The Shyest Boy In The World

For my first 40 years I was the World Champion Shy Person. There were no close contenders for the title; I was the shyest person ever there was. In fact, I was The Original Shy Person, the one whom everyone else learned their shyness from – I was terrified of people, terrified of speaking, terrified of disagreement, terrified of conflict, terrified of upsetting anyone, terrified of upstaging anyone, terrified of looking at people … terrified of the world, really.

I was afraid to speak so I’d mumble so people couldn’t understand me so they would ignore me so I would feel insignificant so my confidence shrank so I mumbled less coherently … a pathetic little viscious cycle.

I don’t know how or why epiphany moments happen but they do. Perhaps, with 40 years' terror stuffed down inside, there wasn’t room for any more and something had to give. Perhaps. I don’t really know. What I do know is that, somehow, I realised I’d let all this terror rule my life and, TA DA!, I was no longer a child and I didn’t to have obey it any more. I do remember walking shyly down the street, feeling terrified that people were looking at me giggling at my silliness. But giggle I did, at the folly I’d made of my life. That night I lay awake for hours, trying to think of ways to get myself over it. No ideas came, then but, in the morning, it hit me like a wet fish across the forehead – why not be a lecturer, standing in front of people all day, communicating verbally, incessantly, and I’d have to make myself be heard, be understood, be listened to.

Full of the fires of transformation, I marched into the local polytechnic and asked if they needed any accounting lecturers. The receptionist looked at me, silently, for a moment and then burst out laughing. I felt mortified, stupid. Then she explained that the previous lecturer had been fired the previous day and they were desperate for a replacement. She was laughing at the synchronicity of my arrival; not at me.

I met the Head of Department and after a chat, she gave me an A4 piece of paper with a course outline on it and told me to create a 17-week course from that. I was panicked but determined and, the following week, I started teaching. I was terrified for six months, every day and every night. As I stood outside the lecture room before each lesson, I had to wrestle my demons to the floor, walk over them and enter the room. I could so easily have walked away a hundred times.

Slowly, the fear subsided and I got it that I had something to contribute. My confidence grew and I started, also, running business courses at the Chamber of Commerce and personal development courses in New Zealand, South Africa and Australia. For a year I nagged a magazine publisher and, eventually, she gave in and published an article of mine. That article had so much feedback I ended up becoming a columnist for that magazine and several others for around ten years. I became the editor of that magazine and then my wife and I took over and published another one. I wrote and published several books, sang and acted on stage, was in two episodes of the TV serial, Xena, Warrior Princess, and I was interviewed on radio and TV.

I had broken out of my shell and there was no going back.

Then I came to the Land of the Shy People … well, I worked for organisations in England where the hottest topic was the weather and people who had worked with each other for 20 years had never visited each others’ homes. I was confused by this insularity, this inability to venture an opinion or a holiday to anywhere they’d not previously been. I’d returned to my closed-in childhood all over again!

I had trouble getting jobs in England and it was suggested that I tone down my exuberance … which I didn’t see as exuberance at all; I’m just me and others not like me are not-exuberant.

So I wrote a novel about it – The Importance of Being Arthur – a man who is all the closed-down men I ever commuted with on the train and tube to London and who I worked with. I’m sure most of them are itching to break out of their shells. In the novel Arthur breaks out but I wonder how many do in real life.

It’s a scary and exhilarating experience and neither Arthur nor I can go back – why would we want to?

Pulling A Song From A Sad Little Heart

There’s nothing like a touch of melancholy to drag out the inner poet. In 2001 I was recovering from PMT (or FOF)* in Southport on Australia’s Gold Coast, next door to Surfers Paradise – a more beautiful place to patch a leaking heart I cannot imagine.

My income, then, came from helping families recover from their seemingly insurmountable debt crises. It occurred to me, just this morning, that, as I helped them to repair their broken piggy banks, they helped me to repair my broken heart. There is nothing like service to others to take us up and out of our perceived misery.

I’m not sure how I got by on so little sleep but depression does that, I’m told. Though I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake again, never face another sad little day, shutting the eyes and hoping for sleep never worked – sleep seldom came.

So I’d get up, make a coffee and take my stuff out to the balcony and enjoy the 1.00 am or 2.00 am or 3.00 am or 4.00 am (or any other silly am time) view over the bay. Then I’d roll a smoke and start writing.

For some reason, I know this song came at 4.00 am – not sure why I remember that – and I guess it came out of a need to find peace in a distant childhood that knew little of peace. Well, that’s what my sad little heart thought on that Southport balcony at 4.00 in the morning as I sipped another coffee, rolled another cigarette and let the words fall from my pen.

There is a reference in the song to Jilly, which is what my father called my mother … because that was her name. So here it is, Heart of Nails:

Am                                      C

I am a fine carpenter, a hewer of wood,

G                                                    F

And my graceful creations in mansions have stood

Dm                                                    Am

They talk of the wonder and the peace that they feel,

                   G                                    F                   Am

When they see, they touch, they smell, my sculptures so real.

But I am just a man with a heart pierced with nails,

Against the beating and harsh words so ever it rails,

But my father knew nothing ‘bout gentle and kind,

And many nails in his heart, if you look there you’ll find.

You are a fine lass, oh Jilly my love,

Seein’ the beauty I make and we fit hand in glove,

But inside there’s a pain that’s never to go,

And a leaking from my nails my essence it flows.

You would be a good wife of that I’m so sure,

Oh, Jilly I want you forever and more,

But you wonder and look sad, in the moonlight we stand,

Why you can’t come closer and take me like a man.

I want to hug you and smile, it’s sweet and it’s pain,

I feel your kind heart but the nails press again,

I’d love a sweet house and a family to start,

But I don’t know how to not put nails in their heart.

So I carve another piece, graceful curves and how,

Not a nail in the wood would I ever allow,

Wishin’ I had a heart like my sculptures of wood,

Never a nail or a pain and I’d love you like I should.

Wishin’ I had a heart like my sculptures of wood,

Never a nail or a pain and I’d love you like I should.

 *PMT = Post Marriage Trauma or FOF, as a never-to-be-married-again friend called it – Fear Of Freedom.

English As She Is Spoke

Growing up in New Zealand, I was taught a language we called English. I assumed, then, that when I came to England (where English is from, if the rumours are true) they would speak the same language. They don't.

Some of the words are the same but the meanings of many of the words are different.

In New Zealand the most common greeting is hello or, colloquialy, g'day … or the longer version which is g'day mate.  In England, when people meet they usually say sorry, which is the most uttered word in Britain, where they're continually apologising for themselves. I'm not sure why as they're generally really nice people.

Another confusing word is free. If something is free in New Zealand it doesn't cost anything - zilch, nada, nuttin'. In England, free has several meanings.

At the National Health Service it means free as we Kiwis understand it - it costs nothing. I recently had an eye operation - the three consultations and the operation cost me zilch, nada and nuttin'.

Some businesses, however, have a different meaning for free - they have cruddy products they cannot sell and so they rename the cost bit and call it free. Let me explain: they may have a product priced at £15 and they cannot sell it, even with free freight. So what they do is make the product free, triple the usual freight charge of £5 and people think it's wonderful, suddenly! In this case, free means: "We think you're really quite stupid and will think you're getting a bargain by paying the same if we can blame the postal or courier service for their exorbitant charges."

As Richard Wilson, English actor (you may remember him as the grumpy old man in One Foot In The Grave) recently discovered, some rail companies advertise £8 fares but they're never actually available to anyone at any time. Airlines and hotels do the same - advertise ludicrously low prices that are available to nobody, nowhere, never.

I even came across a commercial printer down south (I think it was Bournemouth) who proudly announced on his website that I could get his advertising brochure completely free (there's that word again) … but the postage would be £5.49! He wanted me to pay him to send me his advertising bumph. I don't think so!

I'm currently lecturing at a university in Oxfordshire to Indian and Bangladeshi students. I have trouble with English as she is spoke in this fair isle - imagine the trouble they have!

So sorry, free and cheap have quite different meanings over here and it surprises me that English is becoming the lingua franca of the world. In fact, there are now more people who speak English as their second language than those who are native English speakers. This trend will, I suspect, make communication more difficult and confusing for the people of Mother Earth. Sorry!

So, how's Arthur's communication under duress? His story is continued from the previous blog ...

"I'll go last," said Arthur, feeling gallant and scared.

As the Fearsome Five (or is that the Fearful Five?) trundled up the corridor, going as fast as they could without bumping into antique dressers or each other, Arthur suddenly stopped. He fancied he heard a noise, somewhere. The fear was growing in his mind much faster, he knew, than it would have in the mind of Mr Bond. But knowing that didn't help one bit.

"Come on Arthur!" whispered Dottie urgently, motioning him on. "No time for wavering now!"

"Yes, yes," said Arthur, knowing her logic but, illogically, his body wanted to stay rooted to the spot to see who was coming. Was seeing the unknown person scarier than not knowing? He could not decide.

"Arthur!" demanded Dottie, grabbing his arm. "Get a grip. Come on!"

"Uh, yes, yes," said Arthur, forcing his legs to move again.

"Stop right there!" someone bellowed from round a corner, twenty feet away, just as Arthur was turning into the alcove leading to the kitchen. He froze at the corner and could see the others through the kitchen doorway, frantically motioning him in. He couldn't do it. Someone had nailed his feet to the floor. He just couldn't move.

"Where do you think you're going?" demanded the angry, gravelly voice, closer this time. The voice sounded strangely like his father's and memories flooded back. He knew his father would grab him by the collar, drag him into the scullery and give him yet another beating, from which it might take days for the pain to go. He whimpered and felt helpless, humiliated.

"Arthur, love, hurry up!" whispered Joan from the kitchen.

He didn't know if it was Joan's voice or the word love but his mind snapped out of the Newcastle coalminer's cottage of his childhood and returned to Lord Atkinson's stately home, forty years later. His feet became unstuck and he could have dived into the kitchen but the voice, which he now dared to look at, was only ten yards from him. He couldn't escape to the kitchen without endangering the others. He straightened his body and his mind.

"I, Sir, am here to help Lord Atkinson," said Arthur, in his best Bond voice. It all felt most unreal. "And thank you for alerting me to where you are holding him." He marched towards the man of the voice - slightly shorter than Arthur but twice as wide with a paunch, grey grizzly hair and thick grey eyebrows.

"Stop right there!" said the man, not lowering his voice. "You're not going anywhere."

"I am going to see Lord Atkinson right now," said Arthur, sounding more confident than he felt. He focused on his goal and took a bold step forward.

"Stop right there, schmuck!" said the man, hesitating, wrapping his eyebrows round his nose.

"I am sorry, sir, but I am here to do what I need to do, not what you tell me," said Arthur, feeling like a robot. The man put his palm against Arthur's chest, blocking his way. "Unhand me, whoever you are, or I shall be forced to call the others in." Arthur put his hand into his pocket as if fingering a dangerous device and not the mobile phone he felt.

"What others?" asked the man, his bellow having fallen to a menacing question.

"Force me to push this button and you shall find out soon enough," said Arthur, without expression. "Now let me pass." His phone beeped as he accidentally pushed one of the phone's buttons and both of them jumped.

"No, no, mate, let's just talk about this, huh?" suggested the rock of a man, recovering quicker than Arthur. "Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?"

"I should ask you that, sir," said Arthur, attempting to take a step forward. "But I don't actually care. We're here to help Lord Atkinson and that's what we shall do."

"We? Who's this we, mate?" Asked the man, his hand still on Arthur's chest but with less force now.

"If I push this button now you will soon discover who we are," suggested Arthur with more nerve than he felt. There was a crash in the kitchen, followed by a bugger and the man-rock stepped back a little. "Looks like they're on their way. Now let me pass."

"Like hell you do!" said the man, obviously making a decision. "I got you and we'll get the others one by one, later, huh." He grabbed Arthur by the collar and all those shaming memories of childhood flooded back. His body became as a small boy's, in the power of his ferocious father and he stumbled along behind the man as they headed down the corridor.
In the lives of most of us there is a moment (or several moments for the particularly brave ones) when we actually dare to do what we've always dreamed of doing, but have previously held ourselves back from. This was one of Arthur's moments.

During the many unexpected and painful times Arthur's father dragged him down the hall to the scullery to take his rage out on his son, Arthur fantasised about revenge. He imagined, most often, of tripping his father up and then either pouncing on him or running away … forever. This fantasy consumed much of his young life and, in his mind, he tried countless ways of foiling his father and, eventually, dreamed the perfect technique - one that required little strength and caused maximum mayhem. His fertile mind imagined great and simple success but he never had the nerve to try it. Till now.

As this rock of a man dragged him down the hall, stumbling to keep up, his mind flashed back to the countless times he berated himself for not getting back at his father and, as his anger rose, and his technique came to mind, he acted. As the man's right foot went forward, Arthur tapped his left foot to the right and the man fell flat on his face, taking a Grecian vase and an oak hat-stand down with him, with a noisy clatter of breaking pottery and timber. Arthur had always imagined his father letting go at this stage but the man didn't and Arthur fell too. The feelings from years of humiliation, long suppressed, now burst out and Arthur fell, purposely, heavily on top of the stone-man. He rammed his forearm into the brute's neck. The man let go to protect himself and Arthur leapt up and kicked him in the side with the strength that fifty years of pent-up rage could muster. He kicked and he kicked and he kicked till his strength ran out. He leaned back against the wall exhausted, strangely happy and quite disgusted with himself. The man lay still, with shards of pottery and furniture around him.

The Wychwood Badgers Run

Last week my friend, Peter, suggested it was time I wrote another song. An hour later The Wychwood Baders Run had poured from my pen. More of a poem, it makes me tell it in a west country accent. I'm now reciting it a the local Midsummer Woodland Music and Readings festival, as well as singing a few songs ... and wondering how it all happened so quickly.It will be the first time I've recited anything and the first time I've sung, alone, with my guitar! Eek! Us artists love to be noticed but when we are, it's scary!!

It's come out as a celebration of the chewy, crunchy, yummy words they use to call places round here in England's Cotswalds - just such a fascinating language to a foriegner from New Zealand. So, here it is ... 



The Wychwood Badgers Run
It’s a Hailey day with a paley sun
Sending softly beams from the greyly sky
On the moundy green and grassy dew
It’s a crispy morn for the waking cows
For a Cotswold land and shivering crow
And this is the time, my smiley friends
To breathe again in Witney town
For the badgers creep to their sets to sleep
 
 (You see) creeping down to Poffley End
On a night so still, you can hear the sun
As it sets itself, behind dark hill
It’s the time the Wychwood Badgers run
Stay awake, stay alert
Lest they smile through your pane
And scratch your dirt
It’s the time for the Wychwood badgers run

In Delly End and North Leigh town
They’re gentle folks who softly spokes
They rub their hands and breathe soft plumes
As the mist does rise and robins chirp
At Chilbrook Farm and Burford streets
The moss does sleep on slatey roofs
And cats do stretch with relief at dawn
For the badgers leave and prey no more

They say at night in whispering tones
Near Charlbury Road and Finstock Lane
The badgers come with eyes aflame
To wake the dead and shake their bones
From the Windrush Inn to the Ramsden Arms
Sneak dark stories with a twilight drink
Into brains that quake as thirsts are quenched
They may be true or may be not; just badgers know

So smile in your gentle fields and kitchen hearths
As the skylark sings the sun to shining
The day in Charlbury town and Rollright Stones
Is soft and cool and safe as pigeon’s coo
But don’t forget when the day is done
For Kidlington babes and Banbury youths
The shadows lengthen over badger deeds
Chipping Norton, Stow-on-Wold, you could be next
 
We know not how or when or why
Such stories are sent to steal our smile
Over woodland rise, through trickling stream
Make no mistake, gentle folks who do deny
The badgers truly doly do
Creep upon stone houses, over dry stone walls
Into children’s dreams and old folks recalls
You’re never safe from the Wychwood Badgers run

Generosity Unbounded - World Book Night 2011

Last week, at the fortnightly meeting of our writing group, Chris gave me a copy of the book, Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell … well, actually, I snatched it off the table before anyone else could have it ... mere details!

It’s a World Night Book 2011 book (WBN), something I’d never heard of. When I got it home, I read the instructions – something I’m not built for doing, generally – and it said … not, it didn’t say anything at all. So, on the back of the book it was written: “The book you’re holding is one of 40,000 copies printed of each of the 25 brilliant titles selected for World Book Night 2011. That’s 1,000,000 books to be read and enjoyed and then shared.”

So, this WBN organisation (www.worldbooknight.org), whoever they are, printed 1,000,000 books and gave them away just so you and I could have a jolly good read. Now, each of those books has to cost at least £2.50 to print and then someone has to pay distribution and a whole lot of other bills like wages, electricity, phones and so the whole account’s going to be something over £3,000,000 … just so you and I can enjoy ourselves.

Now, if that’s not generosity, I’m a badger masquerading as a human.

And, back to humans - let's see what Arthur and his unlikely troupe are up to, sneaking round Lord Atkinson's mansion, continuing from the previous blog ...

This second creaky slam and lock-sliding confirmed to the sweating security guards that they should investigate quickly. As one, their legs took them across the lawn to the source of the sound, their fine paunches wobbling gracefully ahead of them while, in some remote corner of their brains, arose the possibility that they were too late and would be in trouble. Footprints - many footprints - scarred the mossy floor of the alcove and the door would not budge.

Of course, as we all know, there is nothing in this world to fear except that which passes through our minds, kindly termed imagination. Had the guards known what a motley crew (and the small number of said motley crew) they were pursuing, they would have felt quite confident in themselves. However, since said motley crew existed only in their minds, they were very scared and very uncertain. Conjuring up a large group of savage killers, the guards then had to guess whether the consequences of confronting these viscious foes would be worse than the consequences would be from their guv'nor (as they called him) if he discovered their dereliction of duty and let intruders slip through their tight security …  not that big words like dereliction and consequences actually entered the frantic minds of these two men with growing fear and shrieking brains. Their thought processes probably went more along the lines of, "Oh bugger, do we scarper, save getting' our heads busted or do we tell the guv'nor we bin rumbled and then git our heads busted?"

A further thought may well have been that three weeks in the security industry was quite enough for two long-time supporters of the bar of South Norwood's Hogs Head pub. They weren't men of action but they needed to do something … anything. So, like homing pigeons in a quandary, they headed home to the front of the building, considerably slower than they had left said building frontage. They were, of course, possessed of mobile phones but were loathe to use them till they had fully weighed up the pros and cons of getting their heads busted as against scarpering to the nearest pub and then looking for a job with more certainty and safety. They finally plumped for sticking to their current job and, after a brief conversation in human terms (but long in Cro-Magnon terms) they decided to continue walking backwards and forwards in front of the big house as if they had not stopped doing it - flying stones and creaking doors had never happened and when (or if) the intruders were found inside, they'd fake surprise with such style they'd be forgiven … or even promoted. Hope is a wonderful thing.

Meanwhile, in the green, carpeted hall, with an intricately carved, plaster ceiling eighteen feet above, seven uncertain individuals took stock and wondered, in unison, just what drew them to be in such a position. With some different decisions made (or not made) only hours before, they could all be comfortably and safely doing what they'd always done, whatever that was. But, as we know, life turns on a tuppenny piece (or a dime if you're American, which none of them were) and here they were, about to attempt the saving of someone none of them knew well (some not at all) for a cause uncertain in a situation unimaginable from people with unknown intentions, abilities and armaments. The guards were probably outside the door and, by now, their employers inside would presumably know of the seven's presence. Going back was out of the question and, considering what their imaginations were creating about the events inside the mansion, going forward was also out … but probably less out then going back. They could rely on Dominik for knowing his way round the corridors but none of them knew which one led to the captive (they all presumed) Lord and Lady Atkinson.

All was silent; eerily silent for a house that employed a dozen serving people.

Arthur found himself the centre of attention as they huddled round him, obviously expecting an answer to their uncertainty.

"I guess the most obvious thought is that, whatever they're after, they'll imagine it's in the Lord's office," whispered Arthur as everyone nodded at his sage assessment of the situation though he wondered why a wild guess should be interpreted as a sage assessment.

"I know way to office," said Dominik, quietly. "But we must go past main drawing room and foyer at front. We be seen."

"We could be seen here, too," whispered Amanda urgently. "Where can we hide for a mo while we decide?"

"Ah yes, this way," whispered Dominik, moving off and waving them on with him. He slipped around the corner to the left and motioned them into a small room filled with shelves of gardening equipment, wall hooks groaning with coats and umbrellas and a floor littered with muddy boots of all kinds. "Dis the coat room. For servants," said Dominik, ducking his head under the low doorway. "Shut the door so no one hear us."

In their cone of silence, amid the smell of rubber, mud and wet leather, they looked at one another.

"So, the only way from here to the office is through the most public part of the house?" asked Amanda.

"Yes, that only way," said Dominik, emphatically.

"But these old places have all sorts of secret alleyways and hidden doors," said Martin. "Are you sure there's no secret way to get there?"

"Secret way … secret way," said Dominik as if savouring the words. Arthur was sure he could see the marbles moving round in the machinery of Dominik's mind as it churned over the idea. "Yes, I hear of secret way. I forgot."

"And it will take us to the office?" asked Martin hopefully.

"Not sure, maybe," said Dominik as another marble dropped into place. "I thinking what they say."

"So there might be a way in?" asked Toby, struggling to keep his strapped-up arm from touching people or the room, with little success, considering their confinement. "Perhaps it's into the back of the office."

"Ah yes, back office," said Dominik frowning and Arthur was sure the next marble could be seen, teetering on the edge, ready to drop.

"So what room backs onto the back of the office?" asked Toby, logically.

"Ah, let me think," said Dominik, drawing an imaginary picture with one finger on the other palm, as the marble hovered closer to the edge. Suddenly his face lit up. "Ah yes! It through kitchen so Lord can have affair with servant girls!"

"Good lord, not Lord Atkinson!" exclaimed Arthur, appalled.

"No, no, old Lords, hundreds years ago," said Dominik, laughing quietly. "We go out to passage, turn left then left again and we in kitchen."

 "So, how about you go first, alert the kitchen staff and make sure we're safe," suggested Joan, trying to be logical in a dangerous situation. Arthur could sense her discomfort and admired the way she was dealing with it all.

"It's okay Joan, I'll go with Dominik and clear the way," said Amanda, apparently relishing the danger more than Joan was. "You all wait one minute and then follow us."

The two left and the rest waited.

"Well, that's sixty seconds and no explosive or disturbing noises," said Arthur, unable to move as fear gripped him as never before.

"Come on Arthur," said Joan in her fascinatingly decisive way. "Let's go!"

"Oh, ah, yes, I suppose we should," said Arthur, still unable to move his leaden feet and churning stomach. He felt bile rising and wiped his sweaty forehead.

"It's okay Dad," said Martin, obviously noticing his father's discomfort. "We have an old man, two old women, a cripple and me. Perhaps I go first!" Arthur sensed Martin's bravado covered a deep fear, like his, and he was thankful to be led by his son, in this instance.

"Are you alright, Dottie?" asked Arthur, realising she had said nothing for a long time.

"Oh yes Arthur, it's just like going on night duty," said Dottie, matter-of-factly. "You never know what to expect and, whatever it is, you're on your own and you have to deal with it. Only, this time, there's seven of us. 'It's a doddle, Doctor,' as we used to say."

Everyone smiled and Arthur felt a little better, somehow.

They followed Martin, thankful to be out of the small, stuffy room but not thankful for where they might be heading to.

Superman Changes His World

I am truly amazed but no longer surprised, given the number of miracles I've experienced. "Amazed at what?" you may ask. At the power I have for changing my world.

"Yeah, right!" you may say if you're from Australasia. "You're in England and that place doesn't change. The banking, roading and education haven't changed in centuries, attitudes are rooted in an Empire long since dead and even new homes look old. The plumbing is archaic …" and on and on you might go. And, yes, if you look at any country - the whole world, even - nothing ever changes. We're still fighting and cheating, whoring and beating, loving and generous as ever we were. We just use different toys to do it all with now.

I haven't changed the world.

I've changed my world - a very different thing.

You see, Anna and I came to this unchanging England in April 2008 and, in many ways, we've had a horrendously difficult time. The credit crunch closely followed our arrival, I lost jobs in particularly callous ways, new jobs were hard to find, friends were hard to find and, though we got on and experienced everything we could in this strange and ancient land, it did us no favours.

Then we had one of those moments, those Aha! moments. Actually, it wasn't a short moment but, rather, a slowly dawning Aha! moment. You see, while Olde Blighty was being cruel to us, we realised we were being cruel to it; criticising and harshly judging everything and everyone we came across.

We decided to change our minds and that takes longer than changing your undies. To change our mind took constant, constant vigilance and an undoing of all we've been doing over our combined 110 years. We kept at it, recognising judgement, letting it go, seeing criticism arise within, letting it go … on and on.

As we changed our minds, so our (not the) world changed. We became more loving and accepting of the English and their ways and they became more loving and accepting of us. As we became more generous of them, they became more generous of us. We were even, eventually, invited into peoples' homes for dinners, a HUGE step of acceptance, we discovered, for the English.

As our judgement ceased, our love and acceptance kicked in and we kicked off into a whole new world of deliciously and delightfully enthusiastic and supporting English people, with the people of the Wychwood Project and the West Oxfordshire Writers (WOW) group among our amazing new acquaintances.

We knew all this in our heads but we had to throw ourselves into a foreign land and work it down into our hearts to see the miracles at work. The world we see is a perfect reflection of who we are and we're all shards of the ONE big mirror.

So, next time someone says to you, "I'll look into that," you know they're probably looking into their own mirror to change their world … and yours!

Now, how is Arthur's world changing? His story continues from the previous blog ...

"That's Amanda!" said Joan, leaping out in front of Amanda's car, waving her to where their cars were parked. Amanda was wearing civilian clothes under a heavy jacket. Arthur wondered whether she had any police equipment under the jacket as Joan explained to Amanda why the police had not been called.

As Dominik led them on a winding path and behind immaculately trimmed hedges, the maze and from tree to tree, it seemed eerily different, quieter than it had been that morning. Then he realised there were no gardeners around and no machinery noises. They must have stopped work early for some reason. The only sound, apart from his drumming heart and the panting around him, was the crunching of gravel as the two men sauntered to and fro in front of the colonnaded steps in front of the mansion.

"I think we need to go round the back, Dominik," whispered Arthur as he tapped Dominik on the back.

"I think this too, Mr Arthur," said Dominik, stopping to confer. Arthur bumped into him and then heard two more oofs as more bumping-into-others occurred down the line.

"Damn! My glasses!" said Martin, two people behind Arthur.

"Martin, do be quiet!" whispered Arthur urgently.

"But they're my Bolé glasses, bloody squashed!" said Martin, quieter now. "Sorry …"

"Amanda, can you please come up the front," whispered Arthur, waving her forward.

"Yes?" she asked as she crept forward.

"Perhaps you stay just behind Dominik; it might be important for you to identify those chaps over there," whispered Arthur, pointing to the two men in front of the mansion, apparently guarding it. He wondered why he suddenly thought of this. "They may relate to your investigation."

"Mmm, good thinking, Arthur," whispered Amanda, smiling. Arthur noticed her right hand went to her belt, under the left side of her jacket. He wondered even more about what she might have under that heavy jacket. He shuddered in the warm afternoon sunlight.

"Everyone else alright?" whispered Arthur, looking back down the line of the smiling, nodding people. Joan seemed to be a little out of breath, wiping sweat from her brow, but he knew about her determination when pushed into a corner. Toby was looking remarkably calm, almost meditative, seemingly untroubled by his trussed-up shoulder. What an interesting bunch of saboteurs, Arthur thought … The Magnificent Seven came to mind as a name. So did the Seven Swashbucklers.

"Right, Dominik, let's go," whispered Arthur with unaccustomed authority.

They started off and, just as quickly, stopped and Arthur realised they'd come to the end of the hedge and they were about to step into the open, with occasional trees dotting the expansive lawn.

"We need make running to side of house," whispered Dominik. "How we not be seen?"

"Everyone find stones," whispered Amanda to everyone. "The bigger the better."

Everyone looked puzzled but Toby and Martin set to picking out flint stones from the perfectly-weeded soil. They came up to her with a handful each.

"You keep your stones, Martin, and I'll take yours, aah …" whispered Amanda.

"I'm Toby," said Toby.

"Thanks Toby, I'm Amanda," whispered Amanda, smiling and taking his stones. "When I give the word, we'll throw them over there, past those guys, Martin, and then we'll make a dash for the side of the house. Right?"

Everyone nodded. Martin, a happy, glazed look in his eyes and Amanda, serious and composed, braced themselves.

"One at a time, quickly, and as far as you can," she whispered to Martin. "One, two, three!" A volley of stones flew over the other side of the park grounds and thudded to the ground. The two guards turned suddenly and rushed towards the sound as the Seven Swashbucklers dashed across the open space and crashed, one by one, against the tall plastered wall of the west side, bumping into each other, smiling and panting like a group of naughty school children.

Given that anyone with a modicum of common sense will realise that stones landing must have arrived from somewhere not in the sky, the guards quickly surmised which direction these mystery stones flew from. As this realisation took effect, fractionally slower for them than the average toddler, they turned, looked at each other quizzically, pointed in various directions, grunted intelligently and then ran back in the approximate direction from which said stones may have originated. They stopped at the front steps, like returning homing pigeons, uncertain whether to leave their accustomed nest or to venture on. This second option seemed like a good one so they took off again in the same approximate direction they were headed.

Thankfully, the Seven Swashbucklers had departed this particular spot, thirty seconds before, and they were now dashing along the west wall, trying not to bump into each other, not always with success. They all attempted to follow Dominik's lead, crouching below windows and dodging around topiary trees - again, not always with success as sharp shrubbery impacted with soft skin, bringing forth oomphs and aahs. Soon an alcove presented itself and they followed Dominik into its small, shaded sanctuary, just as the two guards reached the corner of the house. Difficult though it is to pant madly with no sound at all, they all managed it with moderate success as Dominik struggled with the solid oak door with its rusty, medieval ironmongery. Opening the door was relatively easy for a man of Dominik's strength. Opening it quietly was another matter as rust, unaccustomed to moving, screamed its discordance into the sunlit gardens.

The guards heard the graunch of metal and looked at each other as if to say, with one accord, "Well, do we run after that sound or, like the stones, realise it's a ruse and run the other way?" No immediate answer emanated from God, the gardens or any other source and so they faltered, unable, it seems, to consider the possibility of one remaining and the other investigating the sudden sound. Siamese twins had nothing on these two for synchronised movement.

These precious moments of indecision gave the alcove-huddlers just the time they needed to squeeze through the small opening Dominik was able to effect and to allow the door to be slammed shut and the inner bolt secured, barring further entry from outside.

Business Writers Required

Don't forget - if you're a writer of business books (or you know such a person) get in touch with me as I'm the editor of Business Books, an imprint of the publisher, O-Books. Most of our writers and readers are in USA so it doesn't matter what country you come from, as long as you write in English on Business topics.

And now, back to Arthur's and Mary's stories ...

"Hey, I know!" said Mary, a little too loudly as the simplest of ideas struck. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before. "I could call my brother to pick us up and we could stay in the hotel he's at with his two visitors!"

"Sshhh, Miss Collins, and yes, great idea. Phone him," said Ahmed. "But do try to be quiet. They don't want restaurant patrons to know others are out here. It arouses suspicions as to what else could be going on."
"Right. I'll call him from the toilet," said Mary.

Ahmed went through to the restaurant and explained what they wanted to do and that it would help get them out of there. Mary was allowed to go back through the restaurant and into the toilet to call Angus.

Half an hour later Angus sat in the back, between the two women while Ahmed drove and John Maranui sat in the passenger seat for insurance purposes - he had hired the car but Ahmed knew the London streets better. Two dark men in front and three white people in the back.

"Och aye, it's so good to see ye though I never thought it would be at midnight on a secret mission of yers!" said Angus with a huge grin.

"Angus, I've never seen you so excited," said Mary, seeing her brother behaving like a Mexican jumping bean.

"Oh aye, seems like we fit like ball bearings into whatever groove we find ourselves," said Angus. "Home's a quiet groove, work's a noisy, swearing groove and here … hey, I don't know. I don't have a groove; it's all new and strange." He chuckled and watched the lights excitedly as they drove by.

"Aye and it's good to see you too, little brother," said Mary, smiling.

"Aye, and ye know the technology's amazing here," said Angus. "John let me drive from home, some of the way - gave him a break - and this nat sav …"

"Sat nav, Angus," said John, smiling from the front seat.

"Oh aye, like I said, this nat sav thing here tells you where to go, what side to drive on, when you've stuffed up and what to do when you do … everything!" said Angus. "It's amazin', just amazin'."

"Aye, Angus, you're like a kid with a room full of toys," said Mary, grabbing his hand affectionately.

"So what's with this get-up, Sis?" asked Angus. "Ye've not turned butch on us have ye?"

"Butch? No of course I haven't!" said Mary, offended. The feelings of losing her femininity - her hair, her dresses, her playfulness - to the world of insurance resurfaced immediately. She had though they had been banished forever, in her busyness and her gruffness but, damn it, they were still there.

"Ouch, sorry Sis! I didn't mean to offend ye … just jokin'," said Angus, obviously sensing her discomfort.

"Ah, it's just this business world - a girl's got to act like a man to make it and, here I am, wearing a bloody suit … aah, sorry Ahmed, it's a nice suit but I'm not a man," said Mary as Angus held her hand uncharacteristically. "I suppose I just get sick of being in a man's world, in men's clothes, fighting for my life all the time … or so it seems." She forced a smile between the tears that had started. "I do miss being a girl, doing girly things, being treated like a girl. But then, what's others to do if I ponce around in men's suits?"
"So what's the suit for?" asked Angus, softly, uncertainly.

"Ah, well, it's a long story, oh brother of mine, but the short version is that we had to pick up this briefcase from a chap and he didn't want anyone to know who was taking it and so I'm … Halee and I are in disguise," said Mary, feeling a little calmer. "You see, she doesn't usually dress like a tramp!"

"A tramp? Miss Collins, more decorum, please!" said Halee, laughing.

The Mansion Attack
Tuesday, 13th March 2012, 3.51 p.m.
"I think we need to stop here, Dominik," said Arthur, not sure why he felt this so strongly.

"But we not there now, Mr Arthur," said Dominik, not slowing down. "Long drive to go yet."

"Dominik, stop, please Dominik, stop, just here," said Arthur, his anxiety rising.

"But we not there …"

"Dominik, I insist! Stop! Now!" ordered Arthur, unsure how to get through to this large, determined man. "Oh yes, thanks!" he said as the van skidded to a halt on the gravel driveway. Arthur thanked his lucky stars for seatbelts as he was thrown forward.

"Are you alright back there, love?" asked Arthur as his consciousness expanded from his own little world of survival to that of others.

"Uh, yes, I think so," said Joan, shuffling and groaning a little in the back. Then he realised someone was rapping on Dominik's window. Dominik lowered the window.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, stopping like that?" demanded Martin.

"Martin, sshhh, keep the noise down," whispered Arthur urgently.

"But you've dented my car. That's just bloody irresponsible …" said Martin as Dominik grabbed his collar and yanked his head in the car window.

"Mr Arthur said me to stop. Mr Arthur said you to shut up," said Dominik as if speaking to a child. "We in emergency so you shut up and we fix up car at later time. You understand?"

"Orghhh," said Martin, trying to speak with a restricted neck.

"Good! You be quiet and alert and listen to Mr Arthur, hey?" inquired Dominik.

"Uh, yeah, sorry but …" said Martin, as Dominik let him go
.
"But sshhh, Martin!" whispered Arthur. "Be quiet and listen … and look." There were two cars at the mansion as well as two men parading back and forwards. "Can we hide these vehicles here, Dominik?"

"Yes, behind hedge. Follow me, Martin," said Dominik.

Martin dashed back to his car and both vehicles were soon concealed from the mansion, behind a hedge just off the driveway. Arthur checked that everyone was ready and, just as they were to move off, another car appeared.