Round and round the garden

‘Come on Sam, we’re not going out until you put your hat on, it’s too cold out there. If you keep being silly we won’t have time for the swings because baby Agnes will need her feed’.
She knew she would relent; seeing the scrunched up face of her little boy which would be the precursor to a full blown tantrum which would then result in the baby waking and joining in the general howl of despair. She would never get out at this rate. Sam would cry himself to sleep on the sofa and she’d have him awake all night.
‘Well ok, just this once, but if it starts to rain you must put your hood up and do as mummy tells you, we don’t want Agnes to see a big boy like you making such a ugly face’.
Sulky looks were instantly transformed to a beaming smile and a race to the front door.
Wigan Tech had not prepared her for the exhaustion she would feel being a mum of a two year old and childminder to a baby. She knew she should never give in to temper tantrums, that she was making a rod for her own back. ‘Children need structured guidelines and established codes of behaviour’, she had written in her portfolio under the heading ‘Discipline and the under fives’ followed by 10 bullet point suggestions. Now, six months into her first job, with her own toddler as well, the naughty step and firm voice had been replaced by the bag of gooey sweets and blatant bribery.

She was glad and very grateful that Agnes was such a placid and pleasant little girl, she felt she sometimes took advantage of her good nature; while she chased the more petulant Sam round with the white plastic potty or a spoonful of unsavoury looking baby food, Agnes seemed quite content to play with her cot mobile. She tried not to show favouritism towards her own child but Sam was so demanding at times.
Agnes was such a sweet little baby, when Sam had his afternoon nap she would scoop her up in her arms and cover her with kisses until she cooed and giggled and her soft pink skin blushed with delight.
Sometimes she felt a slight resentment when she heard Sam stirring as he snivelled awake and his head, with its mass of blond tangled curls, turned towards her for attention.
Katie was glad to feel the sharp north wind on her face and leave behind for a short while the stuffiness of the playroom with its smells of scented nappy bags and dried milk powder. She hoped Sam would be a good boy on the swings and not make a scene when they had to come back.



As she picked the dead baby up she was amazed at its perfection. It reminded her of the porcelain babies’ advertised sometimes in glossy magazines, ’unique, handcrafted each baby is accompanied by their own wrist tag and baby birth certificate with the name of your choice’ She had once seen a channel 4 documentary where some childless women collected these babies, had them ‘made to measure’ with their own choice of hair colour, freckles, even individual customised birth marks. Some of the babies you could feed, wind, even hear breathing.

This baby had been thrown over her garden wall and had landed on a bed of snowdrops. She still smelled of her last feed and by the corner of her mouth a tiny finger print of milk had congealed and dried.
Her white babygro and knitted pink hooded coat were unmarked apart from a sharp twig which had caught in the hood and snagged loose one of the stitches. She unhooked the twig and then carefully placed the baby back on its grass resting place.
A young woman, presumably the mother, was running round and round her garden, howling, her hands blindly clawing at the air. A small boy sat crossed legged in the centre of the garden as though he were a lost boy in a fairy tale, captured by a wicked witch. Blood was oozing from a large graze on his forehead and he was holding one ear and whimpering.

She let the woman continue to run her frenzied circuit of the lawn and quickly broke through to pick the child up and comfort him as best she could. The small boy clung to her and from the protection of her arms he looked across at his mother as though she was some terrible mad woman.

Where had this horror scene sprung from? She had been upstairs changing the bed sheets when she heard a loud thud and the splintering of glass and had gone to glance out of the window never expecting the scene which she was confronted with.
A blue car was concertinaed into the lamppost just outside her front garden wall and inside a young man lay slumped against the wheel. The pram which he had hit had been catapulted over her wall and now lay in the bushes as though it had been in a scrap yard compressor. On the opposite side of the road there was an empty parked car.
To begin with she could not see the driver and then realised she must be the tangled heap of blood soaked rags lagging the base of the speed camera sign. She knew it must have been a woman because one dainty black high heeled shoe was still in the middle of the road.

For a moment she sat on her front doorstep rocking the whimpering child and closing her eyes on the scene before her. Her eyelids were a soft gentle veil drawn momentarily over the carnage which faced her. She knew that soon she would have to open them. Neighbours and passers by would come to help, soon she would hear the sound of the ambulance and police sirens as they arrived to cover and carry the dead.
Later on reporters would be here with their flash lights and intrusive notepads. There would be headlines about this tragic ‘freak’ accident which claimed three lives and devastated families. The mother and childminder would revisit the scene of their loss and talk to her in whispered trembling voices. Tributes of flowers cards, soft toys would gather against her wall until it took on the semblance of a holy shrine which she dare not disturb out of reverence for a trio of people she never knew.
But for a few minutes she wanted to sit with her eyes closed and feel the early spring sun on her face.



Hi Amy, it’s me……………………………..
I’m just on my way to make a delivery in St. Helens, should be able to finish about four………………………….
Yeh, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have been so late back, I won’t do it again, really, I promise. It’s the lads fault, everyone was getting so pissed I couldn’t just walk out… Wouldn’t have looked very sociable…………….
Joanne? …………..Nah… don’t remember her being there…anyway………...you know I’m not interested in any one else………
Do you want me to pick up an Indian on the way back? We can have a quiet night in…. watch that soppy DVD you keep on about…….
What? OK.
What the fuck is that car doing in the middle…………….?

It’s Katie, poor cow, look at her saddled with two kids and she’s only my age. I remember her at college, she was in my class. Thought she was a bit of a swot, always got her homework in on time and got the best placement report of the lot of us. Then she got in with that wanker Mike; he just used her and then when she got pregnant he didn’t want to know. Still she managed to complete the course; we used to joke that she’d be the first to put into practise all those boring lessons with the real thing. Perhaps I should stop, ask her if she wants a night out with the girls, she looks as though she could do with cheering up.

‘Hi Katie, how you doing? What lovely kids, are they both yours?’
‘Hi Amy, I didn’t recognise you. like the fancy new car. No I’ve only got the one, Sam he’s mine, will be two next month. The baby’s called Agnes, I child mind her for my neighbour Teresa. Just started three weeks ago. It’s quite a handful with the two of them. Still she’s a good girl, aren’t you sweety?
Ok Sam we’re going to the swings. Say hello to Amy, stop kicking the buggy wheel or you won’t go anywhere. What you doin now, are you still goin with Jason?’
‘Na, dumped him months ago. Bin goin with Josh 6 weeks now. He’s manager of pc world in Wigan. What about you, have you got a man in your life? Does Sam ever see his dad?’
What that loser? No chance, he couldn’t even remember his way home, he’s a dead loss. Meant to pay me 30 quid a week maintenance but while he’s still unemployed I’m lucky if I even get a tenner in the post. Still; we’re doin ok, we don’t need him, do we Sam?’

‘If you can get a baby sitter, we was planning a night out with the girls, you remember Becky and Ruth, she’s got a little girl now. She got engaged last week and she’s invited us out for a……………



The pink woollen jacket my grandma knitted tickles my nose. It’s not that cold outside and yet she’s wrapped me up like one of those babushka dolls which sit on my dressing table. Katie means well though, not like the last childminder I had. She would let me sit in my pram all morning, a damp nappy chaffing my skin while she sat painting her nails. And then when mum came in make such a fuss of me, all smiles and tickles as if she hadn’t taken her eyes off me all day.
I know this one cares; even though it’s difficult for her with that pesky little boy of hers. Once when we’d had to go back early from the swings he spat in my face when she wasn’t looking and then made out I’d sneezed. I felt his saliva slowly dry on my skin. He’s not above giving me the occasionally nip too, I’m sure she must notice but turns a blind eye sometimes rather than have to deal with his terrible two’s tantrum. He goes blue in the face and his eyes spark like a little demon.
It’s lovely when he has his afternoon nap: it’s our special time. She scoops me up and pretends she’s going to ‘eat me all up’ because I taste so gorgeous. The way she nuzzles and kisses me on my neck just under my chin makes me squeal with delight.



She knows I’m so ticklish under my arms and I love it when she plays round and round the garden on my outstretched hand:

‘Round and round the garden like a teddy bear
One step a’ two step
A’ tickle Agnes under there…’

Sometimes she sings to me one of the top twenty hits and she disco dances me round the room and then we collapse in an exhausted bundle on the sofa.
Then there are the quiet times when I feel sleepy and she sits and holds me, gently stroking my skin, she stares out of the window with tears in her eyes as if she is waiting for someone or something.

The car came out of no where. I heard the screech of brakes and the smell of burnt rubber stung my nostrils. Then my world began to spin.

My name is Agnes Mary Evans; I am 6 months, two weeks and five seconds old.


UNBEARABLE
Mother tells of her grief after tragic death of 6 month old daughter.

An inquest has been opened following the tragic death of two adults and a six month old baby in an accident along Wigan Road in February………
Prosecutor, Alan Watkins read out a statement from Agnes’ mum, Teresa Evans in which she described the impact her daughter’s death has had on her:
‘I was so proud of my daughter and as a mother I loved her more than life itself. She was a happy, beautiful baby and the pain of losing her is unbearable. She brought joy into the life of everyone who knew her; she was our little treasure. Agnes is my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night. Every child
in a pram is a constant reminder of what we have lost. I suffer from nightmares and have been unable to return to work.
The impact of Agnes’ death cannot be put in a statement. Unless you have had the terrible experience of having to choose your child’s clothes to wear in her coffin you can never understand and I hope you never will…..’

Wigan Reporter 14th April 2007

World War 3 and The Man Who Gave The Internet Away

Here is a much-slimmed down version (to half-size) of the piece I read out at the last workshop (for which I apologise!) I think it is much better and, hopefully, easier to understand. (If anyone would still like to see the over-stuffed version, let me know.)

It is a blisteringly hot afternoon in Colorado. The temperature is over 100 degrees in the shade. One place where there is lots of shade is deep within Cheyenne Mountain. Under the sleeping mountain is the eye that never sleeps. This is where the North American Aerospace Defence complex has its headquarters. If you wanted to leave the United States defenceless, this is where you would start – by taking out the headquarters of the Defence complex. And the Cold War is about to get very hot indeed.

Unbearable tensions have arisen between the two Superpowers, not known since the Cuban missile crisis. Fearing an attack, someone in the Kremlin orders a pre-emptive strike. NORAD is designed to withstand a thirty megaton hydrogen bomb within one nautical mile. However, multiple strikes explode over Cheyenne Mountain, vaporising it and its fortress of computers, communication links and staff. The US is blind and defenceless. Only revenge attack is possible. And World War Three has begun.

Or, at least, it could have been like that, and you and I would not be sitting here. But it hasn’t happened and isn’t likely to happen, all because of a very simple idea.

Telephones use wires in circuits to connect a caller. You are, for the duration of your call, given a whole circuit, just to yourself and your friend, to have a conversation. This arrangement is known, for hopefully obvious reasons, as circuit switching. It’s fine, but it does have its limitations, such as someone pulling the plug or blowing the exchange up. This was the problem that faced the United States when it wanted to build a defence system against possible Soviet missile or bomber attack. One big telephone exchange would have been a tempting target.

The Norad Defense system uses a lot of computers and computers can talk to each other in messages that can be chopped up and addressed separately in little packets. This is like sending a book through the post to a friend, one page at a time. Each packet can pick its own route as it feels fit, depending on the circumstances at the time. When all the pages arrive, you can stick them back together as a book.

This idea is known as packet switching, and it makes World War Three much less likely. And here’s why.

If you have enough alternative routes – a network of cables and computers, not unlike a network of cross-country roads – it’s very hard to find one choke-point where you can set up a road-block and stop all the packets getting through. In fact, if you make the system clever enough, so that it can re-route things on the fly and also keep sending copies till one gets through, it’s virtually impossible.

The rules for sending messages in packets are known as protocols. By having all the computers connected together sharing the same rules several things happen. For one – and importantly for stopping a world war – the system is tremendously resilient – you can’t break it easily. If you can’t smash the defence, you’re much less likely to attack. For another, any computer can talk to any other computer because they share a common language. And no one computer is boss. Again, no obvious big target.

Everyone knows that The Internet was invented in the Nineties to give something for teenagers to stay in and play with when they weren’t out wearing hoodies and beating up grandmas. Wrong! The Internet was a network of computers that used a family of protocols called the Internet Protocol, that was first fired up on New Year’s Day 1983. The network got its name from the name of the protocol, not the other way round.

The problem now, once The Internet broke out from its cradle of the Cold War and became available to civilians, was that it was still not very friendly – you had to be a bit of a computer whizz to use it. Fortunately, two people were about to come to the rescue.

Steve Jobs, of Apple Computers, borrowed an idea from Xerox, the photocopier people, to control computers by using a pointer to click on commands on a screen, This was known as a Graphic User Interface, with a pointing device called a mouse. Text you could click on to give a command, such as: "Load a file," was called hypertext.

A few years after this had caught on, the hypertext idea reached an English scientist called Tim Berners-Lee, working at CERN, the European nuclear research organisation. He thought it would be a neat idea if you could click on hyperlinks made of hypertext to get documents from any other computer anywhere in the world. The Hypertext Transport Protocol was born, and the mish-mash of links around the world’s computers became known as the World Wide Web. It’s so easy to use, even children can navigate it.

The Web makes information accessible via The Internet to a vast number of people, currently estimated at 1.2 thousand million. If Berners-Lee had patented his idea, he would surely now have been a billionaire. But he chose not to. He just wanted to enable people to get at information. He gave the World Wide Web away, free.

Then again, becoming a billionaire is still a small prize compared with preventing a nuclear war.

The End

The Net

Shrug away fears and firmly grasp the net;
Come saddle up a snorting photon beam;
Lean forward, grip the mane and ride the dream;
Joust bravely with electrons tete-a-tete.
Go boldly into other worlds, forget
Your leaden boots, leap out and get extreme.
In cyberspace, if no-one hears you scream,
Who cares. Absorb the nothingness of jet
Black night; lift just one digit to explore
Digital yarns of fibre optic nerve,
Vast quarky labyrinths of wire and wave.
Stand firm, hold fast, participate, observe;
A cornucopia awaits and more.
Subscribe to Interesting Times, be brave.

Margaret Thatcher - A Nation Holds Its Breath

And now - satire. I hope this doesn't offend anyone (much) - I'm sure Bremner, Bird and Fortune would go at least as far.

Margaret Thatcher was taken ill at a dinner last night after her duty food-taster failed to show up, presumably owing to the after-effects of a previous engagement. She was rushed to hospital in a private car, an ambulance being curiously unavailable. Millions of people across the country have been waiting for news, to see whether their claim for responsibility has been accepted. Even as I speak, Mrs Thatcher is leaving St Thomas' Hospital, taking care to close it behind her.

Gordon Brown has already recorded a message, saying that, "I hope she is... well..." the camera touchingly panning down to reveal crossed fingers. Organisers of International Women's Day today are planning to reschedule the event in light of the damage Mrs Thatcher did to the image of women in politics after her notorious period in power of this country for 11 years, an 11 years that Steven Spielberg, whose films include, Schindler's List and Saving Private Ryan has refused to capture in a screen drama, being "too gruesome" to show to the general public.

Sales of ammunition and sniper rifles are said to have boomed on the black arms market, while street-vendors keep stocks of t-shirts with the logo, "I survived Thatcherism" with a picture of the egregious former leader, tinted green and showing a remarkable resemblance to The Mekon from Dan Dare comics, remain under wraps awaiting the great day that must be coming ever closer.

Mrs Thatcher was said to have felt unwell at a dinner in the House of Lords last night. She is known to have had a number of minor strokes in the past - dozens of public services, hundreds of schools and colleges, thousands of coal-miners, millions of homeowners all were devastated by her at a stroke - and low blood pressure, indeed no blood pressure at all since her heart was replaced a lump of rusting metal and a fly-by-wire cyborg internal control system. This malfunctioned only once when, early in her premiership, she ordered the scrapping of the Royal Navy, thus precipitating the Argentine invasion of the Falklands, which she then ironically ordered to be seized back by the very same armed forces.

Mrs T had no comment for waiting reporters and photographers as she left St Thomas' in cerise red body armour and disembarked in a bullet-proof limousine, to the sound of a voice saying, "I pity the fool who voted for me, I pity the fool!"

The final update is bad news. Mrs Thatcher, as she arrived home, has just told reporters she is feeling better. A brief boost in local property prices has now collapsed.

We will keep you informed of further developments. Hopefully.

Impressions

The sky was a constant powder blue. The sun had already reached its highest point and was relentlessly burning its way westwards. Several kilometers north of Paris, a garden was thriving. Had it been smaller, it would almost certainly have been described as a cottage garden. The house to which it was attached was considerably larger than a cottage and its grounds fairly extensive. At the rear several walkways led between mists of colour, each one blending into the next, vieing for space and the privilege to grow. No area of ground was wasted, everywhere shoots rose up like firework displays bursting into colour. All around the scent of lavender and sage and honeysuckle drifted on the air. Still further from the house was a small lake made intimate by the light that was gently distilled by surrounding plane and willow trees. The surface of the lake, was almost entirely covered with water lillies, their petals of cream and chalky blue, complemeting the emeralds, jades, olives and cobalts of the leaves and sky. Here the presence of irises and lillies was so strong that smell dissolved into taste.
At the far side of the lake a curved wooden bridge, painted green was neatly framed by foliage. On the apex of the bridge two young women clad in white silk and lace blouses with long taffeta skirts and each holding parasols were gazing into the lake.
"I do love to stand here and admire the garden. You are so lucky Brigitte." the elder one began.
"Yes it is a tranquil place. But we mustn't stay too long. He may spot us. And then we'll have to stay all day while he paints us."
"I don't think I should mind being painted here so much. It's so much more pleasant than lying naked on a couch in a back street of Paris."
"Yes. Each to her own I suppose." Brigitte twirled her parasol absent-mindedly.
"He does love to paint doesn't he. And you know, some of them are rather good."
“Well, I know how much people rave... and they do look quite good from a distance. But if you get close up - well it all seems a bit messy.”
“Oh Francoise, I wouldn't say they were a mess. A little random perhaps. But he does have a certain something. He seems to capture the impression of what he paints. Even if it isn't very realistic.”
“You know he can't see very well.”
“Surely not. You do surprise me.“
“Actually he's as blind as an albino mole. He fell into the lake last week, easel and all.”
“Oh Francoise, the poor man.”
“Poor man nothing! His painting, when we fished it out, was hailed as a masterpiece. I’ve heard there are painters all over Paris dipping their work into the Seine now. They even have a name for it.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes they call it drenchism.”
“Oh Francoise, I can believe it. They really are most impressionable people these artist types. And always on the lookout for something new.”
“Well, I expect there will be a new movement starting any moment now.“
“If I were you Francoise I’d get my hands on one of those paintings, before London gets to hear of it.”
They paused to watch a dragonfly flicker through shafts of imprisoned light.
“Brigitte..”
“Yes Francoise?”
“Tell me about the back streets of Paris.”

The Dotted Line.
An Original Script By David Helm.

Scene 1.
We open in the reception area of an office. Plush red carpets, dark yet tasteful wall paper, and a desk. Sitting behind the desk is the receptionist. Smart, dark business suit and white blouse. The nameplate on the desk in front of her says her name is MELISSA. She is typing on the keyboard of her computer. She pays no attention to the group of young men sat- or rather slouched- on the couches in the main area of reception. These four could not be more contrasted to their surroundings- dark clothing, bandanas, knee-length shorts, boots. With their long hair and tattoos also, they look like a heavy metal band- which is exactly what they are, being the members of 8-BALL HAEMORRHAGE. Two of them are smoking, despite the “NO SMOKING” sign displayed above their heads. They are talking loudly amongst themselves, but MEL pays little attention to them, continuing to type. As she does, the buzzer on her desk goes off. She bends over the intercom and speaks inaudibly for several seconds. Then she looks up.
MEL: Mr. Hellman will see you now.
The band members get up from the sofas, one of them- hulking drummer RUSSELL “GRIZZLY” BURR- audibly cracking his knuckles as he does so. MEL winces. The men approach the desk, lead singer AXEL CAINE in the lead.
AXEL: (Smiling in a way he imagines to be charming) We can go in, finally, can we darling?
MEL nods, not looking up. AXEL waits for a couple of seconds to see if she will, then shrugs and walks past, gesturing to the rest of the band just exactly what he’d like to do to her. The others nod and grin, glancing back to MEL’S desk as they go through the door.
Scene 2.
We are now in the boss’s office. The carpet is so deep you sink five inches into it as you enter. The desk in the centre of the room appears to be carved out of whalebone, polished and varnished to within an inch of its life. Pictures adorn the walls of the boss shaking hands with assorted well-known faces. And sat behind the desk is the boss himself, NICK HELLMAN. He is about thirty-five years old, dark hair, tanned. His hair is spiked with a small lake’s worth of gel, the points so pronounced they look positively lethal. His teeth- blindingly white- resemble fangs. When he grins- which he does a lot- you can see nearly every single tooth.
HELLMAN: Guys! Great to finally meet you- always been a big fan.
He gestures for the band to sit down. The four men come in- AXEL swaggering in the lead, the other three behind him- and sit in the leather seats in front of HELLMAN’S desk. AXEL stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on HELLMAN’S desk as he sits down.
HELLMAN: Before we get going, can I offer anybody anything? I can get absolutely anything in here- say the word and I’ll have Mellie fetch it. Guys?
Three of the band members- GRIZZLY, bassist CURTIS WELLS and guitarist JAMES “GRINDER” GLENNON- shake their heads, CURTIS taking a little longer to make his mind up before reaching a decision. AXEL- perhaps inevitably- nods, pursing his lips.
AXEL: Anything?
HELLMAN nods.
AXEL: OK. Red absinthe. Get me a red absinthe.
He sits back in his chair, smirking.
HELLMAN nods again. He presses the intercom button on his desk, speaks into it for a couple of seconds- much as MEL did earlier- and then looks back up at the band.
HELLMAN: Sure there’s nothing that I can get for you guys?
GRINDER, GRIZZLY and CURTIS shake their heads again. HELLMAN shrugs.
HELLMAN: Suit yourselves, guys.
He leans back in his seat, placing his hands behind his head.
HELLMAN: A real honour to meet you guys. Always a pleasure to meet a bunch of guys like you- your music does so much for me. The last album- I could not stop listening to it. Snuff Movie Oscars and Facial Deconstruction were fantastic. And when you killed that chicken live on stage at that awards show- I thought that was great.
CURTIS, GRINDER and GRIZZLY raise their eyes to the ceiling and shake their heads.
AXEL: (Smirking) That was my idea.
HELLMAN: How could I guess?
The door opens and MEL comes in. She places a glass containing something red on the glass table between HELLMAN’S desk and AXEL’S chair. She turns and leaves without saying a word. AXEL picks up his glass and takes a sip. His face screws up in disgust and he puts the glass firmly back down.
AXEL: (Opening and closing his mouth, trying to remove the taste) Tastes like fucking lighter fluid. (Turns to GRIZZLY) Here, Grizz- you’ve tried lighter fluid. Get that down you, mate- you’ll probably love it.
GRIZZLY: (In the sort of voice that makes you realize how he got his nickname) Cheers.
He takes a big gulp. A few seconds, and then he twitches suddenly and rather alarmingly.
GRIZZLY: Surprisingly mild.
He finishes the glass in one more gulp and sits back. HELLMAN look slightly perturbed. After a couple of seconds he shakes his head to clear it and turns back to the rest of the band.
HELLMAN: Anyway, as I was…saying, I’ve asked you here today for one thing. (Laughs sheepishly) I’ve got to admit it- the only reason I wanted to see you was to sign you to my label.
AXEL: May have escaped your notice, Mr. Hellman, but we’re already signed to Redemption Records. Got the contract and everything.
HELLMAN laughs.
HELLMAN: Yes, yes, I heard about the deal you already have. Terry Gates is a good friend of mine… But have you seen the papers today?
He opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a newspaper. He tosses it to AXEL, who immediately tosses it to GRINDER, who is sitting on his right.
AXEL: I don’t read the papers. (Turns to GRINDER) What’s it say?
GRINDER: (Sounding shocked) “The boss of Redemption Records, Terrell Gates was struck and killed by a car as he left the studios late last night…The driver failed to stop and is now being sought by the police…”
AXEL: What? (Grabs the paper back) He’s dead?
GRINDER: What it says here.
HELLMAN: Yes, yes…Terrible tragedy, but (laughs again) as I understand it, gentlemen, the contract you had was with the late Mr. Gates was with him, not with his label. He’d been your manager for a while before he started his label, is that correct? He didn’t want to tie you to any label- wanted you to have artistic freedom, isn’t that right?
AXEL: That’s right, but-
HELLMAN: So if you were only signed with Terry, and Terry’s dead, you can sign with anybody now, can’t you?
He leans forward on his desk, spreading his palms outwards.
HELLMAN: Don’t get me wrong- I’m not trying to dance on his grave, but I think that you have everything that I need in a band. If you sign with Triple 6, then you’ll have everything too. Freedom to write your own songs, the space to do it- as well as hot and cold running women. You’ll have everything.
AXEL looks tempted- although by the “women” line more than anything else. The other three look unsure- they can see that it seems to be all in their favour- but this is a big decision to be taken on-the-spot.
CURTIS: Look, Mr. Hellman- you’ve made it seem like it would all be to our advantage to sign with you. What’s in it for you?
HELLMAN: What does anybody want these days? I won’t lie to you- I think you and your music have what it takes to make me very rich. But it’s what you get that makes this a good deal. You get everything.
CURTIS: Everything? And all we do is sign on the dotted line?
HELLMAN: That’s right…
He opens another drawer in his desk.
HELLMAN: Does that mean you’re ready to sign? (Reaches into the drawer)
CURTIS: Hold on, hold on. Wait a minute. This is a big decision to make, man.
AXEL: What d’you mean? You heard what the man said. Women- hanging off your cock. Money to fucking burn. What’s the problem? It’s win-win. (Turns back to HELLMAN) I’ll sign. Where’s a pen?
GRINDER: Wait, Axel. We’ve always done everything as a band- you ain’t signing on your own...
CURTIS: Besides- remember what we talked about? The new material?
HELLMAN, who has been flipping through some papers on his desk as the argument has been going on,snaps back to attention at this.
HELLMAN: New material? What new material?

Colours of You

When first we met, you were wedding dress white,
As precious and pure as all brand new things.
You soon became gold, a source of delight,
As Artemis’ chariot and wedding rings.
My passion was fuelled when you burned deep red,
Mauved slowly to yellow – soft and warm.
You were a kaleidoscope, a myriad
Of rainbows shimmering before the storm.
One day you showed up in a cloud of dull grey.
You blacked and blued, and then you marooned me.
The colours I’d loved were all blown away -
Now a world without hue is my destiny.
Will I love again? I’m not so certain
Since I see you now as faded net curtains.


A. Heys
10/2/08