sloshed getting pissed but staying sober,

menopausing that's my way of thinking,

memory callbacks of too much drinking,

old wetting beds, my sheets are stinking,

but look out Globe, it’s all strawberries,

it’s cream, it’s my Wimbledon’s dream,

to let you rubbish know of my gratitude,

so I'm carefully prepping some yummies.

Valhalla, hurrah, and my wind is shook,

but here's Raven watching from his nook

howls hard of the crow rousing the rook.

Grandad’s Bedtime Fables: Just Chuck Coal

 Grandad’s Bedtime Fables: ‘Just Chuck Coal’

 

Once there was an Arabian Oryx who lived with a Marsh Toad. No, hold fast, dears, I got that wrong…she lived with a Desert Frog.

 Now, you might suppose that a desert (being a vast, arid and largely sandy place) might be unsuitable for such creatures as frogs – preferring, as they do, damp environments such as puddles, ponds or squatting underneath upturned buckets at the bottom of your garden.

And you’d be right.

If you don’t believe me, the next time you are in your garden and you spot an upturned bucket, walk over to it and see what’s within. If you tell me it’s a desert, I’d be astonished and will rewrite this opening almost immediately.

The thing is, you see, that this frog had unilaterally decided he was a desert dweller.

Now, he was at odds with his companion, Oryx, who actually had lived somewhere in the desert at one time, but now found herself whisked off to an urban setting, somewhere up North – you know, Tadcaster, Dronfield or Mansfield Woodhouse.

Mansfield Woodhouse, I’m pretty sure that’s where they lived, in a tumble down old cottage bordered by a neatly kept garden lined with flower beds full of crocus and gladioli and had great views of the disused colliery and slag heap from the kitchen window.

When Oryx had been younger, she had lived there alone and had always enjoyed the morning hubbub of the pit workers meandering to work, freshly scrubbed, from the nearby mining towns. She might exchange a few friendly words with the hard working pit-ponies and share a mug of builders’ tea or two.

That was many years ago now, and the pit head wheels had long since stopped revolving. She often wondered what passed for work these days.

Wondered, that is, until a young frog had come to stay. “Call me Desert Frog,” he’d announced grandly, that day she had met him and confirmed that he knew all about gainful employment.

Now Oryx, being a friendly Eastern sort of beast, hadn’t objected that time he’d kissed her and had not turned into a Prince as he’d claimed. She might have filed a harassment complaint to those same such creatures who were officious and loud about such things, but she put it down to youthful inexperience and left it there.

Instead, she’d smiled to herself, remembering her own younger days and foolish behaviours, and continued to read, all the while listening to some old LP or other.

Nor did she complain when he moved his stuff into the spare room. After all, it was unoccupied and a bit of company is good for the soul.

Although they never kissed again, they became friends of sorts and made for quite a peculiar couple on those days when they would take the air and trot around the grey environs of Mansfield Woodhouse, with its run down clinker heaps and disused collieries.

Well, to be more precise, she would trot and he would perambulate in a hoppier sort of way. “Oh do keep up, Frog,” she would complain, on those occasions she forgot good manners or had earache. Oryx often have earache – especially those who live with frogs, as you know.

“It’s Desert Frog,” he huffed, loudly, putting much stress on ‘desert’.

 “Are you sure? I’ve read a lot of books and not one of them ever mentioned frogs coming from deserts.”

“Books, pah!” Frog spat, hopping manfully to catch up, whilst scrolling through his phone. “You should Google it; you’ll find there’s plenty of frogs and deserts all over the web.”

“I thought webs were for spiders. I don’t like spiders, Frog.”

“Desert Frog.”

Oryx often sighed on such occasions, but would offer sensible suggestions such as, “Look, hop onto my back, why don’t you, before the charity shops close.”

“Hop on your back?” Frog would reply, outraged. “Whoever heard of a Desert Frog hitching a lift on an Arabian Oryx? The way you trot I’ll get sea sick and turn green.”

“You’re green already,” she pointed out, in a reasonable tone.

“I’m more khaki than green,” he replied, peevishly. “Due to the fact I’m from the desert. I’m more of what you’d call a weaponised frog; camouflaged and ready for combat.”

“A combat frog?” asked Oryx, with a tiddly bit of scepticism.

“Of course I’m a combat frog. I can’t be spotted on your back hitching willy-nilly, can I? It would cause hue and cry. I’d make a perfect target. There might be drones.”

Oryx would smile and make jokes such as ‘hop on, I’m not deer’ or ‘the only drone around here is your voice’, but they would go over Frog’s head as firstly he was quite small and secondly he didn’t really understand puns.

Today, however, Oryx wasn’t in a very humorous mood. She stopped, pawed the ground in front of her with hooves and looked quite sad. “See here?” she announced, “these are tracks.”

“Of course these are tracks,” replied Frog. “You and I both make them. We’re animals.” He really was quite a literal creature.

But Oryx was one of those with poetry in her soul and a sadness for things passed. Secretly she would pine for what seemed to her an innocent, more noble time – whether that time actually existed was not really up for debate – it was how she felt, right or wrong and that’s that.

“Not those sort of tracks, Frog.”

“Desert Frog.”

She pointed to what had caught her eyes. “These are tram tracks.”

“Jam tracks? What flavour of jam?” asked Frog, who was partial to a bit of apricot on his toast of a morning.

Oryx ignored him. “Many years ago, before they closed it all, this was a place of work. In the morning, dozens of workers, on trams pulled by ponies, would arrive here of a morning and go down that pit.”

“Eyeful of grit?” replied Frog, pulling a face, because he was less partial to toast spread with gravel. “Well, what’s so good about that?”

“No you don’t understand, you foolish Frog.”

“Foolish Desert Frog.”

“They would come here to dig for coal. Before it was all destroyed. Nowadays, there doesn’t seem to be much work at all for anybody.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Oryx. Of course there’s work. For a start everyone goes to school for much, much longer. That’s working, isn’t it? And when they’ve done that, there’s loads of employment out there – why, you can be a barista, go on reality TV, get into hip hop or, even better, do what I do.”

“What’s that, Frog?”

“Why, be a social media influencer, of course. There’s loads of openings for that. It’s a growth industry.” Suddenly, Frog stopped talking, looked Oryx square in the eye and raised a webbed finger, to indicate deep contemplation.

Oryx looked alarmed. “What’s wrong, Frog?”

“Did you say ‘dig for coal’?”  And he looked so thoughtful, that Oryx quite shivered, despite herself.

 

Over the next few days, Frog became invisible; he barely came out of his room and, I’m afraid to say, it was starting to smell a bit swampy. Why he was not even eating any of the food Oryx had prepared, so busy a frog was he.

“Frog?”

“What?”

“There’s someone at the door. Asking for workers to pick daffodils in the fields. We could do with a little extra coming in, my dear.”

“Daffodils? Fields? Pah! That sort of work is only fit for immigrants. Nobody picks daffodils, Oryx.”

“We are immigrants, Frog.”

“Desert Frog. Look, will you please stop bothering me? I’m doing vital work.”

“Well, what are you doing, Frog?” Oryx would call. He seldom answered, but if he did, it was always a cryptic statement along the lines of being an influencer or sending out messages and tweets.

For her part, Oryx would shrug her shoulders and busy herself with whatever work had arrived that morning. Did I mention she was a self-employed seamstress? No, I don’t think I did.

Then, one morning, as she was repairing some leggings that had been left on the doorstep with a note, Frog appeared in the living room in what could only be described as a blaze of glory.

 My, he did look important. Upon his head was an old fashioned fluorescent hard hat. Around his waist, a utility belt, attached to which were several useful items – for example a torch, a small pick axe and a catapult – that sort of thing.

Oryx tried not to snigger, settled her glasses upon her muzzle and politely enquired what in the name of Sam Hill he was up to.

Excitedly, Frog stabbed at his phone. “Look at this,” he cried. “Just look at what I’ve discovered. They’ve been covering this up for decades, Oryx.” He was so breathless, he could scarcely get his words out.

“What is it, Frog?” asked Oryx, who was interested, so she put her sewing down.

“Desert Frog,” he snapped, and then forgetting to be piqued continued, “Look, Oryx. Global warming. This planet is heating up hotter than a great, big…er…very hot heater. And they’ve tried to deny it!”

“Well, I’m not sure they have, Frog,” replied Oryx. “Cover it up, I mean. I studied Science at university and the environment was one of those topics covered in some depth, my dear. After all, that’s why I mend clothes. To do my bit. Small steps with a needle and thread.”

“Don’t patronize me, Oryx,” returned Frog, angrily. “Science? Pah! I majored in ‘Social Gender Studies and Urban Dance’. This is clearly an instance of the patriarchy disguising the truth. But we won’t be deceived this time. We won’t. This planet is burning, turning into an inflamed…er…boiling planet, and, what’s more, if we don’t do something about it, it’ll all become a vast desert.”

Oryx rarely got heated, but she bristled a little at Frog’s proclamation. Still, she bit her tongue, as you do. “But wouldn’t that suit you just fine? You are a desert frog, after all.”

“No it won’t suit me just fine, thank you very much. It won’t suit me just fine at all, not one little bit. I’m going to make a stand. Me…and my homies.”

“How?”

“We’re going to just stop coal.”

“I see. Well, good luck with that,” said Oryx, picking up her work and deciding to let him get on with it. She was a little mystified, because she thought coal had been stopped when they’d closed all the pits down. Still, what did she know?

However, Frog was pausing at the threshold, wavering a little, as if he wasn’t quite certain how to proceed. “There’s a problem,” he admitted, finally and a little crestfallen. “A big, big, big problem. Massive. As big as a…vast setback.”

“What’s that, Frog?”

“Desert Frog. Well, the trouble is I don’t know what we should call our new movement. We need a name. Something to inspire the population to stand with us, Oryx. Something that will trip off the tongue and become an emblem of our new stand against pollution and all who pollute.”

Oryx put her work down again, scratching her head. “How about ‘Just Stop Coal’?” she offered, after a few seconds.

“Don’t be stupid, Oryx. That’s crass, that is,” answered Frog. Then he grinned as something flashed across his lightning mind. “Got it!” he cried. “We will call ourselves ‘Just Chuck Coal’.” And he raised his fist as if expecting a drum roll and round of applause.

He got neither. “Chuck coal?”

“Yes. Of course, ‘chuck’. Chuck it. As in give it up. You know, like when you dump your girlfriend. Boyfriend. Significant other of no fixed gender. You chuck her. In the bin.”

“I wish I could chuck you, Frog,” answered Oryx.

 

 

Over the next week, there followed a few unfortunate incidents, and I will tell you about one or two of those that were less scandalous.

Because, I think it’s fair to say at this point, that Frog didn’t really cover himself in glory.

What do I mean?

Well, despite many attempts to become celebrated as some sort of hero, none of these really succeeded.

For a start, there was the small matter of his band of brothers (and sisters). They came to the house and Oryx looked them over. In no particular order they consisted of a couple of earwigs, a centipede missing a dozen legs, one or two cockroaches and a stick insect with defective twigs called Kipper.

And, somewhat shamefully, she noticed Frog licking his lips a couple of times as he inspected them on parade.

However, he overcame his initial hunger pangs to sally forth. “We’ll form a marching band,” he had announced.

But, alas, no one had remembered to bring any trumpets, snare drums or those portable xylophones on a Y. “Paper and combs are the very fellows for us,” snapped Frog, determined to be optimistic.

So they had wandered up and down Mansfield Woodhouse high street a couple of times, blowing into toilet paper, sounding a bit like mournful geese, to little or no applause. Indeed, one or two of the shopkeepers had looked rather irritated as they had passed by that third time, chanting ‘just chuck coal’.

They did look a dreary bunch.

“You’re putting our customers off,” grumbled one or two, pointedly. And others were less tactful, telling Frog just what he could do with his toilet paper and combs if he didn’t knock it off.

That night, at Oryx’s cottage, a rather large and unfriendly police dog came to visit.

“Good evening, Constable Truncheon,” Oryx said, answering the door. “How can I help you?”

“It’s not you I’ve come to see,” growled the police dog. “Is your friend at home?”

“Why yes,” smiled Oryx, helpfully. “I believe he’s in his room. I’m afraid he’s terribly busy, planning some covert operation or other. He’s tweeting fit to burst.”

“Is he, indeed? May I see him?”

“Well, you might disturb his work. But, if you insist.”

“Work? That’s rich. I know a layabout when I smell one.” Constable Truncheon shoved past Oryx and went straight through into Frog’s room.

Now Oryx wasn’t into tittle-tattle by any means, nor did she listen at keyholes or spread gossip. There was a lot of that about, these days, she would say to her friends, and it does nobody any good. But, it was impossible not to hear something of what was going on inside Frog’s room. She raised a hoof to her mouth and tried not to laugh.

She only got snatches. A bit like this:

‘…It’s my democratic right to play whatever I like on a comb…if I, or any of my fellow officers see or hear your stinking comb again, you won’t need it for your hair…frogs don’t have hair…in that case we’ll stick it up your insect…don’t try to threaten me…I’m not trying, Frog… Desert Frog…I expect you’ve always wanted to visit the bottom of a coal pit, haven’t you…no, I chuck coal, actually…I warn you, I am not a merry old soul…’

And so it continued for some time, with Constable Truncheon’s voice getting harder and Frog’s getting softer.

Oryx stopped tittering to herself when she heard Mr Lupus mentioned. And it was at that point that Constable Truncheon reappeared. “Goodnight, Ms Oryx,” he said. “I think I’ve made Mr Lupus' position on this ‘Just Chuck Coal’ nonsense clear. But in case I haven’t, try to make him see some sense, will you?”

And Oryx assured Constable Truncheon that she would, at least, try.

But it wasn’t long before something else occurred.

On a cold and rainy afternoon, Oryx had just finished darning a rather nice shirt with some of her best needlework, and was trotting along to the grocer’s shop to collect her payment. Perhaps (who knows?) a few vegetables or a nice hock of ham.

But the road was blocked. Several vehicles were queuing to get past something. What was it? Oryx screwed up her eyes to see and could just about make out seven or eight individuals sat on the road in front of all the traffic.

The drivers were getting impatient – there was a great deal of shouting, punctuated with the angry parping of horns. “Get out of the way, you brainless idiots,” some were screaming.

Hurrying to the front of the line, Oryx put her bundle of needlework down to see if she could help. What she saw quite made her eyes roll.

Frog and his cronies (as you’ve probably guessed) were dressed in orange high visibility jackets. They were blocking the road by sitting in a line across the tarmac. In front of them was a large heap of coal which they had mined from one of the disused collieries.

And facing our eco-warriors? A huge juggernaut, revving its engine menacingly.

“Coal not dole, coal not dole,” Kipper the Stick Insect was chanting, looking pleased with himself for remembering.

Pleased with himself, that is, until Frog gave him a short, sharp and swift clip about the ear. “Shut up, Kipper, you brain dead twig. That was in the 80s. It’s ‘Just chuck coal, just chuck coal’.”

Holding his ear with one of his good limbs, Kipper stood up, to make a stand. “I don’t care,“ he snivelled, “I’ve had enough clips about the ear from you, Frog. I’m going home. And, in any case, it’s wet and we’re freezing, sitting here. I’m going to warm myself by the fire. Give me that coal. Are you lot coming?”

“You traitor,” croaked Frog. “That coal is for chucking, not burning.”

And, as his former band of revolutionaries were scuttling away in retreat to whatever abode they had come from, he took his catapult and fired a huge chunk of black coal in their direction.

It missed by a mile.

However, it did bounce off the head of a spectator and, in a spectacular ricochet, smashed straight through the windscreen of the juggernaut. The driver, who was a burly brown grizzly, removed the coal from where it had embedded itself into his forehead, opened the door and descended from the cabin with a rather large baseball bat.

“Just chuck coal,” croaked Frog, waving his cardboard placard and doing his best not to look alarmed at that which was towering above him.

Now several of the onlookers took Frog at his word, advancing slowly to join the enraged driver clenching large jagged pieces of coal in their fists, grabbed from the inviting pile in front of him.

It looked like things were going to get very nasty indeed.

However, in a bizarre twist of fate, it was at this point that a second band of protestors arrived, from the other end of the High Street. They marched down towards where Frog was surrounded by would be assailants, also bearing placards.

“Just fling frogs, just fling frogs,” they were chanting, in time to the beating of drums, until they were confronting the first mob, eyeball to eyeball.

Frog was completely surrounded. “What do you lot want?” he squawked, raising himself to his full height and trying his best not to look intimidated, but failing.

“Get out of our way,” snarled the burly driver, “I want revenge on the green eyed, catapulting chunk chucker. He hurt my head and smashed my cab.”

The opposition was unmoved. “So do we. Too many of these frogs are moving in to steal our jobs.”

Both parties began to advance towards the other, either staring with furious intent or reaching hands towards our flinching frog beneath. “Help me, Oryx,” cried he, “I won’t chuck coal anymore!”

But before Oryx could in any way intervene, a loud voice was clearly heard from a loudhailer. “Step away from the frog,” it cried, with authority. “Citizens. Go about your business. And you, Frog, report to me, immediately.”

“Desert Frog.”

It was Mr Lupus.

And, after that, Oryx did not see much of Frog anymore.

Two days later, he returned from Mr Lupus, doing his best to look dignified. He collected his things, moved out of her spare room muttering something about serving the community.

She later found out that Mr Lupus was not too fond of Frogs, especially noisy ones, and had offered him the chance to move to France on a one way ticket. Something it seems that Frog declined.

Instead, while sewing, she occasionally spots him, with the rest of his insect band, doing a very nice job of re-greening the slag and clinker heap in front of her kitchen window, supervised by Constable Truncheon. They do get the occasional tea break and the rest of the Mansfield Woodhouse folk are very pleased with them, because it looks so much nicer.

As for that coal heap they had mined? Well, fortunately Mr Lupus had a use for that and will occasionally send Frog and his cronies down the pit to get more. And if they drop any coal on the street on the way back, there’s a burly brown grizzly truck driver who is more than happy to chuck it back at them. With interest.

Like as the Elfin Chameleon

 

Like as the Elfin Chameleon

 

Like as elfin chameleons blend into the trees,

so fuses young wit, gradually and by degrees,

until free will and free speech will cease to be.

Literacy intolerant from aversion to schools,

suck up flocculent diplomas tossed off by fools,

insisting with impunity on feckless rules.

In bedsheet mid-morning disputes embroiled,

sedentary of temperament and allergic to toil

think flinging oiled base paint will just stop oil.

And four square squatted with flickering fones,

greasy foreheads black spots are acne prone,

collectively conjoined to slouch vain and alone.

Lofty ambitions to attain high plains barista,

call us all buddy, wrack wrist trembled blister

come sister come brother come all that glister.

Entrapped of thin screen; lost in the trance,

cocks crow proud and bounce as they dance,

do mingle each other with hardly a glance.

No bullets or bombs sustain this dominion,

it comes not by stealth but by hollow opinion,

in indolence and apathy of a tweeting million.

Like as grey geckos skittle quick across floor,

scuttle dreary, ineffectual, spiritless bores,

so strictly decline and show them the door.

Ekho

 Ekho

 

Within myths that now are never read

of long lived in lives by living dead

dwells Ekho, Oreade of mousseux eye

who had Zeus’ back; when she did spy

by Kithairon’s untamed summit high,

young Narkissos come tripping by,

and all of nature did hear her sigh,

but here Hera now did strike her dumb,

wise counsels to him so very young

return back to her; will help no one,

barren echo sours slopes of Kithairon,

could only speak of love in final words,

reverberates but there is never heard.

He watches only screen-soak, instead

plunged four square one pixeled led,

blanks myths that are now never read

by mirrored lake streams’ frozen flow

Narkissos’ love did self sleeping grow,

and between his ears live only echo

and between his ears live only echo.

For with what Judgement ye Judge

 For with what Judgement ye Judge

You could be anywhere.

You could be in the Ramada hotel, possibly in downtown Doha.

Msheireb. Somewhere like that; it’s hard to be sure when heat smelts seas mid-May. Anybody might be hard pressed to see exactly where, through all that dripping sweat.

It fogs the spectacles, you know. Tints them with blushed rose.

There’s a veranda, that much is certain and benches. Benches sitting in judgement on other benches. Push through the glass doors from the main bar and you’ll find them. Those condemned to drip don’t judge; best to leave that to others, and just observe.

Filipina staff buzz in and out on this hot night, looping tables like those flat biting flies, in a decaying orbit, placing glasses of coolant in front of dripping masses who silently barbecue there.

Of course, there is air conditioning, but that’s rather frowned upon these days, isn’t it? In the same way that using external heaters has passed from fashion, you tend not to bother.  After all, with so much cancelled these days; you only know so much of what was is not or cannot be and might not even have existed here.

For instance, you’d better not snap or snort at that diminutive she/her, sporting a bob of blonde hair, possessed of bones so sharp they could cut, a tight red top pressing against B cups at best and sat behind one of these benches thinking about none of this.

She has a tumbler of fiery crimson liquid she occasionally glowers at, raises and swishes against shards of melted ice that completely fail to cool the drink sufficiently to her liking.

But she’s old, drinking a bitter Campari and soda and I think I know her. Such lemons for lips.

Well, maybe not old as such, it’s just that her face is so creased from a lifetime of constant frowning that it has come to resemble that loose-fitting corner of your fitted sheet who grips and grips the small of your back and brings too much wakeful frettings in the small hours.

Hell. A loose fitting fitted sheet.

If pressed, she would not admit that she resented the Filipina. They were as small as she, but their dark eyes sparkled with optimism, like onyx framed by perfectly coiffed dark cuts. And full bodies that pressed naughty shapes against sheer white virginal coveralls and pinafores in far too shapely a way.

If they knew how alluring they were, they were not giving any away.

Always smiling, always gracious. No, she certainly did not resent them. Not one bit.

She snapped something in that general direction a quick response and alongside her table. “Yes, madame?”

“Get me another one of these.” Her accent was particularly British, just a slight nasal twang, that was course corrected during the sentence so there was no upwards inflection. By no means was she the sort that inflected upwards, downwards and in any which way at all.

That accent cut like glass and slashed the burning air. It hung like ice then melted, dripping to the floor in condescension.

“Yes, madame.”

And she, the bobbing angel, departed smirking, winging her way through the glass doors to the bar, bouncing more than was strictly necessary, whilst our lady did not notice, or feel in the slightest bit envious as she watched countless other pairs of eyes following her passage.

Madame lit a cigarette, enjoying the unpleasant taste of burnt upon her tongue, scanning the veranda.

Then, she refocused her attention on the folder in front of her. It was a little askance on the table, so she repositioned it to a perfect perpendicular, coughed, resettled some rather grim looking pinch-framed, black-rimmed spectacles on her nose and opened the plastic cover.

The title page was in a bold font. ‘British Standards Inspection open brackets Ofsted, close brackets’. Doha International School. Ain Khaled. There was almost a sneer on her face. Just a trace, perhaps, but by now the drink had arrived.

And, in any case, one of those lupine pairs of eyes had detached itself from an adjacent table and was standing beside her, looking in, almost apologetically. “I heard your accent.”

“You got no right coming to my table,” snapped our lady, affecting to be absorbed in her flimsy. “This is my table. Nobody has any right at this table but me.”

“I heard your accent. I thought I could just come and sit.”

“As long as you won’t go away and leave me alone, you may as well sit down,” she replied, grimly, but maybe secretly pleased, because, you know, she’s a stranger in a strange land, and burning. We’ve all been there, and if we haven’t, we surely will.

Maybe there is more than just one actor here, for, with a flourish, doffs he his tricorn. Well, she didn’t see that coming, had to suppress a smile. “And just who the devil are you, anyway?” quoth she, shifting back 300 years, but hold hard. Time slips in such a hotel as this.

“Why, none other than Cap’n Ross Poldark,” he grins all pearly whites, like Peter Pan. And he sits opposite her, placing his headwear beside him on her table to his left, and a small beer to his right, in a glass much colder than it ever had any right to be.

For her part, she has replaced the cynical bleak mask that briefly slipped, determined to be hard work. For that is what she is, hard work. “Captain Poldark?” she replied, biting the consonants.

“If you like,” he grinned, “Actually, I’m pretty much anything you want, Maureen. What are we up to?” And he took the flimsy folder from her, skimming it, like a flick book, his eyes scanning, narrowing, zooming.

Maureen snatched it off him.

“Childish,” he responded, taking it back, resuming and finishing, then chucking it back on the table, before helping himself to one of her cigarettes. He flicked the lighter, inhaled and then coughed. “Actually, I gave that up,” he recalled, throwing it to the floor, grinding it to ash under his heel. “Some years ago. At least I think I did. We used to smoke, didn’t we?”

Well, she was having none of that, thank you very much. “What a bastard waste. Just who are you? Those are my confidential papers, my fucking cigarettes…” Maureen spluttered, incensed and incendiary.

“Whomever you do so want. In any case, you’re not in the playground now, Missee. You did just that with your homework. It might have spared the boy a beating or two. You were little, but fierce. Do you think it leaves you? That?”

“Piss off.”

“You want? It’s double dealing really, if you think about it. You get it at school; later at home, the beating is doubled. Parents, you know?” He smiled, impishly and rose.

But cigarettes were dirt cheap, and despite the fact she was in a painted corner, she relented. “Sorry, I’m in a bad mood. I think it’s the heat. I went inside but it’s just as bad there. And also, I told my team to come, but they’re not here.”

“Team? Like Lakers at Nuggets?”

Maureen did not understand. “How did you know my name?”

“It’s written on your ankle bracelet, Michaela.”

“Is it?” replied Maureen, before realizing she had no such bracelet.

“No, I stole that from a James Bond book.” And he tapped the folder that he’d wrestled from her moments earlier.

“Ah.”

Poldark grinned. “I read a lot,” he apologized, “In my job, you have to.” He frowned. “I’m a bugger for the deets. What team?” And he sipped some beer, enjoying the cold liquid. He observed her quizzically, and not sweating in the slightest. “You could tell me in bed. Do you like talking? In bed? Afterwards?”

“In bed?” Maureen’s voice was beginning to splutter again. This was certainly a most peculiar conversation and not what she’d expected when she’d stepped off the plane.

Plane? Surely, there was a plane. Yes. There must have been.

“You’re a woman. I’m a Captain. We both have needs…unless, well, you know, your jam and cream is spread the other way round. I mean, look, is it Devon or Cornwall you’re after? Some prefer cream on top. Me? I’m more what you might call a jam first kind of fellow. Blackberry.”

“Why did you call me Michaela?”

“You look like one. You’re looking like one who used to look.”

Maureen’s forehead contracted in mental effort, trying to grasp something that floated away from her like moths on mist.

“Don’t do that with your face. It resembles a kilt.”

She scowled. “I hate this place. Hate it.” she hissed, with sudden venom, and looked as though she might strike. “The people. When they’re not fawning all over you in the hope you’ll leave a tip, they’re sneering behind your back. I can feel it.”

“You want to be back in England?”

“And why in hell not? Why not? You know, what? They send me here to award British values to a school in a place like this, full of hateful people, of backward beliefs, of every creed and colour under the sun…and I won’t do it. I won’t do it.”

“Just how much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough,” snapped Maureen.

“We both are a long way from Cornwall. That’s for sure. I don’t know that we can ever go back.” He replaced his tricorn, held out his hand and led her through those doors, up, up and away.

And of course she followed.

 

 

“Let’s go and get them.”

Maureen and her team had arrived promptly at what appeared to be school gates on that first day, despite sporting a hangover and rumpled skirt, to be met by the gracious owner.

She was wearing a traditional abaya and hijab, dark sunglasses, darker smile…and then slipped them to the Aussie Principal who subsequently took them through the ranks and thus to a conference room bestrewn with a rather sumptuous breakfast…and more pretreated paperwork than they could possibly read during that very short stay.

“A smokescreen,” she’d hissed, “oh, I’ve seen it before, we won’t even bother with this lot.”

Her handpicked team, rather on the young side, but ambitious, you’d suppose, nodded in accord. “But it’s paper, not smoke,” one of them pointed out.

“Shut up, Tompkins,” she’d replied.

And he’d nodded into his phone, set to mirror.

At least, that’s what she thought happened. It was difficult to be certain, upon recounting it later.

Still, sitting around that table on that morning, her handpicked youngsters looked vague; indistinct, like smoke impressions of real people. She had to press upon them her mission, her modus operandi, certain they’d know no better. And yet they kept slipping from view, to reappear somewhere else.

If she asked them to put phones away, they’d glance at them under the table. Or slip them out of pockets every ten minutes. One of those.

“Didn’t they pay for our visit?” asked Tompkins, determined to be awkward, it seemed.

“That’s scarcely the point. It’s our job to find the narrative and pull at the threads,” snapped Maureen, unraveling a little and mopping her head in an effort to erase the hot sweats of the night before.

“I’m not sure. Aren’t we all about celebrating success and encouraging talent?”

“We certainly are not. Didn’t you attend any of the training, Tompkins?”

“Not really. It was mostly online. I get distracted.”

Maureen rolled her eyes. “Find the threads and pull them. Look under the bed for what’s hidden there. We’re here to do a job. Don’t you recall decimating coasting coastal schools? You’ve go teeth, use them. Tear them all to pieces.”

“Yeah, I know, but this is a school, not a prison,” whined Tompkins, unable to drop it.

Maureen, however, grabbed a sheaf of printed lesson observation forms and started to stalk the bleaches.

The school was spacious, well maintained and nicely open plan. The classrooms formed an outer and inner crescent and left a luxurious space in-between for students to break out, assemble, participate in group activities or drama.

Maureen instinctively disapproved, comparing it in her head with the tumble down establishments she was more familiar with back home. “Ostentatious,” she hissed, “playground of the rich,” before nearly tumbling a group of Year 8 girls spread all over the floor creating art. She barely apologized and sneered at the canvas depicting whatever dreams came from heads like these.

She spotted one of her young suited striplings heading towards her; mission in motion, and called out. “Where have you been?”

“On the boys’ side.”

“What? There’s a boys’ side? They segregate them?”

“Yeah. It’s over there – you take the bridge,” he responded.

Scowling, Maureen licked her pencil like a policeman from an Enid Blyton novel and scribbled something down in her notes. “Scarcely British,” she could have muttered.

Stairs descended from an upper level to one beneath, layered like a cake, from where she could hear the mostly happy sounds of primary school children. At the bottom of the stairs, a stage had been set up. Some teenagers were rehearsing a musical play in English. Maureen hadn’t the faintest idea what it was.

She clattered down the steps and sat watching at the bottom a while, pencil poised like a mosquito’s sting quivering above flesh. Eventually the bass player, a tall gangling Pakistani youth, put down his instrument and sauntered over with an enquiring look. “Can we help you?”

“I’m an inspector,” Maureen replied with a brusque tone, “what are you doing here?” snipping off ‘on earth’ before it came out.

The boy shrugged. “Midsummer Night’s – The Musical”. And he strolled back to the stage, to resume playing.

“Don’t you care?” she shouted at his back, somehow peeved by his nonchalance.

Plucking a string or two, the boy replied, “what about?”

“I’m an inspector. From England. I’m judging your school.”

“Not really. What’s so good about that? More important I play this line right.” And he continued practising, making mistakes, practising. “England, eh? I don’t judge.”

Her head was swimming, as she struggled to focus, for the boy seemed liquid, rolling before her – a trick of the limelight.  As the stage swum in front of her and she thought she might be drowning, a rope thrown voice pulled her free.

“Over here.”

That voice had a familiar quality about it and snapped Maureen back into focus. She cut to a classroom, where, perhaps to her surprise, Captain Ross Poldark was conducting a class of Year 8 girls as though they were an orchestra. “You,” she barked, and then flushed red, and not just because what might have taken place between those sheets last night, but, much worse, what she might have admitted to him about the mission in the throes of confessional passions.

For the life of her, it was nothing but a blur.

Alcohol, that pickpocket of judgement, that thief of brains. Who had written that? Again, she could not remember.

Maureen whipped out her clipboard and paperwork, clutching both like a lifebelt. Mister Ross grinned and shook his head. “Same old Demelza,” he laughed, then frowned, a cloud scudding across his face. “Odd this, isn’t it?”

Still flushing, Maureen found a seat at the back of the classroom.

Her face, despite its reddened palette set itself into an iron mask. Inside, her thoughts were whirling like a buzz saw. She could barely focus on a laminated sheet of Teaching Standards that was placed next to the form and the pen trembled slightly between her fingers.

Scanning for faults, she noticed immediately that all desks were pushed back against the four walls of the classroom. Students were facing the walls and not each other; could not even see the whiteboard – well some of them could, but it was a good start and her black marks scorched the paper with a satisfying hiss.

Mister Ross knew exactly what she was doing…exactly that, she knew it, he knew that she knew it. He could see into her as though she was transparent, worse, he was pouring his thoughts into hers and she felt the nausea of a sea-sickness.

With a snap of fingers, the class of girls flipped their chairs round, facing inwards, an unbroken circle as Mister Ross wrote it up on the board using a thick green marker: ‘mal de mer’.

One of the girls raised a hand. “But that’s French, Mister Ross. This is an English lesson.”

 “But French for what?”

“Sea sickness,” shouted another, eagerly, whom Maureen later found out was called Alma.

 “Quick now,” grinned Mister Ross, “give me some connections. Discuss it in groups. Come on girls, work it out.”

A scraping of chairs was followed by a loud, excited, sometimes heated discussion. Mister Ross sidled over to Maureen. “Good morning, dearest. I hope you’re not too sore. This takes you back, doesn’t it?”

“Where?”

“Think. Think very hard.” Ross smiled sympathetically, and then, with an action that was inappropriate given the context, brushed her cheek gently with the back of his hand. “Can you remember?”

Unsurprisingly, Maureen flinched, bridled and pulled away from his touch. “That was just wrong, Poldark,” she spat venomously. “Any more of that and I’ll report you. I think I will anyway.”

Before he could respond, one of the girls had her hand up. “We’ve got it, Mister,” she announced, excitedly.

Ross looked around. “Go on, then, Alma. Take the class.” He sat down beside Maureen, without apology.

“Well, Mister, sailors in the old days had quarantine. Forty days off the coast of Venice. They thought scurvy was contagious, didn’t they? But it was to do with not enough oranges. So mal de mer is seasickness and that sounds like marmalade. Which is where marmalade gets its name from.”

“Brilliant. Shakespeare would be proud. We should write that down before we forget it.”

Despite herself, Maureen was intrigued. “Is that actually true?”

“I’m not sure. I hope so. It’s a great piece of deduction.” Mister Ross smiled. “But no, I don’t think so. Still, why spoil a good story? Why ruin a dream?”

Maureen scowled. “But it’s not accurate. You’ve got them writing it down as though it was the truth. It’s not factual. You’re uneducating them.”

“If you say so, Chief Inspector. Wasn’t it you, who told me that one, back in Cornwall? And look at them. They’re writing, they’re talking, they’re imagining. That’s an English lesson, if ever I saw one.”

“No it isn’t. Not even close.”

“Why don’t you smile? You never smile, you know that?”

“I don’t know who you are.”

“That much is certain.”

Twenty minutes later, Mister Ross had led them outside the classroom and was at the centre of a circle. “Why? Why did Shylock do it?”

Maureen was watching with narrowed eyes, scribbling furiously, scoring the paper with hard strokes of the pen. She jumped when she heard a voice beside her.

“Should we feel sorry for Shylock, Miss?” Alma continued, gazing into her eyes curiously, “Antonio treated him badly, treated all of them badly, didn’t he? What do you think?”

“Go away child, I’m busy,” replied Maureen, coldly, watching as Alma shivered and withdrew.

If she was frightening the children, she cared less. What actually was this text, anyway? What could be so important about a moneylender who was demanding pounds of flesh? Maureen watched unmoved as some of the children started a cod performance, the words delivered in thick accents. Something about quality of mercy is not strained but drippeth from heaven.

It was a load of bollocks, as far as she was concerned. There was no clear lesson objective. Differentiated outcomes nowhere to be see. Why, he had made it up as he went along. The entire lesson had just come from his head and filled the classroom. Activity without purpose. No, worse than that, inaccurate activity.

But it was precisely as she was thinking that, that a bomb dropped.

She saw Mister Ross answer his phone. He spoke some words, indistinctly. Then he walked over to her, the corners of his mouth pulled downwards. He looked genuinely upset.

Having none of it, Maureen snatched her papers and stood up. Given her intimate knowledge of his methods, she felt entitled to be frank. “I’m giving this excuse for a lesson a rating of ‘inadequate’,” she declared, in triumph.

“I don’t think it matters,” he replied, somberly. “I have been asked to tell you the inspection’s been cancelled.”

“Cancelled? What do you mean? You can’t cancel an inspection,” Maureen blustered, but seeing the truth writ large in the eyes opposite.

“Yes, sorry, old friend. Cancelled by the C E O on the grounds of gross unprofessionalism by you and your team.”

“What?”

“Yes. It seems that, in no particular order, you’ve frightened the kids, upset the parents by asking if they were paid to give a good review of the school, and one of your number has been asking where the children’s beds are and can he look under them.”

 

“Tell me about ‘coasting coastal schools’.”

“A phrase coined by the British newspapers some years ago, Jacob. A glib soundbite. It amounts to nothing of consequence.”

“Oh, really? Well, why did you give me this cutting?”

“It’s relevant, Jacob.”

“Explain.”

“Some years ago, it was felt by the incumbent government that schools in deprived coastal areas were not serving the needs of students as well as they might. Focused too much on the outdated principle that every child mattered, educating the whole person - instead of results and data.”

“Toast and jam in the morning, that sort of thing?”

“Yes, too much toast in the morning and not enough Dickens.”

“’Oliver Twist’ all over again, Jeremy.”

“Indeed, Jacob. Precisely the point.”

“So what happened?”

“Simple. Some schools took the toast away, shut down the launderettes and made a start with massaging the data. Given a pass for good behaviour.”

“And those who stuck to their guns were decimated? It must have torn whole families apart. Coasting coastal schools, eh? Shall we have her in?”

Maureen had sat outside the head office in an ante chamber for what seemed like an eternity, having dismissed her team at some point in the recent past.

She could not remember how she was here, when she’d arrived or even if she’d left the country.

As she ran through her justification, having an internal conversation, rehearsing answers to questions she could well imagine would be asked, it seemed not to matter. For now, those doors were closed. When they opened, the inquest would begin.

A cancelled inspection. Who had ever heard of such a thing? How would she explain it to her bosses?

Despite the oppressive heat, Maureen shivered, replaying those few hours over and over again in her head. They could not know of the night in the bar and how she’d gone with that insolent Captain to his room, could they? No, she was sure of that and put it from her mind. She would instead focus on the main narrative, the facts, and the incompetence of her team.

That team that she’d hand picked herself – strutting young bucks to a man, fresh from Inspection Training School. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What was it that had made her select them; bring them overseas?

Not one of them had even met her in that bar – they had caused this. She would never forgive them.

Then…a noise and some movement beside her. A familiar looking tricorn was tossed onto the floor. “It is twice blessed. It blesses she who gives and she who takes.”

“What are you doing here? No. Shut up. That’s not right. How did you even get here?”

“I’ve come to help you.”

“You? Help me? I’ve never heard such nonsense. And if you mention what took place in the hotel, I’ll deny it.” She wanted to beg him not to tell, certain that he was going to. But begging was never her business.

No doubt irritated by her hostility, Captain Ross frowned. “Why should that even concern them? In any case, they probably already know. In my experience, they know most things, don’t they?”

Maureen bridled. “I’ve never had my judgement questioned by anybody before, let alone an inspection team.”

“Oh, shut up. Of course you have. More times that you want to remember. We’ve all been here before. You remind me of my brother, Francis. Thought he’d found a missing copper down his mine. Drowned in an underground lake, you know? Clutching nails.”

The door opened outwards from within, ominously. A booming voice offered them into the ring.

As Maureen entered what that familiar office, her eyes had to adjust to the place, because it was somewhat dark in there. She noticed subtle changes, such as a fireplace upon which logs hissed and spat, somewhat incongruous because the sweat was trickling uncomfortably from her armpits and down the small of her back. Her undergarments were sticky.

The fake candelabra, still hanging from the ceiling, seemed to have real candles now but, as ever, it did not shed too much light.

Four or five of her superiors were sitting behind the desk as she approached it. She smiled uncertainly at her immediate boss, a retired Scottish Sherriff called Jacob Smite who’d found a new calling inspecting schools and had made a good fist of it. They had always got on well and it was he who’d assigned her to Arabia.

“Cap’n Poldark,” grunted Smite, “You old vagabond. What brings you here? Had enough of the kipper smuggling game?”

“Oh well, you know me, finger in every fish pie.”

The rest of the panel tittered; it sounded a bit rude. Maureen hadn’t a clue and sat down at the table, which was set up in such a way as to allow for free and frank discussion. The Captain pulled out the chair nearest to her and, outrageously, reached under the table and squeezed her right knee in an encouraging way.

She scowled at him and had every right to scream sex predator or pest. But somehow, she didn’t. Poldark had something about his person that bothered her memory. It had been that way since they had first met and she’d followed him to that room, opened up, and confessed her deeper feelings, muttering into a listening ear all night. He knew everything. Had nodded in a tolerant way and said little in return.

“Well, Maureen, first let me assure you that no one’s being judged here,” began Smite, accusingly. “But, a cancelled inspection? I’ve been – if you’ll pardon the expression – on the game for many a year now, and I’ve never heard of such a thing as this. I mean, come on, we’re Ofsted. Schools don’t cancel us, we cancel them.” He turned to his colleagues for reassurance and they nodded briskly.

Smite smiled, relieved by the affirmation. “Thought so. Well?”

“I did not fiddle my expenses,” said Maureen, clapping her hand to her mouth as those words came out.

“I beg your pardon?” replied Smite, confused. “Why did you say that?”

“I did not have sex with Captain Poldark,” she continued, “and I am not, in any way an intolerant bigot who should never have set foot in the Middle East.”

There was a general coughing and some baffled shaking of heads around that table. Something of a stillness descended upon the assemblage.

Captain Poldark spoke hastily. “I think what she meant to say, your honour, was that she does not sit on fences when it comes to having wrecks. Er…having my shipwrecked…er…frigate, that time I was caught with a kilo of mackerel by the French authorities, you recall?”

“Does not sit on shipwrecked frigates? Oh, I see, well that’s perfectly understandable. Pas de deux as the French would say. Jeremy? Do we have any Ofsted teams in France?”

“No, your honour, they will not let us cross the border, let alone have us anywhere near a school. Accuse us of being illegal immigrants interested only in stirring up trouble and wrecking education.”

“Good for them. Excellent taste, the French.”

“Indeed, your honour.”

“Makes you wonder why they let us bother them in Arabia, really. Still, be that as it may and notwithstanding shipwreck squatting,” continued Smite, “can you tell us what happened, Maureen? It’s a dammed nuisance, really. Means we have to go again, don’t you know?”

“I am not a poorly educated, sexually frustrated old hag who could not control a class of pupils.”

“Come again?”

“I did not, and at no time ever countenanced pushing Ross Poldark under a bus in order to become Head of English.”

Shooting a sidelong glance at Maureen, Ross hissed,“Shut up. The hotel. That must have helped. And the lesson. I spent hours. Thinking that through.”

Jacob Smite was scowling by now. “I see.” His voice rang clearly across the room and he looked at the others assesmbled. “It seems nothing has been learnt at all.” There was a general nodding around the table. “Ladies and gentlemen. Shall we release the tortoise?”

Maureen was confused, but before she could say anything else, Ross clapped a hand over her mouth. It was at this point, his eyes, so brown looked deeply into hers and she began to see. Her mind was starting to clear as though a cool breeze was blowing through it.

When you’re driving, bumper to bumper in the fog across Bodmin Moor - you catch that first glimpse of the sun; the thick weed begins to part, the smoke ascends and those few feet in front of you open up.

Captain Ross nodded. Then he his gaze moved to Smite. “Yes. Release the tortoise.”

Smite reached below the desk and placed a rickety looking cardboard box in front of him. It smelt of mildew and damp barns. “Do they like carrots?” he asked.

Jeremy nodded.

“Well, that’s good news. Has anybody bought a carrot with them today?”

Now there was a general uneasy shuffling around the table. It seemed that nobody had thought to bring the required root. But, after an uncomfortable moment or two, Captain Ross reached into his trousers and tossed one casually in front of Smite. “Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere. Will this do?”

“It will indeed, Captain Ross.” Quickly reaching for the carrot, Smite tipped the box over and, using a metal cheese grater, began to shred the vegetable in front of the box. “Come on, tortoise, come out of your box,” he crooned coaxingly, as the pile of gratings piled higher upon the table. “tortoise, tortoise, tortoise.”

But after about five minutes, it was clear there was nothing stirring. Whatever was within, remained unperturbed.

Jeremy had a glance inside and nodded his confirmation. “The tortoise sleeps.”

“The tortoise sleeps,” repeated Smite, sympathetically. “Does anybody want a bit of carrot to take home?”

“May as well,” replied Captain Ross Poldark, “You want some, Maureen?”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m sorry, Madame?” replied the pert Filipina, bobbing politely. “I did not mean to be rude.”

“Get me another drink.”

You could be anywhere.

You could be in the Ramada hotel, possibly in downtown Doha.

But it’s hard to be sure when heat freezes cast iron and anybody might be hard pressed to see exactly where they were. 

It fogs the spectacles, you know. Tints them in blushed, withering rose.