Where Our Words and Phrases Come From

There is an old Hotel/Pub in Marble Arch, London, which used to have a gallows adjacent to it. Prisoners were taken to the gallows (after a fair trial, of course) to be hung. The horse-drawn dray, carting the prisoner, was accompanied by an armed guard who would stop the dray outside the pub and ask the prisoner if he would like one last drink.  If he said yes, it was referred to as one for the road.  If he declined, that prisoner was on the wagon.

They used to use urine to tan animal skins, so families used to all pee in a pot and then once a day it was taken and sold to the tannery. If you had to do this to survive you were piss poor, but worse than that were the really poor folk, who couldn't even afford to buy a pot, they didn't have a pot to piss in and were the lowest of the low.

        

The next time you are washing your hands and complain the water temperature isn't just how you like it, think about how things used to be. Here are some facts about the 1500s: 

1. Most people got married in June, because they took their yearly bath in May and they still smelled pretty good by June. However, since they were starting to smell, brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odour. Hence the custom today of carrying a bouquet when getting married.

        

2. Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children. Last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it. Hence the saying, don't throw the baby out with the bath water!

        

3. Houses had thatched roofs, thick straw piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so all the cats and other small animals (mice, bugs and other critters) lived in the roof. When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof. Hence the saying it's raining cats and dogs. There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house. This posed a real problem in the bedroom, where bugs and other droppings could mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection. That's how canopy beds came into existence.

         

4. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt floors. Hence the saying, dirt poor. The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on floor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on they added more thresh until, when you opened the door, it would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entrance-way. Hence a thresh hold.

      

5. In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire. Every day they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight, then start over the next day. Sometimes stew had food in it that had been there for quite a while. Hence the rhyme: Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot, nine days old'.  Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special ...

        

6. When visitors came over they would hang up their bacon, to show off. It was a sign of wealth that a man could, bring home the bacon. They would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around talking and chew the fat.

        

7. Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning and death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous.

         

8. Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or the upper crust.

        

9. Lead cups were used to drink ale or whisky. The combination would sometimes knock the imbibers out for a couple of days. Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a wake. 

        

10. England is old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people, so they would dig up coffins and would take the bones to a bone-house and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1 out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside and they realized they had been burying people alive. So they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, thread it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the graveyard shift) to listen for the bell; thus someone could be, saved by the bell or was considered a dead ringer. 

So now you know ...

2012 Has Passed Us By – We Missed It!

A writer once said, “I love deadlines; especially that whooshing sound as they go by!” Well, the deadline of 2012 has snuck by us all without a murmur, without a whoosh. Despite the thousands of people making predictions (and the millions following those predictions) about all sorts of mind-shifts, natural disasters, magnetic gymnastics and spiritual hoopla sometime in 2012 – some say July, some say December – a massive shift has already occurred and we’ve missed it … a whooshless shift that fooled us all.

Let me explain with two business examples and an educational one:

Jamsetji Tata was denied entry to a grand English-owned hotel in his hometown of Bombay, because he was an Indian. So incensed, he determined to build his own hotel, better than the English one, and he did – the Taj Mahal Hotel in Bombay, which opened for business in 1903 and which is far grander than the one he was ousted from. Today, his legacy includes, among other massive institutions, Tata Motors Ltd which is now the world’s largest automobile manufacturer. The company is also the world's fourth largest truck manufacturer, the world's second largest bus manufacturer, and employs 24,000 workers. The English were the ruling class for a time but other nations have eclipsed that domination … many people have not noticed the change.

Many massive, global companies like Ibis Hotels (which are currently opening seven hotels a week) and Travelodge have stopped any new investments in the no-growth areas of Europe and America while they pour billions into new projects in the expanding economies of China, India and Africa. China, the wealthiest nation in the world, is currently pouring billions a day into Africa, the fastest growing market in the world.

I currently teach in an Iranian university, based in Oxfordshire, England. My students – Indians, Bangladeshis and Pakistanis – already have bachelors and masters degrees. They are already well qualified but the status of an “Oxford Education” brings them here. They arrive with high hopes of an education and an establishment so much more glorious than the one they left. Their hopes are soon dashed as they are forced to study in an old, cold building that, in any civilized country, would have been pulled down long ago. The English education system, so attached to its former glory and unable to embrace a new millennium, is a huge disappointment for these hope-filled people who have come from the massive, progressive universities of their homelands.

You see, over the past 1,000 years the West has held sway. The Romans ruled 1,000 years ago, the Italians in the 1300’s, The Spanish in the 1500’s, the French in the 1600’s, The English in the 1800’s, the Americans in the 1900’s and now … well, right now, our necks have been so kinked, looking back at America, that we haven’t noticed the shift right in front of us … the shift to Africa and Asia.

Once we recognize and accept the shift in the area of world domination, we’ll start to recognize other whooshless shifts that have already happened while we weren’t looking – shifts in our minds, our emotions, our finances, our communities. So, if you feel a bit shifty, just know that a silent whoosh just passed you by. Smile and enjoy it.

I’m Losing Interest In Life (as we know it, Jim) – Whoopee!!

The joy of travel is losing its attraction which is the greatest news I’ve ever given myself.

Now, I know we’re in Britain, the land of flat sameness – pretty green fields, little woods, stone walls and crumbling buildings. The most exciting landscape in Britain is the Lakes District which they crow about incessantly. However, to a New Zealander, a few lakes and hills is as ho hum as it gets. However, sameness or diversity is not the issue here.

It’s not only the landscape that’s losing its appeal – most of life is losing its appeal and that is the greatest news of all. Yep, you guessed it – I’ve lost it! Me, the chap who has run AIDS workshops in South Africa, who has taught stock-whip and ridden camels in Australia, who has been an estate manager and teacher of wealthy Africans, Indians and Bangladeshis in England, who has been an accountant, receiver and TV actor in New Zealand, who has written ten books and who has done dozens of fascinating things, is losing the interest for life. The chap who has not lived in one house for more than two years, in the last 18 years, is starting to see no value in the vast variety of a vibrant life well lived. I’m not losing the will to live – just the will for life.

“And that’s good news?” I hear you ask. “The poor silly sod’s depressed, got Alzheimers, lost his mojo and/or blown his foo foo valve!”

Okay, okay, you may be right. However, let me explain from the perspective of two similar journeys.

In June 2009 Anna and I went to Wales for three days. We had no plans – just set off and see where the car would take us. It was so refreshing to be in the Brecon Beacons, so different from England’s green and pleasant flatness. Real bush (not just scraggy woodlands), mountain streams (well, big-hill streams, really) and we ended up at a lovely B&B that was booked out but we got in anyway. We bumped in and chatted with some fascinating people, chanced on many beautiful coincidences (if such things exist) and returned happy in the thought that we had “done” Wales.

Then, in May 2011, we decided on another three-day trip to Wales – to Tenby, a beach-front town in Pembrokeshire in the south of Wales. As we parked our car at the B&B, on the first day, it blew its foo foo valve and had to be towed home the next day by the AA.

As I could have predicted, I had little sleep that night as my mind, preferring to be right rather than happy, found blame for the mechanic who said the car was fine, for my employer paying me late yet again, for bloody England being so difficult to live in, for the universe being so unfair, for me being so stupid and inept, for all the planned things we now couldn’t do and for every other injustice and misery that had ever befallen me.

My ego had a ball! However, as I worked through a grievance, gave it to God, returned to peace, had another hissy fit, gave it to God, returned to peace, had another blast at the universe, gave it to God, returned to peace … as each grievance came and went, the moments and depth of peace grew and grew until there was nothing left but stillness and acceptance.

You see, some people believe in a thing called The Secret, which is that everything in our lives is there because of our thoughts. It is a stepping stone to a greater awareness that everything in our lives just is*. We colour every person, place, thing and event with whatever colours and feelings we choose. Some people like pubs; some don’t. Some people like soccer; some don’t. Some people like snakes; some don’t. Pubs, soccer and snakes simply are. It’s each one of us that give them the labels of great, awful, fun, boring, dangerous, beautiful and so on.

It was Anna and I who gave Wales the label of beautiful on our first trip. It was Anna and I who gave the label of calamity to a non-going car.

When I returned, again and again, to the state of peace, I was able to see with a new experience of clarity that a drive into Wales and a tow home on the back of three different AA vans was simply an event – no better, no worse than the previous trip.

Before we went on this second trip our English friends told us, with unbridled excitement (an unusual state for English people to be in!) what a beautiful and scenic place Pembrokeshire is and we were expecting an exceedingly amazing experience. Despite the unusually sunny day, the return to the seaside was, well, ordinary. Not bad or boring. Not good or amazing. Just the same feeling as driving into our local village. Not familiar or strange – just ordinary.

We were told that the fish and chips in Tenby were the best in Britain but, when we couldn’t find a fish and chip shop and returned to our room for wine and sandwiches, we were neither disappointed nor ecstatic. It’s just what we did.

Now, for most humans, the move away from drama, from the duality of exciting/disappointing, happy/sad, good/bad, fearful/beautiful is the worst calamity imaginable. For Anna and I it’s a life-long dream – to be unaffected by the winds of change, to retain the deep and abiding peace, despite the world’s best efforts to unseat us, to know the peace and joy in the heart of God while the insane world of duality thrashes about blindly and ineffectually.

Yes, I am losing it – I am losing the duality of a world at war with itself. I am losing the transitory fear, excitement, disappointment and buzz as a thrashing tree is stilled by the dying wind. I am learning to stand as a quiet willow, untouched by the raging river at my feet yet giving life and support to all around.

And, yes, I could have more ego moments of blame, judgement and self-flagellation. However, as I experience the peace and depth of God Within, I am more and more happy to give up the roller coaster ride on a trip to nowhere.

I am happy to give it all up! Amen.

* Just is = Justice

On Becoming A Writer. Rule # 2 - Create Spaces

People wonder how the events, characters, ideas and dramas come to writers so they can write them down. I don’t know the answer to this question but, for me, there are some quite specific things I can do to allow them to enter my space, for capture on a blank page of paper. The first is Turning Up At The Page (as per the previous blog) and the second is Creating Spaces, covered here:

 

I loved writing at school and then stopped doing it. Actually, I stopped doing it and also forgot that I’d enjoyed it. I always wrote long, interesting letters home to my parents and enjoyed the process of that. However, I didn’t ever link that enjoyment to any desire or ability to be a published author. I just enjoyed writing letters and got on with the rest of my life.

Then, many years later, I started meditation. The discipline of doing that each morning (early) and evening started an internal discipline – I started listening and being aware of the thoughts, feelings and moments of greatness that passed through my mind.

The daily act of meditation also imbued me with an openness of mind. It dawned slowly and sometimes it didn’t dawn at all! However, there came into my mind, each time I sat in stillness and silence, a reverence and a remembrance of my greater self which floated in and rested there with its graceful presence. Even when it felt tiny, fleeting and distant, its creative beingness moved me.

Then, somewhere in the space this presence created, a recalling (a calling?) started to speak through the clamour of constant chatter. This still, quiet voice of my recall began to speak louder and louder. It felt, at times, as if the large, gentle hand of God was at my back, urging me forward to something. I knew not what this something might be – or was I just afraid of acknowledging I had something to accomplish? – but I knew a presence more potent and knowing than I was urging me on.

As I allowed the daily rush of rabid rubbish to fall from my mind, the void allowed my silent calling to float to the surface. Eventually, that calling voice inspired action.

Initially, I would have a sentence pop into my mind and refuse to leave. It would doggedly nag at my mind till I wrote it down. At times I would leave it for days, challenging it to stay with me – it always did. I hated rising in the early morning – probably because of the freezing mornings I’d had to rise to go mustering or on lambing beats, in my childhood – but that’s when the sentences would climb into my brain and play their constant, cheerful and annoying tune.

Eventually I would succumb. I would get up at five am, sit at my desk and write down the stupid sentence. As I was writing, another sentence would arrive and so I’d write that too … an hour later I’d pull away from that beautiful reverie, mind and pen in holy relationship, and see the pile of previously blank paper, now happily replete with words.

Having little idea of what I’d written, I’d make a space in my day and type my scribbles into the computer. Sometimes, when typing, I’d decide to “improve” the wording. Then, as I read the typed words back, I’d realise the original ones were better – always, the originals were better.

You see, we all have busy lives, things to do, things to plan, things to worry about. We’ve all got incomes to make, families to feed, relationships to nurture, skills to learn, holidays to endure, toys to buy … and on and on the list goes. Our minds are kept conveniently busy with the doings of or little world to help us avoid the bigger world we wish to inhabit. It takes courage to let that rush of rabid rubbish go for a while – even for milliseconds – in order to peer into the void of our greatest possibilities.

Many writers choose solitude – a cottage on a remote coastline, for example – to listen to their muses. There are more subtle and less treacherous ways of letting the clamouring crowd of cackles go, of achieving solitude of mind. Meditation works for me and, with years of practice, I can easily write in a noisy cafe or commuter train. I’m aware of the outer noise but my inner dialogue is never stilled by it, now.

Whether your gift to the world is in politics, art, sport, business or in any other area of life, I’d suggest you find some way, any way, to rise through the daily din to that deep desire of a life lived creatively. Whether it’s meditation, seclusion, music, an absorbing hobby or whatever, find a way to drop the dross and raise the recall – you’ll be amazed at what’s waiting for you from your greater self.

And, from my greater self, is the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins in the blockbuster novel, An Olympic Challenge, continued from the previous blog ... 

 Escape From Certainty
Wednesday, 15th March 2012, 4.00 p.m.
As his eyes drew a veil over a world both thoughtless and fearful, he relaxed into the glow of a home he'd never left. Behind him he left the pale and fading footprints of a dream he knew he'd dreamed but could not remember. As he quietly smiled himself into the growing light, he wondered if there had really had been a him, an Arthur Bayly, a dream, at all. His singularity grew into that ancient and massive oneness that encompassed and nurtured all.

The serenity powered through him as acceptance took his tentative hand to lead him deeper into the light of lights - the shadowless light of peace - which beckoned his heart to approach. As a long-lost son of a loving father, he was drawn to join and extend, to co-create in stillness. Where strength and gentleness met in oneness, he absorbed himself into their sweet and inviting light as his formless smile beamed its extension of acceptance and love, born in the eternal and growing light of forever.

With no doing to interrupt his creativity, he was free to be the ancient greatness he'd never not been … just forgotten while he dreamed a dream now gone. Kindness seeped into him and showered forth in quiet beams of luminescence that warmed the soul of all he ever was.

Decisions rode gently through him and he was free to ride on them to where their creator imagined them to be. Choices were gone and, in their place, was certainty that all was done, all was deeply right and all was being done by stillness and silence. Had his soul a mouth and eyes it would have shed a smiling tear but, instead, he knew with relief, the struggleless life was upon him and it had ever been so.

Then a spark of specialness crept into his mind. A part of a dream returned; a decision to be unique and separate recalled itself and, as the decision was made it was unmade and a veil fell over that microsecond of timelessness, as he returned to the glow of the power and peace of oneness. This was where he belonged, out of time and space, out of control and fear, out of struggle and vanity.

He was in the deep sigh of unity, forever untouched and unmoved but the memory of that desire for separation and control let a small shard of ice slide through him. He tensed himself, fearing expulsion from this ancient arena of awareness and immediately regretted the desire to control … and he was gone, back into the constricting capsule that clumsily plodded a sorry earth. The more he fought his expulsion the more tightly he was tied to the plodding body. As he struggled to remain, that endless expanse of peace was lost to his grasp and the dream of fear, loss and control was reborn.

The grasping fearful mind knows only one direction to go and it took him there - back to the pain and frustration it so feverishly fought against. He knew this. Despite his gentle, knowing strength whispering to him to let go, to let be, the screeching maw of his terror-stained dread yanked him into its ghastly, cobwebbed cavern of restriction and avarice.

He had trapped himself back into this parlous state and, despite his strong and silent knowing, the weak and flailing whimper was what he fell into step with … and that step was a body he fell back into; a body of physical pain with mental guilts and fears.

Miserably, he knew he must open his eyes and feel the loving judgement of those around him. There must, he knew, be physical pain, many questions to be answered and many answers to be questioned. On a one-way trip to the demon of judgement, he knew he must accept his fate and, as best he could, slog through the swamp of desire, plans and affairs of the world of tangible and corruptible form.

He opened his eyes a little, anticipating a strong and stinging light to be adjusted to. It was a bright light, yes, but nowhere as bright as the light in the dream he'd just emerged from. He shut his eyes again, hoping he'd find himself back in that deep and silent light. It was not to be. Noises started up as if his opening lids had flicked a switch on a sound machine. He was trapped in this clumsy body and he knew he must return, for now, to the dream of pain and separation.

As he woke into a denseness, he felt himself a stranger, as did King Harun-al Rashid in The Thousand and One Nights who, as the sun went down, left his palace in beggars clothes in order to mix with the poorer people and hear what they said about him. He really didn't belong. He knew that. He'd always known that and yet, here he was in this strange and straining land again, a stranger in beggars clothes with the burden of guilt, yet again.

With a grim smile he sneaked his eyes open a little and saw a movement and smelled a whiff of familiarity - a fragrance of her, restored to memory.

"Are you awake, Arthur?" asked Joan quietly. Her concern pained him for he knew (or felt) he now had to deal with her pain as well as his. He sighed inwardly and smiled.

"Yes, yes, I'm here, love," said Arthur, trying to lift his arm to pat her hand and finding it trapped in the bed clothes on which she sat.

"Oh Arthur, I'm sorry, I was sitting on your arm!" said Joan jumping up. He eased his arm out, with her help, and took her hand to reassure, while a jangling pain stabbed him in the head and several other unidentified places. He grimaced and gripped her more tightly than he'd meant to.

"Oh dear, did I hurt you, Arthur?" asked Joan, apparently blaming herself for everything.

"No, no dear, just my head a little … aah, wobbly," said Arthur, wondering why his head and some of his body on one side felt either sore or oddly out of sorts. As that question arose, he wondered why he was in a strange bed … a single bed with starched sheets and the smell of antiseptic all around. His hand went to his head and it felt like a bandage there. "Did I hurt myself somehow?" he asked tentatively.

On Becoming A Writer. Rule # 1 - Turn Up At The Page

People ask writers how they come up with their stories, how they pluck characters and stories from thin air, how the ideas come to them. I can’t speak for other writers and I really have no idea how the ideas, plots, people and places bring themselves together for my pen to describe. However, a bit like not understanding how a car works but understanding what I need to do to make it work, I know what I need to do to have the writing happen – here is the first of those things …

Turn up at the page

People tell me that they’d love to write a book, that they’ve always dreamed of writing, that others say they should write a book … and so I say, “Do it!”

And the standard reply? “Oh, yes, I’d love to but I just don’t have the time right now – writing a book takes a lot of time.”

Yes, writing a book does take a lot of time but so does watching your favourite TV soap! However, like watching that important soap, you don’t have to do it all today, this week, this month. You just do a little every day. If you really want to write something – a poem, an article, a book – you have to drop the self-defeating excuses, turn up at the page and start writing.

My second book, Whose Life Is It Anyway?, was written over breakfast, every morning, for a year. A half hour’s writing of 500-1,000 words, every day, produced enough words for two novels – in one year.

Everyone’s busy and we all have the perfect excuses for not doing what we’d really love to do. Why? Because having a project completed then sets us up for fear of failure and/or fear of success. Most people would rather avoid those fears by retreating behind a myriad of inexcusable excuses. However, wouldn’t you rather end your life with memories rather than dreams?

So, think about all the little spaces in your life – over breakfast, while commuting, in cafés, watching TV – which you can turn into sacred writing spaces. Oh, but you’ll then come up with that other Grand Excuse – “I want to write but I don’t know what to write about.” You will never know what to write about till you start writing. Don’t wait for the writing – it’s waiting for you.

If you have a desire to write, you know exactly what to write about – the what will reveal itself when you turn up at the blank page (or blank computer screen) and start writing … “I don’t know what to write but I’ve started writing and, though I have no clue why I’m here doing this I have, at least, turned up at the page and my pen’s moving (keyboard’s clacking) and making word-marks on the blank paper/screen and nothing’s coming to me yet but I’m going to keep writing because Philip said if I did, the what, the subject would come to me …” Just keep your pen moving, your keyboard busy, and, at the start, it could be complete drivel, utter senseless rubbish. You might write about the horrible/beautiful weather, your uncomfortable writing chair, your slow computer, your cranky father, your last holiday, your biggest dream, your worst moment … it doesn’t matter what you write but keep doing it and – on this rock I stand – the ideas will come. You see, there is a theory that thoughts create words. It’s wrong – words create thoughts which create words which create thoughts which create words …

So, chuck out your excuses, substitute waste spaces for write spaces and turn up at the page. You’ll be amazed at what you unleash when you turn up and write something, then something else, then something else …

And now back to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, continued from the previous blog ...

“Old chap,” said Hemi, ruminating on the phrase. “Heh, I never been called that before! Yeah, right, I just want the taonga and get back to decent kai. Bloody crap food here. Dunno’ how you survive on it!”

“And you’ll tell us all you know?” asked Ahmed, his gun still discretely evident.

“Don’t need a gun to convince me, man!” said Hemi, shaking his head.

Ahmed slipped his gun back into the back of his belt and looked around the room to see if everyone agreed. It seemed that they all did and so he nodded to John and Angus who pushed Hemi forward on the chair to untie his hands as a knock sounded on the door.

“Thanks guys, so I can put my pants on again,” said Halee disappearing into the bedroom as Sam leapt up and headed for the door, the man-in-charge once again.

“Oh, hello Hoppy,” said Sam as he opened the door.

“Oh, gosh, Sam …” said an older, suited man who stopped mid-sentence when he saw the others in the room. “Aah, oh, Mr Lord.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Superintendent Hopkins,” said Sam, remembering the form. “Do come in and we can explain.”

“I am so sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” said Superintendent Hopkins, smoothing back his straight, sparse hair a trifle nervously. “This must be upsetting for you all but I must ask you all to bear with me. And I know what a difficult time you’ve had of it, lately, Mr Lord.” The superintendent looked evenly at Sam for some moments as if imparting information mentally.

“Yes, Superintendent Hopkins, there have been better times,” said Sam jovially, closing the door and accompanying the superintendent back to the others. “Take a seat and we can explain everything.”

“Thank you Mr Lord and thank you, sir,” said Superintendent Hopkins as he took the seat vacated by Angus for him. “Now, I do not know what happened, though I have some suspicions, but I’m not here to ask any questions right now …”

“But I just shot a man, sir,” said Ahmed, looking surprised. “Surely you want to take me in …”

“No sir, I am not going to question or take anyone in,” said Superintendent Hopkins, smiling as he held up his hand to Ahmed. “This is all very irregular and, believe me, I have been following this case closely, more closely than most of you realise, in fact. Now, bear with me, as I said, and it is imperative, most imperative, that you vacate this hotel as soon as possible.”

“But, what about …” asked Ahmed with his hands clasped as if already hand-cuffed.

“We do not have time for ‘what ifs’ and ‘whys’ right now,” interrupted Superintendent Hopkins, evenly as he took out his notebook. “I am from Scotland Yard and, to me, your safety is foremost – a consideration you may not receive from either the Metropolitan Police Force or MI5. You must all be gone before anyone from either of those agencies or the tabloid press arrive and, after that, I will have as many explanations for you as you have for me. So, I need to take your names and contact details, one by one, and, in the meantime, you must pack and then leave with me.”

Something in his quiet, factual voice sent a chill round the room and everyone immediately, quietly, packed up and was ready to leave as he wrote down the last name and details in his blue note book. He stood and they followed him to the door, where he motioned them to stop while he went out. There he had a conversation with other people. He then reappeared and motioned the eight to follow him, which they did obediently. They were surprised there was no one around to see them leave the building by the back stairs. He led them up a back alley, behind the food scraps and rubbish of other hotels and restaurants, in the cool, still morning, and stopped before they got to a street.

“From my notes I see the closest residence is yours, Miss Collins,” said Superintendent Hopkins quietly. “I suggest you all repair there and I will meet you presently, with my detective constable, where we will conduct the usual investigation procedures.”

The eight followed Mary to her apartment and, once inside, stood there looking at each other like dumb mules. No one spoke and no one knew what to say.

“This is weird, isn’t it,” said Angus, eventually, dropping his bag and looking out the window. “What you suppose is going on?”

“Dunno mate,” said John, with his arm around Belinda’s shoulders. “Feels creepy, weird, somehow.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on but, while we’re here, we may as well make ourselves more normal,” said Mary, her logical mind returning from sabbatical leave. “You need a shower first, Sam, so get cleaned up and I’ll find some girly clothes for Halee and myself and then Ahmed can have his suit back. The rest of you just help yourselves to coffee, tea and food, whatever you want, huh?” Mary, Halee and Sam headed for the bedroom and bathroom.

“Yes thanks, Mary, I’d love a cup of tea,” said Belinda, heading off to the kitchen. “Anyone else want one?”

“Jeez thanks but I could murder a smoke,” said Hemi with a hopeful smile. “That bloody Michael took my last one.”

“You want one of mine?” asked Angus.

“Thanks bro’ and you’re Angus?” asked Hemi. Angus nodded and they shook hands.

“And you’re Hone?” asked Hemi.

“Yes,” said John shaking Hemi’s hand.

“So you invite a brother in and don’t even introduce him to the whanau, the family,” said Hemi, laughing and slapping John’s back. “What kind of a Māori are you, bro’?”

“Aah, bloody Rotorua Māoris always moan, Angus,” said John, laughing. “Now get your brown behind outside for a smoke and I’ll get some fresh air too.”

“While the little wife stays in the kitchen!” yelled Belinda, laughing, as the men left.

“You may join us if you prefer,” said Ahmed, gallantly.

“Thanks Ahmed, just joking,” said Belinda. “Go and get some male bonding and I can have a peaceful cup of tea on my own. I could do with a little less drama for a minute or two.”