Indigo Roth

Getting It Out In The Open

2012-02-14T07:49:00.002Z

February 14th is not my favourite day of the year.

I just wanted to say that, to get it out in the open.

But for everyone searching for love today - male, female, young, old, tall and short - this is for you.

You're fabulous.

Never let anyone tell you that you're not.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

Tea And A Slice Of Nostalgia

2012-02-12T15:06:00.003Z

I'm a curious fella. Ask anyone.

Thankfully, my curiosity is not limited to nosiness. I like to think that when a question is vexing me, I have the skills to find the answer.

It's last Sunday. I'm laying in bed, trying to remember something from my youth. I don't like to think at bedtime; that's what dreams are for. But this is tantalising, and skipping round the perimeter of my recall. Something I once read when I was maybe ten years old? Something about an obscure movie about a burning city.

Sleep is forming around the edges of my mind as I drift towards the memory...

It's 1979. I'm at school, flipping through a magazine I've just bought. At sixty pence, it was pretty steep, but it's a science fiction publication, and therefore essential. It's mostly printed on coarse paper in black and white, but it has a glossy colour double-page in the middle, which I've never seen before.

I'm reading - thrilling - over the photos from cool movies that I'll not legally be able to watch for a few years; ALIEN, SATURN 3 and METEOR. But besides this, there's a lot of text to wade through, interviews and articles. And right at this moment, I'm slack-jawed about an movie that is being made where they actually found a town that was prepared to be burned down!

Back on Sunday night, the memory bubble bursts, and I start awake.

Dammit, I almost had it. What was that movie called? It was a low-budget flick about a city that was on fire. In fact, the budget was so low, the producers advertised for a town who'd do the honours. And, unbelievably, they had several takers, and chose to film using one in Canada.

But what was the name of the film? INFERNO? No, I'm thinking of THE TOWERING INFERNO. Hmmm. I try to recall who the stars were; that's often an easy way to find obscure films using one of the online movie databases. Trouble is, it was low-budget, so probably no-one of note was in it.

My thoughts drift back to the name. What's a cool title for a film about a city on fire? I sigh, and roll over, frustrated; it's too late for internal wordplay. I fumble for my phone, find the start button on the third attempt, and and squint uncomfortably at the brilliance of the screen. My hands are still dozy, but I finally fumble up Thesaurus.com to search for other words for FIRE. Hmmm. FLAMES? How about CONFLAGRATION? BURNING? Nope, no bells being rung there.

I try a few more ways to find it using a search engine, questions and keyword searches. Nada.

Straightening out the tormented duvet, and trying not to notice the clock, I focus on the magazine that I read about it in. Oh hell. Now, what was that called? STARLOG? No, that's a posh American one, and mine was English. But it was something like that. SUPERNOVA? No wait, STARBURST! Yes, STARBURST! Finally, a thread I can follow. I remember it had a white cover, and photos from STAR TREK: THE MOTION PICTURE and SATURN 3 on the cover.

Search for OLD STARBURST COVERS seems a good place to start, and after a few variants on the wording I find the issue I owned! That's it! A creamy white, but with just the photos I remember! Good grief, volume 2, Issue 7. But 1979, just as I thought. The picture of the cover makes me smile as I start to drift back to 1979 again.

Fatigue rushes alongside me, and tries to overtake.

I shake my head clear, else I'll be asleep and the question will go unanswered. There's no summary of the issue or its online articles, but there's a link to someone who's selling the very issue I'm after.

After a few taps and a PayPal password, I've bought the old magazine and resigned myself to answers in a few days time. And then, without ever having stepped from my bed to find those answers, the evening ends happily with the welcome embrace of sleep.

It's Saturday. I'm drawn away from my breakfast by the sound of the mail arriving. I step excitedly through to the hallway as a padded envelope drops through my letterbox. Smiling, I know what it contains; not only nostalgia, but answers. Pleased with my ingenuity and tenacity, I return to the kitchen, tearing open the well-wrapped package with some difficulty.

Oh yeah.

I grin my cheesiest grin. And, retrieving my tea and toast, I wander through to settle into the comfiest armchair in the warm lounge.

Now this is a lovely moment.

I flip through the magazine, searching for the article. Wow, I remember all this, but I don't immediately see anything about a movie with a city on fire. My brain is still trying to provide the title of the film even as I turn the pages, keen to deliver an answer before the magazine does; I'm competitive that way.

And here it is! Buried in an interview with low-budget producing maestro Sandy Howard! Who? I shake my head; I don't recognise his name, and would never have remembered it. But what was his infernal movie called?! Wait, here it is! The 1979 flick about a city on fire is titled...

Oh. (with added colour for clarity)

Yep. CITY ON FIRE! Genius. They must have stayed up all night to think of that one; a rare movie title that defies deconstruction, but adds an exclamation mark to promise an extra helping of excitement.

Of course, had I remembered that Henry Fonda had played a late-career bit-part in it, that would have ended the search in minutes. Or Ava Gardner, Leslie Neilsen or Shelley Winters!

Feel somewhat deflated, I nevertheless enjoy the rest of the magazine with my breakfast; I'm rather partial to a slice of nostalgia with my tea.

I'm a curious fella. With more than a dash of ingenuity. And a downright dogged tenacity when it suits me.

But sometimes, in the pursuit of answers, my memory drops its loose change and hurries past the obvious.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

Even Presidents Wipe Out

2012-02-05T14:21:00.007Z

It is a well known fact that when you take a questionable action, consequences will follow.

Never is this less true than in the field of time travel.

For example, the following were printed in 1903 by the U.S. Postal Service.

(Click on it, there's lots of detail)

The 1-cent stamp features my favourite arch-genius and bestest friend before he changed his name. Printed with ebony ink, it proved virtually impossible to locate one of these in a dark room, and many were lost. This hard-to-find philatelic legend will forever be known among hardcore stamp enthusiasts as the Very Black.

The 2-cent stamp bears an unusually-decaffeinated Eolist Petite. Initially these were printed with the blood of her husband, but this practice was short-lived as he kept waking up. Beloved of collectors as the first stamp to ever feature a woman (they didn't get out much), this gem is known fondly as the Tiny Red.

The 5-cent stamp displays the mug of yours truly, just after a bad haircut. A large batch was accidentally printed on sandpaper, giving it the nickname of the Rough Roth. Despite its value being common for long-distance mail, it proved unpopular as nobody wanted to lick it. Still, the colour's nice.

The 9-cent stamp is an unconventional offering, just like its subject, the Minneapolis blogger, Pearl. The multicoloured sheen was a printing error; three-parts ink to one-part gin. This limited the print run of this rarity to a single sheet, most of which were enjoyed with ice and lemon. The Pearly Wonder remains highly sought after and priceless.

How did this happen? It's a long tale, but let's just say that President Teddy Roosevelt was a better president than he was gambler. Or skateboarder.

Indigo

The original 1903 Ulysses Grant 4c stamp can be viewed here
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

Heisenberg Brings The Ketchup

2012-01-23T22:02:00.001Z

One of the nice things about having cool, smart friends staying over is that you're never short of good conversation and laughs over breakfast.

And another is that, when your fridge is empty on a Sunday morning, your best friend the arch-genius has invented a machine that can conjure that very breakfast out of thin air.

And breakfast has gone deliciously digital.

Ones and zeroes, quantum proteins, fried attractors, Heisenberg ketchup.

Don't ask how he does it, it misses the point. He just can.

And don't ask why he has a new name. Just accept it.

Besides, that story's a whole other adventure.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

Flapping Wings Theatrically

2012-01-15T13:21:00.001Z

Good friends come to those who wait.

I'm keenly anticipating the arrival of my best friend iDifficult, so that we can head out for a curry. It's gone eight, and he's forty minutes overdue. But I'm not concerned, it's perfectly normal; they don't call him The Late iDifficult for nothing.

And it's not like I'm being inconvenienced, or hanging about somewhere in the cold evening air. I'm at home by the fire sipping a cup of tea, with an excellent book to read. And believe me, Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man And The Sea is as compelling as ever.

Myself and 'Difficult have been trying to get tonight's plan on the calendar for weeks, and it'll be great to finally catch up with him. I got a postcard from Central America yesterday - apparently he's been searching for the fabled Lost Soup Mine of Hatzancoatl. The stuff of legends.

Five years ago, I would have gone with him.

But now? My wooden leg would only have slowed us down; why he always asks me to bring the damned thing, I have no idea.

Besides, someone has to keep an eye on the cuttlefish.

I finish my tea and turn back to my book. Santiago is wrestling with a gigantic marlin from his skiff for a second day, an epic final battle for a wily, old warrior whose heart is even stronger than his back.

I bet he'd know what do do with a collective of super-intelligent cephalopods.

Pages pass, the tale unfolds, and inevitably my tummy rumbles. But it's a good omen, and a moment later I leap up from my fictional world to an eccentric knocking from the hallway. My stomach growls its impatient appreciation as I step through to the cool of the hallway to open the front door.

It's dark out, but the light from the house illuminates my visitor. In the flesh, the arch-genius iDifficult, a striking figure in his sequined purple-and-black business clothes, looking like he's come straight from the office. If the office was a three-ring circus, where he'd been sawing a woman in half.

Hiya matey, fantastic to see you! As we shake hands warmly, I notice two other figures moving into view up the pathway into the halo of the front door. Hey, who's your... My voice tails off.

The second figure is dressed as a chicken, with a magnificent comb and wattle. His face is clear, and I immediately see that it's also iDifficult. He flaps his wings theatrically and laughs.

The third figure resembles a certain whip-carrying archaeologist, complete with fedora and three-day stubble. In each hand, he hefts a red-hot stone bucket of what looks and smells like spicy vegetable soup. And once again, it's iDifficult.

Shall we get a table for four? he asks with a trio of loopy grins.

Typical.

Good friends do come to those who wait.

And sometimes, you wait over an hour, and three of him turn up at once.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

Still Managing It Solo

2011-12-22T21:18:00.002Z

Good grief, there must be something I'd like for Christmas.

I'm sitting at the writing desk in the drawing room, trying to think of things to put on my letter to Santa. It's rather late to send one, but I'm hoping the big man will cut me some slack as we helped him out last year.

But man, I'm stumped.

Socks? Do I need socks? I expect so, I never seem to have any.

Underpants? Hmmm, probably. These ones are developing a hole at the knee.

I write them down and consider my options.

This is always tricky. As a single guy, if I need something, I tend to go and buy it. I realise that this is usually the excuse I hear married couples give as to why they never buy each other things at Christmas. And I'm managing it solo.

Bravo, Roth, you’re an idiot.

I notice that I've misspelled underpants.

Oh, this is hopeless.

Suddenly, an urgent furore outside draws my attention to the front door of the house. Standing, wondering if it's festive carollers, I instead hear the key turn in the lock, and a colossal growling, singing and roaring enters the house. It's clearly not drunken, just happy.

I reach the hallway as the door bursts inwards.

Roooooth! comes the cheering bellow of voices.

It's a horde of my companions. First comes my best friend iDifficult, bearing a tray of steaming mince pies and coffee. Next comes Bear, ducking under the doorframe with a Christmas tree tucked under one arm. Yavin the badger, a deep coil of glittering Christmas lights round his neck, follows behind. The young badgers Hoth and Sollust then hurry in, lugging a heavy bucket of soil into the room between them, placing it in the corner. Finally, King the resident lion and my beautiful neighbour Abbey stroll in, arm in arm, with bags of decorations in their spare hands.

In less than a minute, the tree is planted, and the sparkling lights (that are somehow lit without power) are draped around it. The young badgers quickly decorate the lower tree with baubles, while Abbey and Bear deal with the upper half. And all the time, a wonderful many-voiced melody fills the room.

Silence falls expectantly, and I glance towards the door.

Dantoo, Yavin's youthful niece, in a sparkly red-and-green Christmas dress, shyly steps into view with Bear's girlfriend Clarice. The little lass is bearing a shiny pair of Christmas bells. I give her my best smile, and she runs over to be picked up.

I move us to the tree, and she carefully places the bells at the top.

Everything looks perfect.

The coffee and mince pies are arranged on the table now, and I notice a crate of what looks like ginger fizz has somehow materialised under the table. Hoth and Sollust busy themselves with a bottle opener, and we all raise a cup.

My lifelong friend steps over to me, and pumps my hand enthusiastically.

Happy Christmas, old boy! he grins, and another cheer goes up.

To all of us, such as we are.

So, this is Christmas.

I return my attention to my Christmas letter to Santa on the desk. I fold it carefully, a lopsided grin on my face, and drop it into the bin by the desk.

I don't need to write a letter.

I have everything I need.

Merry Christmas everyone! Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Trying Not To Overthink It

2011-12-11T21:51:00.001Z

When I emerged from university aged twenty one, I was young and enthusiastic.

These days, at more than twice that age, I often feel beaten down.

You know how it is - work, money, relationships, family, health, time, and sheer bloody Life. They gang up on us and grind at the spirit with their relentless demands for attention. The ensuing stress is always an unwelcome extra guest at the bonfire.

So today, after a tough few weeks, I took action. I took charge.

I did something that always manages to quieten my mind.

I went to feed the ducks at the local park.

I have no idea why this works, but - as ever - I feel remarkably upbeat as a result. Somehow, throwing bread for some lively, cheeky birds that quack and splash really helps me get my head back on straight.

I try not to overthink it.

My name is Indigo Roth. I'm 43 years old.

And, for the record, I remain young and enthusiastic.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

But For Our Olympic Coughing

2011-12-04T14:48:00.007Z

Sometimes things aren't where they're supposed to be.

It's not a well-formed thought, but as I behold the long-abandoned boat on a still-chilly morning in California, something more incisive and definite eludes me.

It's August 2008. I'm on holiday with the caffeine-stunted Eolist Petite in beautiful Marin County to the North of San Francisco. I've recently completed a training course in the city by the bay, and the dinky dynamo has flown across the States from her East Coast home to hang out for a few days.

Eolist sips an industrial sized cup of joe, and contemplates the boat thoughtfully.

One of these things is not like the others, one of these things is not the same, she sings quietly, absently. And she's right. It's hard to explain why, but the presence of the marooned ship feels wrong somehow. It's too old, too battered, and too close to the water to have been marooned here for all these years.

It's almost cinematic, eerily beautiful and incongruous. Unusually, I'm lost for words.

Can you hear it?

Twenty minutes ago, my first task for the day is to drive us into the rustic bayside town of Inverness, in search of coffee. I'd say we were in search of coffee, but Eolist sits pouting in the passenger seat, barely able to see over the dashboard of the black Ford Mustang. Which is a shame, as the seemingly endless woods on one side, and the frankly awesome Tomales Bay on the other, are worth every admiring glance I offer them.

Are we there yet? she grumbles, folding her arms for extra poutiness.

As I take a corner at a sedate pace (I'm still getting used to the left-hand-drive car), the wide front porch of The Inverness Store swings into view in the distance.

Yes, almost there.

Five minutes ago, armed with a cup of coffee that could have given night terrors to Rip Van Winkle, Eolist is happier and more communicative. We chat happily outside the roadside grocery store as I wrestle my way into a bag of beef jerky. So far, the bag is winning.

I'm talking about what we might do today, and my desire to go see the Point Reyes Lighthouse, when I notice that I'm talking to myself. My companion has drifted away along the front of the store and is gazing round the corner. I stand to follow, figuring I missed a cue to head back to the car, and restart my tourist monologue. But again, she walks out of earshot along the side of the store.

By the time I catch up with Eolist, my lazy shuffling kicking up dust in the dry car park, she's poised at the rear edge of the property, gazing out across the bay at low tide; sand, reeds, gorse, and salt tidal pools, all framed quietly beneath the purple glare of distant hills.

And there's a ship. An old, stranded ship.

Can you hear it? she whispers for the first time.

Back in the now, I can hear it. Or feel it. Or something. It reminds me of a feeling I had the first time I went to Stonehenge, an enormous sense of presence. I step down from the car park and offer Eolist my hand to assist her descent, before we slowly cross the fifty yards of puddled scrub in silence, dodging small pools and mud slicks.

I stop at a sudden flashing image crosses my brain. Actually, it's more like a tenth-of-a-second of video. It's cold and wet, and someone is shouting. I think it's me.

Slightly ahead of me, Eolist slowly raises her hand towards the boat, but then suddenly starts and sneezes.

Excuse me. Rain up my nose, she mutters, somewhat confused. And there's no need to shout.

You felt it too? Was it deja vu? I venture. She shakes her head.

No. It's more like an adventure...

... we've not had yet? I leave the thought hanging; we both know what I mean.

Cresting the last rise, we stand on the sand. The boat, barely showing the legend Point Reyes, is in front of us now, horribly landlocked in five feet of sand. There's a smell of seaweed, rusting metalwork, and organic decay. It's not an enticing cocktail, but it doesn't drive us back.

The silence is deafening now, the presence of the ship overwhelming under the empty sky.

We both reach forward, and touch the wooden side of the sh...

I have no idea when it is. It's dark and wet and someone is shouting. The roar of the sea is all around, and heavy rain batters us as we stand on the main deck of the Point Reyes. Dark currents heave us every-which-way from fathoms beneath us, and darker ones roil in the clouded midnight sky above us.

Eolist stands beside me, clinging desperately to the wooden rail around this exposed bridge area. In front of us, an heroic figure in oilskins, gumboots and a sou'wester hat wrestles a course from the ship's wheel. The sturdy crate he's standing on to reach the wheel does not detract from the spectacle, nor do his black and white feet.

Yavin! I roar desperately. Where's 'Difficult?! The badger turns in acknowledgement and points a drenched paw to a struggling shape at the front of the ship; it's my best friend, the legendary arch-genius iDifficult. Bewildered that he can hold fast on the bucking deck, I'm also impressed to see that he's clearly focused on a task; he's adjusting a brass device at the prow, calibrating a clockwork mechanism preserved under glass. A blue glow from its depths illuminates the immediate area, shining through the wave that obscures him for a moment. A moment later, he somehow slams into the rail around us and offers a grin.

Told you! Piece of cake! he bellows as another wave, perhaps the older brother of the first, tries to sweep him away. I wave frantically towards the miracle device at the front of the ship.

Is the time core going to get us home okay?! I dislike conversing in shouts, but right now our options are thin. And I feel confused; I'm sure a moment ago that I was somewhere else. But we don't have time for that now.

A thumbs-up from 'Difficult seals our course and fate, and we haul him over the rail and into relative safety. The torrential downpour seems to worsen suddenly, and the wooden floor ahead of us vanishes again in a fresh deluge. The ships barrels to the left and then drops in a moment of Zero G. My last meal begs for an airing; this is one hell of a bumpy ride.

I'm aware that our speed is increasing, and we seem to be slowly angling forward. I grab for Eolist with one hand, and the railing with the other, as I glance behind and upwards.

And I see the lightning.

It's not in the sky, but is deep within the rising wave that's pushing us headlong towards an invisible horizon. The lightning arcs and flashes beneath the water, and there is a strobing suggestion of a mighty form with multiple arms and a broad, low-slung head.

We're angled more heavily now, and the rise of the wave seems without end. But suddenly, the front of a grey-furred form breaks the plane of the cresting water; a simian head, too many hands, and more teeth than I have time to count. Dammit, it's an Octoboon.

The howling wind is drowned out by a cacophony of gibbers and whoops.

I bellow some unrepeatable words, and lurch towards 'Difficult as a wave thunders past.

That thing doesn't belong here! screams Eolist beside me. I concur, and add my own hoarse enquiry to my friend at close quarters. We're travelling rather fast, far quicker than a boat could ever cross water.

We're falling through Time! How is that Octoboon following us through Time?! My friend waves as expansively as he can in our sixty-degree descent through an ice-cold shower of stinging water.

Well, I'm not going to learn much by engineering a stupid animal, am I? he sprays emphatically. The logic is impeccably twisted, but the prospect of outrunning a creature with eight arms, three hearts and nine brains is not an attractive one. Nor is its embarrassing baboon butt, which has just butterflied free of the titanic wave. I notice that it seems to be the source of the lightning; electricity arcs to the main mast, which shatters in a brief fiery burst of splinters.

Can we outrun it? roars Eolist. Are we there yet?!

A deep growl from close by draws our attention to Yavin. The badger engineer is pointing towards a point of light ahead of us. It's not at the horizon, and it is clearly expanding as we thunder towards it.

We're almost there!

High above us, the Octoboon leaps free of the water, and is outlined in baleful white fire, a Vetruvian pinwheeling of arms and gaping jaws that promise our immediate doom.

We're finished.

Time stretches like elastic, and the beast's roar deepens and slows.

And slows.

And sloooooows.

And finally, in a rush of wet, dark, fast-forward images, Time snaps.

Back in the now, both myself a Eolist tumble away from the stranded ship.

The misty Sunday morning in California is silent but for our Olympic coughing.

Eventually, I sit up and reassure myself that my tiny amiga is okay. I then regard the ship. Oddly, it's previous presence has gone; the Point Reyes is now just a rotten old boat with rusty fixtures, and no future beyond our epic memories.

When you get home, please kick his arse, grumbles Eolist. She's re-found her coffee, but not her sunny disposition. Or a hairbrush.

Whose arse? asks a tall upbeat figure as it rounds the ship with a smaller companion; it's 'Difficult and Yavin. They're soaked to the skin. As he sheds his oilskins, the badger tugs at the arch-genius' sleeve and points at the distant hills enquiringly. My friend nods. And by the way, where are we?

There's a selection of hugs and backslaps as we greet each other.

Some of us are not where we're supposed to be.

But we're in good company.

Thanks for your patience, Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

In Need Of A Bigger Boat

2011-11-23T22:53:00.000Z

None Holds A Candle

2011-10-31T22:33:00.002Z

If kids come trick-or-treating to your door tonight, be sure to dress properly.

And if you're going to watch Halloween before bedtime, may I please press you to John Carpenter's original 1978 classic?

As with many things in life, there are sequels and remakes, but none holds a candle to the original.

Happy Halloween.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Less Squinting Of The Eye

2011-10-21T14:02:00.001+01:00

Today, there is grapefruit for breakfast.

I wonder idly who did the shopping. I like grapefruit, but I prefer my breakfast experience to involve less sourness. Less pursing of the lips. Less squinting of the eye.

I pick up the swollen yellow fruit and give it an experimental sniff.

And then I move my nose closer, and smell it slower, longer.

It's 1972. I am four years old, and sat happily in the child seat of a wire-frame shopping trolley. My mother is pushing it through the local supermarket in the Westside area of town. We come here every Thursday morning. I'm moving backwards as she walks and chatters to me, but this seems to make everything a little more exciting; new shapes and colours drift into view constantly from both sides, and everything begs to be picked up.

I smile as only a child can.

Suddenly, I'm aware of a sharp smell, a scent I'm unfamiliar with. I wrinkle my nose, and look up at my mother. Seeing my expression, she frowns momentarily before understanding dawns across her thirty-something face. She points to a pile of huge yellow fruit, and tells me it's called grapefruit, and that it's nice.

Back in the now, I smile at the memory.

But I'm not the only one with sharp fruit for breakfast.

Next to me, sat at the table with an unrolled set of tools, is my best friend iDifficult. He has several grapefruit in front of him, all of which appear to be frozen. A series of electrodes are implanted into each in turn, which are connected via a misty container of liquid nitrogen to a large hotplate. The red-hot metal square fair bristles with a stack of sizzling, quickly-crisping bacon, powered only by the electricity from his super-conducting grapefruit array.

The loopy arch-genius looks anxiously at some kind of voltmeter, and cheeses a grin as he scribbles down some numbers.

I don't think he's going to eat the grapefruit.

But I don't fancy the bacon's chances.

At the other end of the table is Yavin. The badger engineer, already in his overalls, is cutting into his own grapefruit with a folding knife. His flat cap sits beside him on the tablecloth; it's bad form to wear it at the table, tho not to bring it with him.

After a few swift, precise cuts, my black-and-white companion tucks into the grapefruit with a spoon. His nose twitches and his eye winks involuntarily as he chews the juicy flesh of the fruit. And I'm pretty sure I can just hear his toes wiggling beneath the table.

I know that badgers love Bergman, but they also love citrus fruit.

And at least I now know who did the shopping.

I take another sniff of my grapefruit, and I'm again transported momentarily back through the decades.

Grapefruit are nice, Indigo.

As I slice my breakfast in half and fuss around the edges, loosening the segments, I reflect that it only took me twenty years to realise that my mother was right.

But that's okay; it happens a lot.

Most things you have to learn for yourself.

And these things take time.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Indigo 101 Redux

2011-10-14T10:33:00.008+01:00

Revised! Updated! Now with Abbey and extra badgers!

Well, it's possible that I may be getting a new visitor or two. If I'd known that you were coming, I'd have baked a cake. Or got dressed.

I've nothing prepared, so here's a quick catch-up on my most popular/favourite blog entries. I've arranged them into a few categories, so you can choose the kind of stuff you like. Ooh, before we get going, I'd best do this:

Dramatis Personae

Indigo Roth - me. Author. Artist. Occasional spy. Frequent fool.
iDifficult - my best friend. Part-time arch-genius. Unhinged.
Yavin - a badger engineer. Lives in the garden. Never speaks.
Abbey - my lovely neighbour. Always shoeless. Spiritually gifted.
Bear - a seven-foot tall black bear. Close friend and conscience.
King - a lion. Lives in my house. Steals my ties. Likes zebras.
Elliot - an elephant. Stoic parole officer assigned to iDifficult.

And just to warm you up, here's a self-portrait I drew for one of the entries below. * (It's worth a click to see detail)

My Favourite Stuff (Click a link)
- Thinking Outside The Box
- Rimsky Korsakov And Tonic
- Most Definitely Not Canon
- The Silence Of The Ducks

The Picture's The Thing
- Shaking The Family Tree
- Shoulda Been Armed For Bear
- In Awe Of Barefaced Talent
- Lawn Mowing Avoidance *

Adventures With iDifficult
- Just Like The Real Thing
- A Disconcerting Little Tune
- The Wisdom Of Invertebrates
- Super Rare Holographic Clergy

Lions And Badgers And Bears - Oh My!
- Ignore Any Quiet Knocking
- Sometimes They Even Think
- Taking Turns With Shrugs
- Some Scratching Of Chins
- Comfortable And Undemanding

The Abbey Arc
- Glacial In Its Glow
- It Must Be The Sunflowers
- The Butler Didn't Do It
- Receiving A Bad Grade

Dafter Stuff
- A Simple Flight Of Stairs
- Intervention In Aisle Three
- It All Ends With Jazz Hands
- Views From A Hill

Straighter Stuff
- For Today I Am The Dog
- Passing Into Mental Myth
- Stripped Of Red and Yellow
- Shifting Mental Loose Change

Longer Stuff
- A Shower Of Gravelly Memories
- Always A Cause To Dream
- A Ratchetting Of Vertebrae
- Manners Maketh The Man

Misunderstood
- A Frozen Game Of Patience
- Catching Passes In Traffic
- Season Two Finale

And once you make sense of all that, you might make sense of this:

Thanks for reading!

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Certainly No More Than Two

2011-10-09T23:39:00.004+01:00

May I share something with you?

I drew this up when I sat down to take a long, hard look at my blogging life.

(Click on it, it's rather cool)

My life is not exactly one dimensional, but certainly no more than two.

No doubt you're naturally wondering what possible application this has.

Well, here's the formula for Sunday.

There's a legend if you click. And yes, it's entirely accurate.

The first person who says I have too much time on my hands wins a prize.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Perhaps Not In Cold Weather

2011-10-02T12:24:00.003+01:00

As ever, my time is not my own.

As a result, I have been away from my keyboard for a while. It's only been two weeks, of course, but that's an eternity in blogging terms, and the shareholders (dare I say stakeholders?) are getting restless. Dammit, they want to see product.

Well, that's too bad. Just typing is testing my mettle at the moment.

I would normally find it easy to think outside the box, run ideas up the flagpole, and push the envelope. But despite my best efforts, after pushing the aforementioned envelope, I remain stationery.

You may ask how I came to be here. Well, that's a funny tale. Well, I expect I'll laugh about it in years to come. Though perhaps not in cold weather.

But for now, let's just say that if a close friend asks for your help testing his new invulnerability suit, don't let him run you over with a truck until beta testing is complete.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Receiving A Bad Grade

2011-09-18T09:57:00.004+01:00

Sometimes a ringing cellphone is a welcome distraction.

It’s Sunday morning. I’m standing in the mini-market a hundred yards from my house, trying to ignore the scent cocktail of sweat and cheap cleaning fluid. Outside, there’s a light mist; the weather seems to be cooling down after an unseasonably warm summer.

I’m trying to choose between four pints of full-fat or two pints of half-fat milk when my cellphone rings.

As I fumble in my pocket, the guy serving behind the counter gives me a withering look, despite the fact that he is also on the phone. As I ignore his disdain, I reflect that he’s always on the phone, even when he’s serving customers.

The handset emerges from my pocket, but my early morning brain doesn’t recognise the caller display number. I answer it anyway.

Yuh, hello? I yawn.

Ah, Mr. Roth! I don’t recognise the bold male voice. It sounds laboured, overweight, but not breathless enough to be an obscene call. I wonder what he’ll try to sell me.

Speaking. Who’s calling, please?

There’s a faint chuckle at the other end of the line.

This is Robert Leech, Mr. Roth. Leech? It rings a bell, but... Your landlord.

Ah yes, Bloodsucking Bob. The largest landlord in Cambridge, owner of some two hundred houses. Hmmm, this isn’t likely to be good news.

Hello Mr. Leech, how are you? I ask politely, hoping he’s not about to put my rent up.

Excellent, thank you! he leers fatly. I just wanted to let you know that I’m in the area, and I’m going to drop by to inspect the house.

Oh.

Twenty minutes ago, I crawl out of bed to the sound of magnificent singing. It’s close by, but thankfully not this side of my door. I sit upright, my eyes objecting to the pale light at the edge of the curtains. My mouth tastes of stale garlic, and my bedclothes don’t seem to have fared much better. Ah yes, dinner last night was an enormous pizza; it must have been a day with a ‘Y’ in it.

The growling tenor voice continues his aria, belting out something from Il Travatore as I shuffle to the bathroom. I step absently over a half-eaten zebra on the landing, and try the door; it’s locked. King, the house’s resident lion, is showering. But judging by the stripy carcass staining my carpet, he’s clearly not tidying.

Starting down the stairs, I make a mental note to have a word with him later.

As I reach the hallway, I can hear the TV. Good grief, is someone else up early? I poke my nose round the door to the dim lounge, and find a half-dozen badgers dozing in a tangled pile on the sofa. Meanwhile Yavin, the Chief Engineer of their clan, puffs his pipe in the armchair. He turns and gives me a cheery wave through the smoky haze before returning to his movie.

As I retreat to the hall, I realise he was watching The Seventh Seal, the final movie in an all-night black-and-white Ingmar Bergman marathon.

Badgers love Bergman, and don’t need the subtitles.

The dim, dog-legged kitchen-diner lacks any debris from the night before; the washing up is done, the surfaces wiped, the carpeted floor immaculate. And the fridge is missing. Interesting. I guess I won’t have any milk for my tea?

My thoughts turn to the local mini-market. I scoop my keys from the kitchen table, along with my phone. As I turn to the hall to looks for my shoes and grab my jacket, a deafening crash spins me round. I find glass shattered across the floor, and a still-rolling baseball escaping the empty frame of the kitchen window.

I pick the heavily stitched ball up and wander over to the window. Thirty yards up the garden, their clothes damp with the dew of the unmown lawn, three young badgers gaze my way. Hoth stands on a small mound of freshly-dug earth, perhaps wishing it wasn’t obvious he was the pitcher. Sollust wears a catcher’s mitt on his paw ten yards further back, and is slowly edging behind the shed.

Between them, in a pretty pink dress, and attempting to hide a bat that’s taller than she is behind her back, is Dantoo. The boys slowly raise their paws to point at her helpfully. She smiles innocently.

I’m about to take them to task when I notice a figure up by the tree at the very back of the garden. It’s standing on a large white box - hey, that's my fridge! - and peering up into the evergreen branches. Mist hides his identity from all certainty, but I guess correctly that it’s my best friend, the arch-genius iDifficult. He must have been up all night too; he’s not a morning person, and would hibernate given the option. This is far too early, whatever time it is.

As if sensing my thoughts, ‘Difficult turns and waves. I see he has a clipboard and a long wooden boat hook in his hands. The fridge wobbles beneath him.

Waitaminute. Isn’t that the tree that the squiddrel is nesting in?

A tentacle descends from the tree and there’s a flash of red fur as ‘Difficult vanishes with a muffled squawk up into the canopy.

Scientific curiosity, you just can’t beat it.

Without a word, the young badgers turn and charge up the garden, welcoming the distraction. Dantoo waves the bat valiantly and jostles her older cousins out of the way, quickly overtaking them. They’re going to assist ‘Difficult with the squiddrel; I don’t fancy its chances, that kid has a hell of a hit on her.

We’ll probably have calamari for dinner tonight.

I sigh. This is all too much.

I head out through the front door, and stop in surprise as a figure comes around the hedge and strides purposefully towards me. It’s my neighbour, the ever-smiling Abbey. The girl-next-door still has no shoes on; she never does. I’ve often meant to ask her why, but now’s not the time; I need tea, therefore I need milk.

Morning, neighbour! she grins, deflating my world-weary mood instantly. Her shoulder-length hair looks freshly blonde above her white t-shirt and dark jeans.

Hey. I offer a smile in return, and hope I don’t look too rumpled.

I wanted to borrow a couple of things, may I...?

I wave her towards the house as I set off.

Help yourself to whatever you need. I’m off to get milk. Need anything?

No thanks! she shouts as I reach the road. Do you have your phone?

Yeah, call me if you change your mind!

There's a cold edge to the wind on the main road, and...

Mr. Roth?

Back in the now, the voice of my Landlord slaps me from my reverie.

Mr. Roth? Damn, what was he saying?

Sorry Mr. Leech, someone was talking to me.

So, I’ll be with you in five minutes.

Five minutes?! I can feel a sweat rising.

Exactly, be seeing you! And the line goes dead.

Zebras, lions, badgers, indoor smoking, broken windows, more badgers, and a hybrid colossal squid-squirrel trying to eat my best buddy. Wow.

Panicking, I set off for the house at a run.

Fifteen minutes later, I stand with Bloodsucking Bob and Abbey on the driveway. My rotund landlord is grinning and chatting to my neighbour, and largely ignoring me. Gazing at his shiny-elbowed jacket, I wonder why this rich fella doesn’t own a better suit?

I have to say, Abbey, he enthuses, you’ve done wonderful things for your brother’s housekeeping during your visit! He mops his brow, and adjust his glasses. Oh my yes, there’s some marvellous feminine touches! He waves a finger at me in a playful fashion. I hope you’re appreciative of all your sister’s efforts, Indigo! he chides.

Oh, Mr. Leech, I shrug, you have no idea.

Don’t worry, Robert, I’ll be keeping an eye on him. She touches his arm in a reassuring manner. Thanks for dropping by. You take care now.

He blushes and giggles foolishly as he bustles away.

We wave him off, arm in arm.

So, tell me again - why were you my sister? She pats me on the arm in an equally reassuring manner and gives me a huge distracting smile.

Well, if he thought I was your girlfriend, he’d have put your rent up.

She turns to the house before I can think of a smart reply, and wrestles my house numbers from her front door.

Here, you’ll need to swap these back.

Thanks. You’re a life-saver. You know, showing him round your place rather than mine was some quick thinking. Though now I come to think, she’d already swapped the house numbers over before I made it back from the shop.

I let it go. Always a mystery, is Abbey.

Now, did you get that milk? she enquires, folding her arms in an appraising manner. I frown.

Um, no, I was in a hurry to get back. Abbey raises an eyebrow. There’s an essay in the look she gives me, and I suspect I received a bad grade for it. But then she cracks another smile.

Well, if you go get some, Mr. Roth, I’ll make us some tea.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

A Day To Remember

2011-09-11T16:41:00.002+01:00

Today is the tenth anniversary of the events in New York City, Washington, and Pennsylvania.

I'm an odd duck at the best of times, and have little time for nations, or governments, or religion, or wars, or foreign policy.

However, I do believe that people can be remarkable.

For those who remember, I stand with you today.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Photo respectfully borrowed from 911PatriotDayRide.info

A Matter Of Respect

2011-09-07T23:52:00.003+01:00

I'm a pretty relaxed fellow.

When it comes to eating out, I consider it a treat. As a result, I wouldn't dream of diminishing the experience with rules of conduct, dress codes, or quibbles over who had rice.

However, I might offer up a few simple guidelines after an evening in my local curry house with a good friend. I shall not name the part-time arch genius, as I respect him too much.

#1 Never eat in a curry house with a vegetarian.

#2 Never let him choose from the Brussels Sprout specials.

And finally, and most important of all:

#3 Never share a taxi ride home unless you can open a window.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Pockets Stuffed With Gold

2011-09-04T23:38:00.002+01:00

What a beautiful day.

Blue skies, bright sunshine, and a cool breeze stirring the warm air.

The hill in front of me is my destination for this rare day out. It looks like a nice one to climb, and it's not too steep. The way up to the top curves gently away from me; I can't see everything that's ahead, but I've a pretty good idea where it'll end up.

And I bet the view from the top is a cracker.

I stroll for a while on the easy incline, enjoying the feel of the sun. Flowers salute me on either side at waist height, bumblebees meandering happily among them. Their content buzzing draws my attention, and I crouch to watch them as they go about their bumbly business, pockets stuffed with gold. Within seconds, I'm engrossed.

I've always been fond of bumblebees; they bring back memories of my maternal grandmother, who would hold her hand flat for them to land on when I was a toddler. She taught me that they were gentle giants, and though she's long since passed, I've always treated them with awe and respect.

I resume my stroll as the slope increases, my mind wandering. A bird circles easily above a nearby rocky outcrop, perhaps riding a thermal current. I wonder what it would be like to fly as a bird rather than walk as a man. Would life be the freedom of the endless sky, or would flying be like swimming in deep water? Predators could lurk in any direction, in all directions.

I lose my footing momentarily, but quickly regain my balance.

Onwards, upwards.

The way is much steeper as the hill narrows, but I'm most of the way up now, and my heart tells me that I'm alive. It's a good feeling; I really should do this more often.

As the hilltop approaches, the curve reveals a gnarled tree that stretches across the path from my right. It looks wind-blown and somehow out of place on such a lovely day, but there it stands. I step through the flowers carefully and reach out to touch the bark of its inclined trunk. It's deeply grooved but smoothe, and I trace the channels upwards into its bare branches with my fingertips. A solitary bloom lies out of reach above me on the far side of the path, as if it's trying to escape the tranquility of the hill.

The mystery holds me for a few minutes, but I eventually move past and steel myself for the last stretch. The incline is harsh now, and I have to work harder, sweat finding my joints, to reach the small summit. As I crest the rise, a little short of breath, I'm met by a mercifully cooling wind.

It's flat up here, and after a few seconds catching by breath, I move closer to the opposite edge and gaze down upon the dwindling length of the path. It's obviously longer and steeper than it looked from the ground, and looks broken and uneven; no wonder I lost my footing.

I wonder idly if I'd have started the journey had I known that the going would be tougher than expected?

I dismiss the thought as irrelevant; I made my mind up to climb the hill and followed through. I even made time to enjoy some cool stuff along the way.

And I'm not disappointed now I'm here; the view really is spectacular.

I smile and realise that I'm brighter than I used to be.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
The fab photo was taken by blogging buddy Murr Brewster

Behind Me As Ever

2011-08-29T01:40:00.003+01:00

I am alone in the dark.

My first instinct whenever I wake is to check the blinds to try and guess the time, but today I can’t move my head.

Or, as it turns out, my body.

As I’m wondering if this absolute darkness is a dream, it dawns upon my sleepy senses that I’m vertical, twisted, and immobile. Immobile? I wiggle my fingers slightly. Okay, I’m not immobile, but physically restricted from moving. This starts as relief, but quickly shifts into a new and unpleasant train of thought.

What I assumed to be a cool pillow is actually a solid textured surface. My back, behind me as ever, is also pressed against something that's cold, hard and slightly damp. There’s also an unpleasant smell.

This can’t be good.

Neither is the fact that I seem to be largely naked. Aside from my underpants chafing out of reach at my waist, I think I’m au naturel. It’s hard to be sure, as there’s some cramping in my thighs, and I can’t feel my feet.

Cold, naked, trapped, and in the dark.

Panic starts to rise in me. But I know the signs, and head them off at the pass. Get a grip, Indigo. I take a series of long, shallow breaths. In. Out. In. And Out. Miraculously, lost in this respiratory exercise, my heart slows.

Calm returns. That’s better.

I chuckle. This could be worse. I could be underground.

Oh good grief, am I underground?!

Panic, the first Horseman Of My Personal Apocalypse roars gleefully as he rides through me, shredding my nerves. His brothers Fear, Paranoia and Mum-Said-I’d-Go-Blind are close behind, mopping up any stragglers.

I have terrible claustrophobia, and always have. And now, perhaps as Karmic punishment for doing something weird in a previous week, I’m buried alive! Deep beneath the earth, cold and wet and lost, never to see the light of day again!

I start to thrash, feebly at first, and find nothing but the close brush of walls of my confinement to meet my shoulders, knees and hips. I stretch my neck upwards, and thump my head on a chilly ceiling. No way out! Have I worked by way up a pothole, shredding my clothes on unyielding rock, in a desperate attempt to reach the surface, only to find a dead end, with no way back?!

My thrashing becomes more frenzied, I rock and twist and finally feel some sensation in my feet. Spurred on by this, my heart racing, I force my knees outwards and shuffle my tingling feet apart. Something seems to give when I do this, there even seems to be the tiniest crack of light!

I’m breaking through!

With a roar of effort I shove my elbows out in a final desperate bid for freedom.

The fridge door opens.

And the light comes on.

I tumble from the frigid appliance into the humid early morning of my kitchen, and lay coughing, gasping and stretching on the floor. As fire rages through my cramping limbs, I vaguely register the food, drink and metal racking shelves that are scattered all around me.

I sigh in relief and resignation.

It’s no good.

I have to get air conditioning in my bedroom.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

The Panic Is Infectious

2011-08-21T11:00:00.001+01:00

There’s nothing like a femme fatale screaming in panic down the phone at you at 6am to bring your mind into focus.

There’s a huge spider in my bathroom!

It’s Eolist. Ms. Petite, my tiny American friend, is not known as a panicker with wildlife. I once watched her straighten out a pair of delinquent anteaters who foolishly tried to lift her pocketwatch with a double-team bump and dip. It wasn’t pretty.

But let’s be honest, nobody likes spiders. Well, nobody who’s entirely sane, anyway.

Um, good morning? Grasping for etiquette is probably a poor attempt at calming the lady down, but I’ve not had a coffee yet.

Not here it bloody well isn’t! Please can you come help?! THIS SPIDER IS FREAKISHLY LARGE! she wails. It sounds like Eolist may already have had a few pints of coffee herself, possibly with a red bull chaser, but that’s not unusual, even at this time of day.

Um, sure. Just lemme get dressed and…

Please hurry! The line goes dead.

Good grief, it’s only a spider. I’m not fond of them either, but what is it about them that makes us so irrational? I've often suspected it’s something about the angles in the legs, the numbers of eyes, or the way they move. They could almost be an alien species.

Involuntarily, I twitch as I swipe an imaginary one from my hair.

Right, best get moving. I raise myself from bed, step into trousers and shuffle into shoes. What’s missing? Oh yeah, a shirt. Not strictly needed for heroics, but my string vest is in the wash.

I wonder where my spider-catching pint glass is.

Ten minutes later, I arrive at Eolist’s. It’s a lovely house, a nice white-painted wooden affair in an acre of land. A well tended gravel pathway heads out to meet the road, and there’s a decent-sized outdoor swimming pool which stop well short of; I don’t want to have to call the badgers to get my vehicle out of the deep end again.

Eolist runs out onto the driveway, a vision of early-morning dishevelment. It’s a good look on her. She takes one look at my pint glass and shakes her head.

You’re going to need a bigger boat, Quint. I chuckle, but not unkindly; it’ll be more than sufficient. We then exchange broken sentences, each interrupted by the next. I wave the pint glass.

I’m sure I can catch it with this pi...

I have some much bigger containers in the garage, I’ll go ge...

Never mind the garage, there’s no nee...

Did I mention how big this bloo...

IT’S JUST A SPIDER! I exclaim, gently putting my hands on her shoulders to stop her bouncing. We take a breath; the panic is infectious. I’ll deal with it. That’s why you called me, right?

Eolist pouts a little, but nods. Right.

I give her a quick hug and head indoors.

Upstairs bathroom! she yells at me as I pass the threshold. Please be careful! I'm annoyed that the tune Billy Don't Be A Hero starts up in my head.

One minute later, I’m standing chuckling at her bathroom sink. The spider is a couple of inches across, and distressingly hairy, but not worth the panic. It eyes me suspiciously before making another attempt to scramble up the side of the porcelain.

Feeling brave, I put my glass down and scoop the wee lad up carefully between my cupped hands. It tickles me with its thrashing, and a shiver passes up my spine, but I deposit him out of an open window and close it quietly.

Taking some deep breaths, I feel rather heroic.

Job done.

I turn at a noise from behind the shower curtain above the bath.

Ten seconds later, I’m on the drive with Eolist.

I’m doubled over, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. She fusses over me, but I regain my composure and try to look heroic as I raise myself upright.

So, tell me about those big containers you have in the garage...

I make a mental note never to answer the phone again.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

For A Stirring Chorus Rendition

2011-08-14T17:59:00.012+01:00

It’s a well-trodden cliché that travel broadens the mind.

But cliché or not, it’s true. Nothing blows away the cobwebs of complacent thought more than an exotic location, immersion in an unfamiliar culture, and the babble of an unknown language.

Or unknown time.

It’s Vienna, 1892. I’m sitting in a street café with my best friend, the part-time evil genius, iDifficult; we’re having a late breakfast, possibly an early brunch. The smells of fresh bread, sweet pastries and hot coffee from our locale are intoxicating.

This why we arrived at 8am - the best of the food is always within a half hour of it emerging from the oven. It will be several hours before we’re trampling our shadows. And right now, our shadows are sitting as comfortably as us, just a few yards away.

We got lucky with the weather, I note, sipping an exquisite cup of joe as I contemplate my first snack. Ordering this delicious spread was awkward with minimal German skills, but I think the waitress quickly got the idea we were hungry. And mercifully, with us dressed in immaculate morning suits and top hats, we at least looked respectable enough to pay for our meal.

Oh, luck has nothing to do with it, replies ‘Difficult, fishing in his breast pocket. He produces an obsidian yoyo, frowns, and dips his hand again. Aha! He waves a small ornate brass device in my direction, which seems to be grafted onto a length of seaweed.

Temporal barometer?

Indeed. He smiles absently and gives the yoyo a few expert twirls. Its surface sparkles eerily with the stars of deep space. Taking a bite from a deliciously crisp bread roll crammed with butter and strong, gently-melted cheese, I decide to change the subject.

So, do we have a plan? My friend considers this as he tucks into his first cake of the day. It has cream and chocolate and nuts, and looks like it could kill a diabetic at ten paces.

Well, there’s some terrific museums and parks here, he muses, gazing distractedly at something on the pavement, and of course we could drop by in Sigmund Freud... His voice trails off, his attention still focused on ground level.

I follow his gaze, and slowly stop chewing and talking.

On the slate paves fifteen feet away, our shadows are out of synch with us. Mine waves his hands in an animated fashion, while 'Difficult's seems to shout periodically and scratch his head a lot. We watch for thirty seconds as this tableau unfolds.

Good gravy, are they playing charades?

My friend cocks his head while his silhouetted counterpart stands to begin his turn. With his arms held wide, he spins ominously, before descending and unleashing some kind of explosion.

Yeah, and I think I'm doing Independence Day?

Do they normally do this when we’re sitting quietly? Other shadows seems to be slipping further away from their owners to join the game.

Perhaps. I’ve never noticed, but we’re usually so busy! His consideration deepens. When we’re least active, we tend to be in a dimly lit room, watching movies while eating pizza.

He’s right, the evidence is inconclusive.

There’s quite a gathering of shadows now, each tenuously attached to its caster. Our doubles are both seated again, watching the shade of an artist from somewhere to our left act out the name of an opera.

Oh hell, I’m hopeless on opera, mumbles ‘Difficult past as the last morsels of the cake. I drain my coffee and eye up what looks suspiciously like an amaretto über-éclair. I sniff it experimentally; no, the strong scent of cherries suggests kirsch liquer. I pop it down and reach for some applestrudel instead.

Oh, I think that fella over there got it! The silhouette of a foppish fella to our right jumps up, dragging the darkness of his male companion with him. The two stand and appear to whisper, plotting their mime.

A double mime? Interesting... ruminates the evil genius, picking up the cake I’ve just abandoned. Hey, is this an amaretto éclair?

I shake my head, and the words No, cherry, die on my lips as the charade begins. Turning to 'Difficult, I whisper, This is a bit camp. And where did they get the cowboy hats?

My friend shakes his head, and then suddenly chokes on his éclair. Spluttering cherry cream, he wipes his mouth and finally manages to squeak, Good grief, are they doing Brokeback Mountain?!

I laugh easily, and after watching for a few more seconds I shout Home on the Range! at the assembled shadows. I receive some odd looks from the café’s flesh-and-blood patrons, but both of the mimers point at me with one hand while touching their nose with the other - Correct, Sir!

Some of the other shades then stand and, producing more cowboy hats, join their companions for a stirring, silent, chorus-line rendition of the wild west tune. There is thunderous mute applause.

I pick up the coffee urn and smile at ‘Difficult.

More tea, Vicar?

Ten minutes later, our feast complete, we settle our bill in broken German and head away from the café. Our shadows detach themselves reluctantly from their lively silent party, and snap back into step with us.

Well, that was interesting, I understate, as we pass through the archway to the Grand Park. To my right, ‘Difficult strolls along, once again playing with his yoyo. He offers a reflective Hmmm as he takes it Round The World, narrowly missing my top hat and a nanny pushing a pram. She starts and says something surprised in German. He apologises with a frown and a raise of his hat, and she then giggles and scurries away.

You know, I offer, considering my friend’s many eccentricities, it’d be an missed opportunity to visit Vienna in 1892 and not pop by to see Freud.

My friend scratches his short beard as he considers this proposition. Does he speak English?

Oh, I expect so, I cough, But I’m sure he’d be fascinated to have you on his couch even if he doesn’t.

Well, I’d love to ask him about his mother.

We continue our stroll through the park as our shadows shorten.

Travel does broaden the mind.

But time travel broadens, tenderises, rolls and roasts it.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

A Comfortable Silence Falls

2011-08-07T16:08:00.010+01:00

There are never any ends, just a multitude of beginnings.

I'm thinking back to the first time I stood together with my two best friends.

It's 1992. Wednesday. Probably. After work finishes, I walk into town with iDifficult. We've worked together for almost two years since we received an honourable discharge from our boarding school. In this time, 'Difficult has denied on many occasions that he is my boss. Yet still he guides me, as he always has; randomly, anarchically, and occasionally with dazzling wisdom.

As boss-deniers go, he's pretty cool.

We stop into our local coffee house.

Aaah, Café Nehru! I exclaim as we walk in the door, inhaling the rich aroma.

The great taste of Indian Coffee! sighs ‘Difficult. We do this a lot, finishing each others sentences. Mostly because we lose our train of thought on a regular basis.

As we peruse the board above the counter, I’m aware that there’s just one person ahead of us in the queue. Though in fact, I’m not sure if she’s in the queue. The young lady is perched on a high stool as she argues some point with the barista behind the counter.

Her legs dangle a clear two feet above the floor.

Good grief, I whisper, pointing, she's tiny! How did she get up there?

My friend considers this engineering feat for a moment. Somewhere, a slide rule is screaming.

Sheer bloody-mindedness? he finally ventures, with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

Ahead of us, the woman offers a loud torrent of colourful metaphors at the guy serving her. She spins in the swivel-topped chair and regards us, fuming. She’s an attractive redhead in a jumper, jeans and tennis shoes.

The son of a bitch cut me off! she wails at us, I wanted just one more treble espresso! But no! Her hands wave expressively, frantically. He says I’ve had enough!

The barista stands nervously at the counter. She gives him The Bird over her shoulder. I exchange a glance with ‘Difficult and we nod in unison. I extend a hand towards her.

Perhaps you’d care to join us, miss...?

Petite. she says, taking my hand and hopping down. She’s almost two feet shorter than me. Eolist Petite. Mrs. And thank you.

Our pleasure Our pleasure we chorus, as ‘Difficult steps up to order.

Five minutes later, we’re in a circular booth with a single padded seat, as ‘Difficult distributes our scalding-hot beverages of choice. Eolist reaches forward to sip hers immediately, either oblivious or impervious to the heat. I can’t even touch my cup. While she drinks, she explains to us that she’s visiting from America on a Caffeine Exchange Programme.

Yeah, right now there’s some wired, neurotic twenty-something drinking a pint of espresso with my husband back in the States. She chuckles darkly. She’s pretty cute, and he probably thought it sounded like a sweet deal, but he has no idea.

Been married long? asks ‘Difficult as he sizes up an almond croissant. Like all public schoolboys, we’re not well versed with talking to women.

Sure. Though one of these days I’m gonna get me a woodchipper, and it’s hasta la vista, meester.

We both laugh, and wonder if she’s joking.

Gentlemen, bless you for your chivalry and this coffee fix. She smiles easily, So, how about you tell me your names?

My part-time evil genius amigo puts aside the half eaten croissant, creates an avalanche of crumbs and sugar as he stands, and pats his pocket for his monacle. Not finding it, he produces and eye patch from a trouser pocket and fixes it over his left eye. His voice projects beautifully.

A rag, a bone, a hank of hair, a scientist who dreams and dares. He blushes slightly. Dammit, he beat me to the punch - I was going to misquote Kipling. But my friends and the taxman call me iDifficult.

Eolist snorts happily across the top of her cup, and dampens his black velvet suit jacket with a highly-caffeinated mist. She looks apologetic. Sorry. What does the I stand for? My friend squirrels the eyepatch away again and grins.

Oh, more than you’d think.

They shake hands and exchange smiles. She turns to me as I straighten my necktie.

And how about you?

Roth. Indigo Roth. I try to put some Bond-ish swagger in it, but as I’m new to Her Majesty’s Secret Service, I don’t quite catch it right. She doesn’t seem to notice, and we shake.

That’s a very nice tie, by the way. Be careful a lion doesn’t steal it.

I blink and think. Nope, that’s lost on me.

I’m afraid I don’t follow. Eolist shakes her head.

Never mind, it probably loses something in translation. A frown crosses her brow a moment later, and she begins to rummage in her bag, muttering quietly to herself. Roth. Difficult. Roth. Difficult. She produces a piece of white cardboard and stares at it. From my seat I can see that one corner is torn and slightly charred. It seems to be an old photo. Wow, that’s weird.

We shuffle round either side of her and gaze at the image.

My friend takes it gently and turns it over, while Eolist explains that she’s been hunting down lost relatives in England. He reads the legend on the rear with growing amazement.

Masters Difficult and Roth with Mistress Petite, 1892. He scratches his chin thoughtfully. Exactly one hundred years ago. Good grief.

I don’t recognise the young Roth seated in the middle, but judging by the date and the setting, he might well be Orlando Roth or his twin brother Hugo. Perhaps both; we’re an unusual family. I notice ‘Difficult shaking his head bemusedly; clearly he has no clue either.

We all chat briefly about some possibilities, but then a comfortable silence falls as we attend to our cooling drinks.

There really are a multitude of beginnings.

Eolist finally breaks the silence.

Well, this is all rather surprising and charming, but perhaps it's merely a good sign. We have bigger fish to fry - I have a serious question for you. She squares her narrow shoulders as we hold our breath in mid-slurp. Can you boys recommend a decent curry house?

We heave a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, more familiar territory.

Yes indeed. Only the finest establishment in this world or any other adjacent ones. Eolist raises her eyebrows appreciatively.

Sounds intriguing. Where is it?

Standing, ‘Difficult tries unsuccessfully to dust the icing sugar and almonds from his velvet jacket. He resembles a partially wiped blackboard.

That’s a simple question with a complicated answer. He consults a compass, a pocket barometer, and a bus timetable writen on a turquoise napkin. Let’s just say it’s nearby if we're quick and leave it at that.

Eolist slips from the booth and looks marginally shorter than she did at the table.

Okay, definitely intriguing. Shall we?

I rise and join my two friends. This sounds like fun.

We head off to another beginning, and wherever it will take us.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Not A Reliable Indicator

2011-07-31T12:41:00.001+01:00

Sometimes my dreams haunt me after I wake.

Take this morning.

It's early, and I wake to the sound of something moving around in my bedroom. I roll over, semi-alert, and find the bedroom door is open. Light filters in through the blinds at the far end of the landing, though my room is mercifully dark. I'm not a morning person.

But it's odd; I always sleep with the door closed, and I don't recall getting up during the night. Not that that's a reliable indicator of anything.

Besides, it doesn't explain the snuffling and the general sounds of rummaging, unseen at floor level. Perhaps one of the badgers has let themselves in? I keep odds and ends - cables and connectors mostly - in a box under my bed; maybe they need something for a project?

Hello?

The sound ceases suddenly, and silence envelops the room. It extends unreasonably, far beyond the endurance of the shyest of badgers.

But then, like a furry eruption, a dog leaps onto the bed. He's small, lively, mischievous-looking, and pretty darned cute.

Oh, of course, it's my dog!

I fuss him, and he wags effusively. What's his name? Reggie. Reggie? Yes, Reggie.

No, wait, I don't have a dog.

I rub my eyes as he drops from the bed and runs out of the room. Whose dog was that? What time is it? I need answers.

Miranda? Miranda! Are you there, babe?

Miranda doesn't reply. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up, somewhat bemused, in the warm wreckage of my bedclothes. And I think about a nice cup of tea.

Miranda? I creak upwards and walk towards the light. Onwards, forwards, meet the day. Good morning kiss, put the kettle on, tea, breakfast. Oh, and find out about the dog.

A dog? Was there a dog? Did I dream the dog? I sniff my hand sleepily; there's no doggy smell to it. Did I just fuss a dog? What was his name? I don't recall. Why should I? He's not mine, after all.

Grabbing my dressing gown, I pass through the dim, wooden-floored landing and onto the carpet of my front room. I wonder idly where the stairs are. Was that the landing I walked through, or my hallway?

I flop into a leather armchair, still muddle-headed.

Miranda?

The redhead is nowhere to be seen. I half expected to find her dozing in a chair in front of a quiet TV, wearing one of my shirts; she doesn't always sleep well, and often gets up before me. I wonder what our plans for the day are?

I remember the tea, and rise to fill and start the kettle. I notice that the room seems a little bare. Spartan, almost. No, that's wrong. More Sparse than Spartan. Magnolia-painted walls with a couple of forgettable hanging prints, minimal furniture. Clean and tidy without being fussy, but few cushions, no flowers or air fresheners, and precious little colour apart from the pizza boxes.

All very single male. I have no idea how she puts up with it.

How who puts up with it? I look to the sofa. Melissa, was it? No wait, I live alone. Have done for years. And I never lived with a redhead. What am I thinking?

And what was that about a dog?

Fifteen minutes later, after a cup of tea in my favourite armchair, I'm wide awake, and feeling rather foolish. Man, that dream sure clung to me. But the curtains are now open, the sun is shining, and I'm ready for the day.

There's a knock at the door, and I rise steadily to answer it. Passing through the hallway, I spy the familiar hulking shape through the glass of the door. I open it to welcome my friend.

BEAR! Good to see you matey! Come in! I've just made tea!

Five minutes later, I'm back in my armchair with a fresh cup, and Bear is sitting on the sofa. Well, occupying it; he's a big lad. He's put some quiet music on; some Rimsky Korsakov, I think? The black bear sits quietly, sipping tea from a tiny cup held precariously in his huge paws. He smiles amiably.

This is excellent tea, Monsieur.

Wait. What were we just talking about?

Bear casts his gaze about as he fusses the happy dog on his lap.

So, where's Miranda?

I decide to head back to bed. I'll wake up properly later.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Pooch pinched from How To Select A Dog

Sadly Out Of Season

2011-07-22T19:18:00.005+01:00

There has been some speculation as to the recent blogging absence of myself and my best friend, the part-time evil genius iDifficult.

The truth can now be revealed.

We’re getting some odd readings from this pair. Look!

Hmmm, yes. The IQs are remarkably high.

We’re not over America, then?

No, sadly they’re out of season.

And what’s that ghastly smell?

That’s the shaven headed-one. The vegetarian.

Whoa, open an airlock. Hey, they seem to be awake.

Yes, there’s massive caffeine levels in the pair of them.

And where did that suited one get a pizza from?

I'm not sure, but he growled when we tried to take it.

It’s no good - we’ll have to throw them back.

Yeah, they’re too weird.

Indigo

Dedicated to my UFO conspirator pal Red.
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Aliens abducted from Alien, UFO & Paranormal Times

Making A Reasonable Argument

2011-07-17T17:15:00.012+01:00

It's been a day of intrigue here in Cambridge.

King - our resident lion, connoisseur of zebras, and stealer of neckties - is an ambassador at the British Embassy. And occasionally he brings his work home with him.

This morning, I awoke to find him in my living room with the head of state for Antarctica, The Penguin Kaiser "Free Willy" Wilhelm.

(Worth a click to check out his uniform)

After some introductions, I expressed my surprise, as I felt sure Antarctica was a nationless continent. The little old rockhopper gave me the red-eye and declared in a heavy Germanic accent, that:

Ve are a new nation, ja? Many have staked a claim to ze continent, but who iz bedder to claim zovereignty than ze indigenous inhabitants?

This seemed an entirely reasonable argument. And as a penguin, he seemed entirely representative. He continued:

Ve vill soon take our place on ze vorld stage. Ve are an expanding nation, and at some point, ve vill need lebensraum!

I frowned, trying to remember this word. King stepped in and translated it for me as "living room".

A few minutes later, after a flurry of Teutonic curses, I had the house to myself again; King had exited with his colleague, to escort him back to his Embassy.

I'm a reasonable guy.

But nobody messes with my living room.

Indigo

Dedicated to my zookeeping matey Dazza Jordan
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Or Cold With Custard

2011-07-13T13:57:00.013+01:00

I’m not a morning person.

It's early morning, and I’m in a well-known fast food restaurant.

Let’s call it McDonalds.

The young fella behind the desk is gazing at me patiently as I wonder what to order from the breakfast menu; I suspect his heart is back home in bed. But he wears a cheery smile, and has clearly been well trained. The row of stars on his badge gleam their agreement, though I have no idea what each represents; one of them might be for scrubbing the toilets.

I hope he’s washed his hands.

Do you have pies yet?

I know damned well that company’s unique, deep-fried pies are not on the breakfast menu, but it’s worth asking. They sometimes prepare a few ready for the shift to daytime menu.

Yes Sir! They’re just ready. I notice that he doesn’t glance to check; I like this guy, he’s quietly professional. Even his cap is on straight.

What do you have?

What pies, Sir? His smiles proudly and unconsciously touches the brim of the cap. Our standard apple and cinnamon.

I like Pie. Meat, fruit, whatever. Pie is important. Some light crust, or flaky pastry, maybe even a crumble. Plenty of filling, hot and seasoned, or cold with custard. While my mind is elsewhere, I notice that my mouth is asking another question.

Do you have blueberry?

It’s straight from the realm of wishful thinking, but having had one of their blueberry pies in the past, I’ve often hoped for their return. The lad smiles indulgently.

No Sir, just our standard apple and cinnamon.

I frown. Shame. Your blueberry ones were excellent.

They really were amazing. The banana pies I was indifferent for, but the blueberry ones were the nicest they ever did, even better than the mincemeat and custard ones they do every Christmas.

Blueberry, Sir? I’m not sure I remember those.

He really is well trained. His statement wonders whether I’m confused, mistaken or just pain lying. But his eyes are clear and friendly. Again, professional.

Yep. A few years ago, I guess, but they were lovely.

I wonder idly when it was?

Perhaps they were before my time, Sir? When was it?

It’s not intended as a slight, and I take it as meant; I’m told I have an honest face, so this is probably genuine interest. There’s nobody behind me, so we have time for a flashback.

I’m in Birmingham, in my university days. I’m lighter, fitter, and spottier. My hair is long, and I’m dressed in a white vest, a gobsmacker of an Hawaiian shirt, and scruffy turquoise jogger bottoms. I’m sitting alone in the restaurant in the city centre, contemplating the blueberry pie in front of me.

It’s cool to the touch, and I hazard a bite. And burn my mouth on the scalding fruit. Cursing, I jerk back and squirt more of the indigo purée onto my arm. Fruit burns are painful, as they don’t stop ‘til the fruit’s gone. But after a moment’s work with a tissue, a gulp of drink and an ice cube, I forget my discomfort and decide that the pie tastes really good.

And burn myself again on the next bite.

Back in the now, I realise that this was over twenty years ago. Have I really been pining for a deep-fried blueberry pie for all that time?

My focus falls on the waiting youth; he’s not yet twenty. This bothers me enormously. I easily resist the urge to go Obi-Wan on him as say,

I’ve not had a blueberry pie since… Oh, since before you were born.

The air of wisdom I can handle. But maybe I’m not ready to be old enough to be his dad. Or a crazy old hermit. Actually, there’s no maybe about it. I give him a humble shrug.

I forget. But like you say, before your time, I finish weakly, feeling very old all of a sudden. He notes my discomfort and cheers me along with an upbeat,

So, an apple pie, Sir? Cup of coffee, maybe?

I nod thankfully, blessing his good manners, and we make the transaction, ending with a typical exchange of well-intentioned pleasantries.

I choose a table by the window, and sit to watch the world go by.

The coffee is good, though the not-blueberry pie feels cool to the touch as I absently slide it from its box.

I take the first bite, and suddenly wish I’d ordered an iced drink.

I’m not a morning person.

But, despite an extra twenty years of wisdom, I think I'd find one of these damned things to be dangerous at any time of day.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Blueberry picture blatantly stolen from Artisan Lighthouse

Sharing A Brief Smile

2011-07-10T16:57:00.003+01:00

Today is a beautiful Sunday.

Contrary to my usual behaviour, I think I'll go out and enjoy the sunshine. But I'd like to share a smile with you, albeit briefly, so I'll leave you with this bit of iconic fun.

This is definitely worth a click.

Enjoy your day.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
You can see the original film poster here

Not A Funny Badger In Sight

2011-07-05T21:38:00.000+01:00

You all know me, right?

I like to write fluff, whimsies that cheer the days along.

Lions, and badgers, and bears, oh my.

I have little to grumble about, my life is easy.

I have security, money and prospects, family and friends.

Today I'm fine, and most likely will be tomorrow.

I'm a very lucky guy.

Not everyone is so lucky.

Shit, as they say, happens.

Some days there are no laughs, and precious little solace.

I love my friends, and I stand by them on bad days.

Someone else could do it, but I choose to.

It's important, even if we can't always affect the outcome.

We can place ourselves in the way of change.

We can stand ready to help a friend as life carries them along.

A little help is worth a lot of pity, as my mother would say.

Sometimes we make things worse, tho we don't mean to.

We may not even be needed in the end.

But the act makes a difference.

The effort is important.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

I Don't Think I Nailed It

2011-07-03T21:51:00.003+01:00

Sometimes you just have to go with a recommendation.

As I step from the cobbled sidestreet into the musty shop, I wonder if I’ve been given bad information.

The place looks tatty. Distressed wooden panelling gazes indifferently past stacks of yellowing paper, while dusty sunbeams pick at the threadbare green carpet. A forgotten tale of spiders is written in the webs at the high corners of the room.

It’s not Savile Row, that’s for sure.

The future orbits gently on a turn of my heel. But before I can retreat, an elderly Jewish tailor steps from a stock room behind the counter. My instincts tell me that this evaluation is stereotypical or clichéd, but I don’t choose this reality; he is what he is. A dark skullcap, a thin beard and round spectacles, and a tape measure draped around the shoulders of his chalk-marked waistcoat.

The tailor regards me with polite intensity for a moment.

Good afternoon, Sir, he smiles, I’ll be with you in just one moment.

And that said, he steps back into the stock room and out of sight.

I’m taken aback by this abruptness, but take a few even breaths and let it go; it’s possible I’m feeling a bit tired and impatient today. I look about the place, hoping to see new details and subtleties that will soften my harsh first impressions.

Nope, nothing.

And then I hear a sewing machine strike up its rhythm in the back room. I glance at the door and once again wonder about leaving. But the old man returns to view as the sewing machine continues; there must be someone else back there. He places a neat stack of items onto the counter before stepping out to serve me. I note that he’s quite a bit shorter than me.

Right Sir, he says without apology, wielding the tape measure, perhaps you might like to tell me your thoughts.

A business suit. I state simply, though I doubt he sells casual ones. Something in a dark navy blue. His face is neutral, and I feel more explanation is necessary. I know what I like.

I see, Sir. Double-breasted, Sir? asks the short figure as he manoeuvres around me, moving both my limbs and the tape measure expertly. I grunt an affirmative as he measures my inside leg.

We continue in this vein, back and forth.

Will you be needing a waistcoat, Sir?

Yes, same navy blue as the suit.

Belt or braces, Sir?

Braces. I’m not the shape I used to be.

Perhaps a slightly higher waist, Sir?

Yes, exactly. Same reason.

Inside pockets, Sir?

Just one, on the left, as close to the armpit as possible.

Colour of the lining, Sir?

Blue, but lighter than the navy.

Turn-ups on the trousers, Sir?

Coin-catchers? I’m not sure. No.

As we finish, the distant sewing machine stops. Seconds later, a gangling youth in a pinstripe waistcoat steps from the back room and deposits another item of clothing onto the pile at the counter. The tailor turns and nods, before waving the lad out of sight again.

The old man returns his attention to me, raising an gnarled finger.

I have exactly what you want, Sir! he enthuses, heading back to the counter. Step right this way. I follow, admitting to myself that I’m impressed by his thoroughness, and the fact that he didn’t write a single measurement down.

He indicates the clothes on the counter. Here you are.

Right. Wait. What?

I don’t understand. We’ve only just measured me up.

Yes Sir. He shrugs with a hint of self deprecation. I was confirming the measurements I noted when you came in. My nephew has already made a minor change to the venting on the waistline of the trousers that’s needed.

I don’t know whether to be angry or in awe. I settle for flabbergasted.

In this light, it looks more black than navy blue.

He nods his head. The suit is black, Sir.

It’s curious, I observe, scratching my nose, as much for irritated effect as to salve an itch, but I imagined I would come along, get measured up, tell you exactly what I wanted, and you’d sort me out.

Well, of course, we’ve done all those things Sir. he says smoothly, reassuringly. I hesitate.

Well, I suppose we have. I just figured I would be in the chair, so to speak. I fumble for a rationale that sounds assertive but not petulant. You know, that I’d be The Customer. The one who’s Always Right. My voice tails off somewhat; I don’t think I nailed it.

His eyes exude kindness.

I have always considered it my duty as a tailor, he begins, with genuine humility in his voice, to provide the customer with something that they have not yet realised that they want. And this suit is one of my very best, Sir.

And he proudly raises the suit from the counter for my inspection.

Three pieces. Finely woven black wool. Double breasted.

As suits go, it’s pretty tasty.

Without fanfare or flourish, he slips a crisp, white, double-cuffed twill shirt and a striking three-shade gold necktie next to it.

I’ll give you a moment to change, Sir, he says, seeing my eyes glitter. He points towards the changing room. Oh, you’ll need these. He hands me a pair of gold cufflinks.

In the space of two minutes, I’m in the new suit, I've double-Windsored the necktie, and I’m slipping in the cufflinks. The tailor appears again as I check myself out in a full length mirror.

Sold. I say, decisively. I try to suppress my goofy smile.

Without a word, the elderly craftsman gathers my discarded clothes up. A moment later, back at the counter, he neatly folds them into a bag as I settle up the account.

I have to ask, I say quietly. But are you a metaphor for my resistance to a new approach in my ongoing mental healthcare? And my dogged insistence on what I believe to be the correct course of treatment?

He seems to consider this for a moment.

A dog does not bark in the distance. But it’s one of those moments.

No Sir, he concludes happily, I’m an elderly Jewish tailor. Remember?

Oh yes.

Well, thank you. It’s perfect.

No Sir, thank you. He gives me a easy salute. Until next time.

We shake hands, and seconds later I step back into the world a smarter, happier man.

And I didn’t even realise that’s what I wanted.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Bumping Into Furniture

2011-06-26T21:49:00.007+01:00

Contrary to popular writing practice, beginnings can be dull.

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m sitting in my shady front room.

Outside it’s a lovely day, sunshine descending from an immaculate blue sky. The garden is probably looking lovely. There may even be big fuzzy bumblebees, my insect of choice.

But I’m indoors, feeling shiftless and restless.

It’s always like this after the successful conclusion of a tough assignment. All the adrenaline flushes away, and I feel rather like a half-filled helium balloon; bobbing along, but bumping into furniture rather than launching skyward.

So for now, I’m sitting in my night attire in my favourite armchair, with a book, cellphone and TV remote in reach. The TV’s not on, of course; as with the rest of the day, nothing appeals.

As is often the case with badgers, the knock is quiet. I glance round as the short black-and-white figure of Sollust enters the room, bringing some light with him from the hallway. The young badger is sporting a fresh, crew-cut hairdo and Hawaiian shorts. He hops onto the wide, flat arm of my armchair and eyeballs me curiously. I feel compelled to speak.

Hi Sol, how’s it going?

The youth smiles happily and gives me a thumbs-up; it seems his day is going well. But he raises and eyebrow and gestures with a paw to reflect the question.

Me? Oh, I’m okay, I offer blandly, just a bit restless. Not sure what to do with myself today.

The lad nods sagely. Leaning closer, he tugs at my lower eyelid with a gentle digit and gazes into my left eye. He makes an unsatisfied face, and pulls at my chin to open my mouth. I stick my tongue out and aaaaah for him obediently. Again, he seems dubious. Leaning in once more, he pokes my tummy. It gurgles.

Tut-tutting, Sollust scratches his chin, but then seems to reach a decision. Reaching behind, he finesses a folded piece of glossy paper from the back of his shorts and hands it to me significantly. Its colourful photos hint at delicious treats.

A pizza menu?

My surgeon-for-the-day nods and takes my phone from the table. With a few taps, he pulls up the application for ordering pizza. As I peruse the menu, a claw flicks and scrolls and selects, and with distressing speed he shows me the display. He’s ordered up my usual pizza, a meaty thing with olives and double sauce.

How well he knows me.

Oh, go on then. It might raise my spirits.

He grins his approval and pats my shoulder in a friendly and encouraging way. Bless him. But then he frowns as he spies something on the menu. His eyebrows raise in surprise, and he points to a specific place on the paper.

Buy one, get-one-free on all pizza on Sundays?

He shrugs an innocent shrug; he had no idea. He’s rather convincing.

Do you want the same as me?

The badger shakes his head and gives me a look, part surprised, part reproachful. I realise his meaning.

Sorry, of course, you’re vegetarian. I indicate the phone. Please, order yourself something. He grins and hands it to me. There’s already two pizzas in the basket.

Cheeky little sod.

I click to order, regretting the day I stored my credit card details on an app that makes it criminally easy to be both lazy and greedy. I wonder idly how many times it’s been used without me realising. Hmmm.

That done, Sollust hops down and fetches a book from a nearby shelf. Returning to his perch, he hands me the slim volume.

10,000 Leagues Under The Sea?

The badger nods keenly, and I begin to read. He pays close attention to the passage that first describes Captain Nemo’s Nautilus. I have a vision of a uniformed badger in charge of a submarine.

We lose ourselves in the tale of the sea.

After what might be twenty minutes, the door is kicked open and Sollust’s twin brother Hoth bustles into the room, his short arms full of pizza boxes and bottles of fizz.

I put the book down. How odd, I didn’t hear the front door.

The white-quiffed badger deposits his cargo onto the table and tosses me a DVD box. It’s an old favourite of mine; Tom & Jerry. Proper ones from the 1940s, produced by Fred Quimby.

Cool, shall we watch this now?

I see from his dungaree'd behind that Hoth is already feeding the disc into the machine, and setting the TV up. Sollust pours us all a drink before handing me my pizza and hopping back onto the arm of the chair with his own box.

As the TV blares the opening credits for The Midnight Snack, Hoth leaps up onto the opposite arm of the chair to his brother, and reaches into my pizza box to help himself to a meaty slice. I turn to him, somewhat wearily.

You’re not a vegetarian like your brother, right?

The young badger shakes his head, his eyes expressing Bambi-esque innocence.

I’m sure I’ve been had.

But within seconds, we’re all eating and laughing at the cartoon, and it doesn’t seem to matter. These two scamps have raised my day with their antics.

The beginning can be dull, but round here, the end is usually worth writing about.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Cool bee photo blatantly stolen from Twinkleberry.

A Mess Of Gold Tinfoil

2011-06-20T22:42:00.002+01:00

There's a lot of nonsense talked about the Apollo moon landing.

It's perhaps the most significant moment in human achievement, yet a lot of poo-pooers and conspiracy theorists reckon they were faked!

I was talking to one such fella the other day. He reckons they were staged in secret at an airbase out in Nevada, with cardboard sets, tons of sand, and a spaceship made out of corrugated cardboard, old shower rails and a whole mess of gold tinfoil.

I asked him where his evidence was. He said he knew a guy who once worked for Domino's who told him that the British fellas who put the whole thing together for the American government were paid off with pizza, and quietly whisked out of the country.

So, no actual evidence at all! Talk about gullible!

I guess some people will believe anything.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Dreams of Trinity

2011-06-13T22:27:00.020+01:00

The Long Road Home - Part 4
| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |

Close the curtains, fetch a tall drink, make some popcorn! It's time for the final part of The Long Road Home. It's been forever in the making, I know; bless you for your patience.

It'll make most sense if you've read the previous parts!

I hope you enjoy.

Indigo

1 - Carrizozo

Something is coming.

In the sweltering heat of the shaded desert saloon, the bartender dreams of lipstick and low-cut dresses.

Outside, the wind that haunts the New Mexico desert by day and night has lost its voice. Barely a breath of breeze stirs the dust that drifts slowly in the deep shafts of light from the high windows.

The world is uncommonly quiet, but the barman is not surprised. It has been a strange month, a strange year in fact, and he has seen many strange things. He prefers not to think of them.

But he knows that something is coming.

He starts to polish a glass for his first customer of the day, who has yet to arrive, and returns to his burlesque fantasies.

Moments later, he feels it more than hears it. A brief ripple in the air, an unfamiliar fluttering pulse. Involuntarily, he holds his breath. There's a creak from the threshold of the saloon, followed by heavy footsteps and the complaints of old, neglected floorboards. And finally, a bulky figure, wearing a hat and coat that are too heavy for the climate, strides to the edge of shadow in front of the bar.

A huge limb sweeps into the light and deposits a photo onto the counter.

In perfectly accented Spanish, a rumbling voice asks quietly,

Have you seen these men?

Nodding, the bartender points to the west and repeats a single word that has haunted his dreams. He has no idea what it means, but he knows it is the correct answer.

Trinity.

When?

Three hours ago, Señor.

The shape sighs and scratches his gargantuan nose. After a few seconds, a silver dollar spins in the air and lands onto the bar without hesitation.

Bourbon. Ice.

The whiskey is delivered quickly in a sparkling glass. Diamonds clink gently in amber as the glass vanishes into shadow.

Thirty seconds later, the voice seems refreshed, determined.

Gracias.

And with the same rippling in the air, the shape is gone.

The barman nods, though nobody is there to see it, and pockets the change.

Yes, 1945 is turning out to be a strange year indeed.

2 - White Sands

The third time is the charm.

I finally arrive at my destination. Trial and error is not my style, but today it is necessary. My head spins from three unexpected dimensional hops. But it would have been worse without the bourbon. And I could do with another one.

I survey the scorching July scene before me. It’s a scene that’s been waiting for me, buried in the past, since I took this assignment.

A few hundred yards away, the pyramid hangs silently just above the white sands of the New Mexico desert.

I’ve seen plenty of pyramids in my time, vast stone monuments to ancient kings, on this world and others just like it. But this pyramid is small, modern, and cast from a burnished gold which scatters the sunlight lazily. Lights pulse in slow sequence at each of the four corners of its base and at its peak. And, as if to draw a line under its slacking heritage, the time machine hovers solidly eight feet above the ground, almost as if it’s carelessly forgetting gravity rather than snubbing it.

I shake my head. Typical.

Shading the pinch-nez sunglasses perched on the bridge of my trunk, I can just make out three figures milling about in the pyramid’s shadow. They’re obscured by an inevitable heat haze, but even from this distance, I know it’s two men and a bear. I was expecting the lion to be there too, and possibly the honey from next door, but no.

I gently flap my ears, cooling my neck and my thoughts.

Roth and iDifficult have led me a merry dance today, though I suspect that Roth is just a passenger. Either way, I’m ashamed to admit that they’ve been a step or two ahead of me for most of it. First the trick with the buns. Then stealing my ball of string. And then, worst of all, adjusting the energy barriers that are supposed to prevent dimensional shifts to this forbidden destination.

Not enough to stop me. Not even enough to push me off course. Just enough to slow me down. To give them time to prepare for whatever it is they’re here for.

And that’s my goal. Not just to discharge my responsibilities and close this case.

But to end the mystery that has puzzled me for over a year.

To find out why we’re all here.

And, if necessary, to stop them.

I stride towards the pyramid purposefully.

My name is Elliot Nesh. I’m an elephant. I work for the Agency.

And I’m here on business.

3 - One Mile Out

Why do we always end up in the desert?

I’m standing in the shade of the ship, watching the five-foot long rectangular box begin its weightless descent to the ground. The three of us could have manhandled it down, but letting the grav unit do it gently seems more appropriate.

Sorry matey, did you say something? asks iDifficult, the captain of the voyage, looking round. My best friend is sporting a neat, narrow beard that’s shot with grey, and his hair is cropped short. It’s a good look on him, especially with the dark suit.

I shake my head and dust some sand from the lapels of my own suit; not the smartest fashion choice for a hot day, but the correct choice nonetheless.

Nothing, just thinking out loud.

I’m not complaining; today is too important for selfish grumbles. But I’m really not fond of sand. And while I’m happy to be looking at the sunshine from the shade, I’m glad I’m not out in it. Well, not quite yet, at any rate.

A cough from Bear makes us both turn. He’s here. We follow the line of our ursine friend’s extended paw, and see a distant, heavy figure trudging towards us across the flat white sand. He looks out of place in the desert, but I’m not sure where an elephant in a trenchcoat and trilby hat would look at home.

Careful to avoid the lowering box, 'Difficult turns to greet Elliot, and consults his steampunk-ish pocket watch; I recognise it as the core of the time machine.

Elliot! Glad you could make it! Perfect timing! he roars, offering his cheeriest wave. The elephant nods an almost imperceptible greeting, but continues to walk in silence.

A minute later, he stops and stands a few metres from our shade. The sun glitters in his retro sunglasses as he peers past us to examine the plain metal box. Concern passes across his face as it gently touches down.

And suddenly, he’s all business. He flashes his agency badge, making his position clear for an opening gambit.

Gentlemen. We cannot be here. This place, this time, is off-limits.

My friend smiles and nods. I know! It was a devil of a job getting here. Took me years to work out how to do it. You have access codes, I imagine?

Elliot says nothing, and stands his ground quietly.

Anyway, I’m glad you’ve arrived. Bang on time! We need your help.

Mr . Difficult, none of us can be here. We need to leave. He loosens his trenchcoat. There’s a glimpse of the hardware he used to get here. It could recall all of us and the pyramid in a heartbeat.

This isn’t going quite to plan, and 'Difficult glances my way.

I can tell that Elliot’s bluffing; he wants to know why we’re here. But an Agent’s first responsibility is to get us out of here, and that’s not an option for us. I don’t believe for a moment that he’ll do it; he wants us to talk him round. But he looks worried, and we need to cut to the chase before his training takes over.

I step out into the sun and amble forward between the Agent and my friend, determined to short-circuit this stand-off. I wish Abbey was close at hand; she’s better at this than I am.

Elliot, I understand this is your professional position. You have a job to do. There are Rules for this kind of thing. He’s listening, but the box and 'Difficult still have most of his attention, so I wander a little closer, keeping my voice low, reasonable. I’m not a fan of Rules. Rules are what we need when there’s no Order. When people don’t do the right thing. And Order is better than Rules, right?

The mighty head, all ears and trunk, turns to look at me curiously; okay, now I have his attention.

But we’re here to do the right thing, Elliot. We’re truly here for the best of reasons. Come and see why. I emphasise the word, and his body language betrays the turmoil. I put a hand on his shoulder. Please.

There’s a moment of indecision, but then he sighs and relents. In the shadows behind me, Bear clickety-clicks the latches open on one end of the rectangular coffin. Elliot steps fully under the pyramid and approaches the casket as our woodsman raises the top half of the split lid.

Good grief.

The Agent snatches the hat from his head instinctively.

Inside the coffin, resting eternally on a bed of cushioned crimson silk, is a badger, late of this world. The old boar is heavy, greying, with a resplendent white waxed moustache. It is The General, Yavin’s grandfather. He lays in full Masonic regalia, the head of his Order. The golden chain of office lays on his white chest, his gauntleted arms crossed on top. His monacle is tucked unobtrusively on its string into his top pocket.

We share a moment with the old badger. It’s a cliché to say so, but he looks peaceful.

We lost track of this fella decades ago. Where was he hiding?

I stand to Elliot’s left, 'Difficult to his right. A wind rises from behind us, and sand begins to dance in gentle swirls to the west. My friend says quietly,

Can I explain on the way? We have a mile to walk, there’s plenty of time. The Agent regards my friend levelly. This old boy weighs a ton, and we need your help; you’re our fourth pall bearer.

Inside the elephant, the Agent has clocked off. We’re left with Elliot. I know the Agent will return later, but for now the day just got easier. Elliot nods.

Okay. Let’s go.

A few minutes later, the four of us carry the deep, five-feet-long coffin into the blistering heat, and head west. Elliot and 'Difficult lead the way, with Bear and myself in the rear. Each of us wears a dark suit, as befits the occasion; Elliot’s Agent suit is perfect. All of us are barefoot.

Elliot’s trenchcoat and hat lie abandoned in the sand beneath the pyramid, along with two pair of shoes.

The hot sand seeks out the gaps between my toes. I hate sand.

Yet somehow, we always end up in the desert.

4 - Trinity

Being a bear in this kind of heat isn’t easy.

But it needs to be done, and I accept it.

I’m walking beside Indigo, at the back of the coffin. We’re different heights, but it seems useful to have Elliot and 'Difficult up front. They have a lot of catching up to do.

Their expository conversation goes something like this, with Elliot kicking off:

So, how far will we be carrying this coffin?

A mile. It shouldn’t take too long.

Did we park so far away intentionally?

Yep. A mile is a traditional distance for a badger ceremony.

Is that why we’re barefoot?

Yes. Also traditional. Though traditionally we’d be badgers.

Badgers who wear no shoes?

Exactly. The same as tigers.

I thought the lion and your lady neighbour would be here to help.

They were needed elsewhere.

We walk a few more minutes in silence. I can see something in the distance.

So when did The General die?

This morning. In more than one sense, I suppose.

Did you know about it when I arrived at your place?

No, Yavin arrived at the back door to tell me.

Hence the cakes? Clever.

Hence the cakes. Simple.

I try to interrupt. Guys?

So, why are we in New Mexico? On today of all days, I mean?

The short answer is that I’m keeping a promise.

A promise to The General?

Yes.

So, how did you meet?

Um, guys? Still no response.

By chance. Yavin had a picture of him that was taken in 1953. The date made no sense to me, as badger’s live just fifteen to twenty years. In fact, most badger’s don’t survive their first year. Did you know that? Anyway, I decided to go and see him.

The General? In 1953?

Sure. Easy enough. I was curious, and he sounded an interesting character. Roth was busy that day, so I went with Abbey. I met up with the old boy just after the photo was taken. And he was, to say the least, an unhappy badger.

Why so?

Well, he’d been involved in a number of projects as a scientist during the Second World War. He was the first badger to work with the military, you know? One project in particular had haunted him for years before I met him. Really got under his fur.

For pity’s sake, look!

We come to a halt, impressed. A few hundred yards away, a tower is now visible. It’s a simple metal framework, not unlike an armless electricity pylon, and probably a similar height. Even from this distance, we can see the cabling that leads up to an ominous egg inside the tower near its peak.

Good grief, is that what I think it is?

Yes, I expect so.

And this is New Mexico in July 1945?

Yes, absolutely.

I sigh. You pick your moments, sir.

Elliot waves a hand towards the tower. I take it this was the project that The General he has a problem with? The Manhattan Project? The world’s first atomic bomb?

Yes, he was a hardware specialist when they made the test device.

This test is codenamed Trinity, right?

That’s right. It was never clear why.

And The General regretted his involvement?

We’re walking again, continuing to the tower.

Well, wouldn’t you?

I don’t know. It saved a lot of lives.

And took a lot more. And those people weren’t soldiers. Anyway, he was being pestered back into service as the Cold War got going, so I offered to take him somewhere they’d never look for him.

And where was that?

1984.

That’s rather underhand.

Thank you. Anyway, he liked it there. The music. The hair. The Orwell. He settled down, and tho he was getting on a bit, he had kids. Frisky lads, badgers.

Yavin’s father?

Yes, but that’s another story. Suffice to say, Yavin and his sister were born in 1996. And suddenly all the dates make sense. So, it turns out the reason the dates didn’t make sense was that I was curious about them.

I accept the paradox. These things happen in my line of work.

I figured you’d understand.

So what was the promise you made?

I promised to bring him home. Well, here, anyway. He wanted to return here when he died. I think he thought it fitting, to close the circle of events.

It all sounds rather simple and poetic when you say it like that.

That wasn’t my intention. But yeah, it’s pretty straightforward. Doing it was harder, of course. The energy barrier protecting this place, for one. The work of your Agency?

Sort of. Let’s just say it wasn’t a local decision to protect this historic, world-changing event.

Well, we’re not here to interfere with history or steal secrets or change the world.

No, I see that now. How long was he in the Eighties?

Three years. I left him there as long as I could. He had kids, responsibilities, but I knew he was old and that it was time. He was twenty three, ancient for a badger. I picked him up as soon as I worked out how to bypass the shield here, and took him to Roth’s garden.

Roth's garden? Why there?

Well, he wanted to visit the grandkids and great-grandkids he’d never met; a rare opportunity for everyone. They were pretty much in awe of him. Especially Dantoo, Yavin’s niece. I’d not met her before. Smart little thing.

I’ll bet. Okay, one more question.

Columbo style?

Exactly. He was a pro. When will The Bomb be tested?

Tomorrow morning. 5:30am. We’ll watch.

Silence falls. Elliot shifts the coffin’s weight uncomfortably.

Do you need another question, Agent?

Yeah, I do. Why couldn’t you have both put me and Bear at the back? We’re both seven feet tall. With you and Roth at the front, this coffin wouldn’t be so damned wonky.

I didn’t think. Hey look, we’re here.

5 - Farewell

There is a multitude of badgers.

A family or colony of badgers is known as a Clan, but any large gathering of badgers is called a Brock. Today, New Mexico is host to a Brock, the likes which it will never witness again.

As we walk the final twenty yards, I cast my eyes across the gathering of distinguished boars, elegant sows, and a surprising number of cubs. I’m interested and then ashamed to realise that I can tell them all apart easily. The eccentric, colourful clothes help. I notice that they’re all barefoot, and somewhat dusty.

The badgers stand quietly, fifty yards from the tower, a wide straight line centred on a neat rectangular grave. In the centre stands Abbey, my lovely neighbour. Dressed in a simple pink and orange summer dress, her blonde hair moving in the breeze, she is, as ever, barefoot. She smiles my way.

Next to Abbey is King, our resident lion. He’s resplendent in a dark suit and white shirt that matches my own, and a vibrant red necktie that was actually in my wardrobe when I got up this morning. His mane is glorious, and occasionally braided. King is Abbey’s escort for her duties today.

Perhaps sharing my earlier thought, 'Difficult chips in quietly, See how dusty they are? Every one of them helped dig the grave. Even the cubs. They think of it as his final tunnel. I have no reply, but hiss an urgent new question.

How come we’re here unchallenged? I though the military would be all over us?!

See that fella at the back? I notice for the first time a tall, well-groomed man standing nervously just behind King. You’ll never guess who he is. He worked with The General, and has made arrangements to keep the army offsite for a few hours. Abbey explained everything to him. Time travel, Elliot, badgers, everything. Took it all on the chin. The open mind of a scientist, eh?

Good grief, Julius Robert Oppenheimer.

A figure steps from the line and approaches the four of us and our cargo. It’s Yavin, the chief engineer of the Clan from my back garden. It strikes me that I have no idea what the Clan name is? I shake the thought aside, and try to focus. I was expecting my short, black-and-white friend to be dressed formally, but he is in his usual dungarees. His flat cap is folded and tucked into his hip pocket.

We exchange nods, and he indicates that we should bring the coffin forward and lay it alongside the grave. We do this and retreat a few steps as the line of badgers bends around to form a neat circle, a halo around the head of Trinity Tower’s lengthening shadow.

Two young boy badgers in matching black corduroy and bowler hats step from the circle and move to the head of the casket. It’s Hoth and Sollust, Yavin’s nephews. They carefully unclip the top half of the lid, and then move to stand on either side of the coffin, so that one can lift the lid and the other lower it to the ground on the other side. A low murmur moves through the badgers.

The General lies in state.

Abbey steps forward.

Friends, she smiles, extending her arms, welcome. Today, we are a gathering of peoples, united in our love and respect for a grand old traveller.

A snuffling and growling approval finds voice for a moment.

I met The General in his final days, and was moved by his love for his extended family.

Abbey looks down momentarily to glance at her prompt cards. She knows they are inadequate. As her gaze drops, she spies a short figure at her side, a girl-cub. She’s a pretty little thing, dressed for the day in her best white summer dress with pink bows at the hem. A matching bow is clipped into her hair.

I know instinctively that this is Dantoo, Yavin’s niece. I’ve never met her, though of course I know her twin brothers from many adventures. The girl gazes upwards, her two-tone face calm and reassuring, and gently takes Abbey’s hand.

Abbey shakes her head, as if waking. And says simply, in a happily surprised tone,

Oh!

The prompt cards scatter to the breeze and Abbey begins to speak. Her voice is confident and sad.

She speaks into the heart of all of us, as only a badger can.

Who knows where life may lead?

Who knows the turnings of the unity?

Great grandfather, you knew neither
  And were all the greater for it

Your pawprints, broad and sharp
  Have left their mark
In five decades, far spread
  Three more than any clanborn

You chose and led
  Risked fail and fall
  Without hesitation
And lost contentment at your rest
  For your portion of others’ deeds

You did not mark the day
  Our friend the stranger came
With tales and questions
  Proof and faith

You tunnelled from a barren life
  And shared his broken journey
Giving love and life
  To an era meant for other eyes

And time passed, happily
  But for dreams of Trinity

In fading light of your long day
  All friends heard your whisper
  From across Time
And hastened to your side

Risking much
  But fearing none
To stand barefoot
  With your kin, none closer

To help you on the final mile
  Of this Long Road Home

And stand, their hearts and faces warm
  As your ashes yet not your shadow
  Are scattered by the wind of change
  You laboured to create

And then return
  Their promise kept
To dream their boundless dreams
  Within earshot of your roar
In the world you shaped

I met you for a single day
  And wished for just one more

Goodbye, great grandfather
Rest, forgiven
Rest, loved

We smile in the knowing of all deeds

And neither regret nor forget

The silence is absolute.

Abbey kneels to meet Dantoo’s gaze. The young badger plants a kiss on my neighbour’s nose and throws her short furry arms around her neck as a hoarse roar erupts from the crowd.

You’re welcome.

As the sun draws towards the horizon, the growling cheers and applause surround Abbey and the young girl-cub, and ring long and loud.

6 - Oppenheimer

The coffin is laid and covered efficiently.

In a few minutes, it's as if it was never there; no flowers, no gravestone. Just memories.

As the assembly scatters and gathers into smaller pockets, all formalities complete, the playful young badgers set about their "uncle" King, determined to wrestle the tall lion to the ground. It takes five of them, including Hoth and Sollust, and there’s a shriek of giggles and a delighted leonine laugh as the Goliath finally falls to the horde of tugging, growling Davids.

I spy Oppenheimer and 'Difficult shaking hands. I half expect them to be talking shop, but instead I overhear my friend thanking the lanky physicist for his help with the military. The physicist is deflecting the praise affably.

Not at all, Mr. Difficult. Thank you, Sir! My presence today has meant a very great deal to me. You’ve given me a lot to think about. Tomorrow's detonation is just the beginning.

My friend winks at him. Oh, how right you are, Doctor. Good luck.

The physicist nods uncertainly, and turns towards the tower to tend the steel baby that he’ll deliver in the morning. But he starts with surprise, finding Elliot in his path. Oppenheimer smiles pleasantly and tries valiantly to not look nervous in the face of such an enormous concept. He doesn’t quite manage it. The elephant removes his sunglasses and regards him curiously.

Before you go, Dr. Oppenheimer, I’ve been meaning to ask you… why did you call this test Trinity?

Oppenheimer pauses, and shares a sly and fleeting smile as a pat answer trips to his lips. But then he reconsiders and frowns.

It’s simple, really. He shrugs. This thing we’re doing puts the fear of God up me.

Elliot laughs darkly. Thank you, Doctor. That’s more honest that the answers you give in the future.

Again, uncertainty crosses the physicist’s face. He nods vaguely, and moves to step round the Agent, but then hesitates as his curiosity gets the better of him. Standing tall, he waves to indicate the elephant’s physique, his species perhaps.

Are there many like you in the future, Agent Nesh?

Elliot shrugs noncommittally.

Some. Fewer than you might think. But we’re everywhere. He inclines his head slightly, Why do you ask?

Well, it’s silly, I suppose. He looks skyward for a moment, perhaps nervous, perhaps contemplative. It’s just that you bring to mind an image of Lord Ganesha, the elephant-headed Hindu god.

Elliot’s smiles indulgently; he gets this a lot. By way of a reply, he leans closer to tap the doctor gently on the chest.

And you, my dear Doctor, he deadpans, remind me of the Hindu god Shiva. The Destroyer of Worlds.

The physicist pales, and after a few shocked seconds he hurries away without another word.

In the future, he’ll lie about that one too.

7 - The Fat Man Sings

We’re standing by the pyramid.

It’s 5:20am on July 16th 1943, and the sun is low in a gold, rose and indigo sky. It’s been a long night, but we had a lot of folk to move to a safer distance, and for once we were determined not to hurry. There’s been dignity and good manners.

I’m standing with Elliot, discussing the sunrise, when a thought occurs to me.

By the way, I heard what Oppenheimer said to you last night. Isn’t Lord Ganesha also known as the Remover of Obstacles?

Agent Nesh chuckles and scratches a tusk absently. Yes Indigo, he is. The things you know always surprise me. But then he leans in conspiratorially to mutter, Anyone would think that was a coincidence.

This glorious life is never dull.

Shall we do this now? We turn. It’s iDifficult, a resigned look on his face. Reaching into a pocket, he tosses Elliot a ball of string. We have a few minutes.

Elliot catches the string and pockets it. Yes, of course. Let’s do this by the book. He draws his arm from a pocket, revealing several feet of string that is already tied around his gnarly grey wrist. Mr. Roth, would you do the honours?

I look to 'Difficult, uncertain, but he nods encouragingly and presents his own hand.

It’s the work of a moment to tie the knot around my friend’s wrist.

The two stand, entangled again in the early morning light, their roles restored: an Agent and his assignment. Elliot’s voice is equally official.

Mr. Difficult, I have accompanied you to an off-limit historical event and observed your actions. Protocol dictates that I take you in for further questioning. That said, he reaches into a pocket and produces a short fruit knife. And with a flick of his wrist, he severs the string. However, I have determined that your actions are not of interest to The Agency. Thank you for your cooperation in this matter. You’re free to go.

The part-time evil genius stands, somewhat agog. He’s not alone.

To hell with protocol. You two are my kind of Rule breakers.

Good grief, this noble elephant is a bag of tricks. I thought I’d be eating pizza solo while 'Difficult serves five to ten, with time off for less-eccentric behaviour.

Will there be consequences for you, Elliot?

Elliot shrugs. There are always consequences, my friend. He wiggles his wrist and the severed string dances. But I can safely tied up this loose end. Donning his pince nez sunglasses again, he adds darkly, In Red Tape, for years if necessary.

We all sense it’s time to change the subject.

You know, says 'Difficult conversationally, I always thought that your string was some kind of five-dimensional metaphor?

The Agent smiles and shakes his head.

No. It’s just a piece of string.

I’m distracted by a gentle-but-insistent tugging at my knee. Looking down, I find a wide-eyed Dantoo gazing up at me in the early morning light. The young badger regards me with startling maturity; she’s probably not yet two. But she’s still a child. Raising her paws skyward, her look is not imploring, but its meaning is clear. I reach down and pick her up, gathering the end of her dress in neatly, and cradle her easily in one arm. She nuzzles gratefully into my shoulder.

There’s a smell of dirt and loss and bubblegum perfume.

My cheeks feel damp.

Folks? It’s time. My best friend is moving through the crowd, smiling reassuringly. And it’s okay to look. The shields will dampen all the hard light.

There’s movement all around. After a few seconds, I’m aware that 'Difficult is to my left, and Elliot to my right. Abbey wanders in closer and fusses over Dantoo briefly before settling at my side. Bear and King are reassuring presences to our rear. Badgers gather around us all, and Yavin stands stoically in front on me. I pat his shoulder and briefly feel a damp paw as it brushes my hand.

We look to the east and say goodbye.

After an endless moment of calm that we all feel, it begins.

And for the second time that day, the sun rises.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

I May Choose Badly

2011-06-05T01:06:00.012+01:00

It's odd the things we can't see.

Earlier this evening, I was bemoaning the rather bloated arc story on one of my favourite scifi TV shows, and the lack of decent plotlines within individual episodes.

You know how it goes. A long, sweeping plot that's driving a whole season along, frequently recurring secondary characters, endless references to other episodes, and a whole mess of characterisation.

All of which is lovely stuff, but not when it's done at the expense of entertaining plots.

I'm a consumer, dammit, and I know what I want!

Right? Well...

When I sat back, weary and smug and bemoaned out, it occurred to me that maybe I've been guilty of doing the same thing of late. Right here, under your very discerning nose. The big story I'm writing, The Long Road Home? The fourth and "final" part (still in progress, almost there) has become a bit of a monster entry now, to the point where it's so chock-full of stuff that I'm considering splitting it up and delivering it over a number of tightly-spaced entries.

The very bloated arc story concept I was grumbling about earlier.

And there's the problem.

Some stories, some ideas, grow too big to squeeze into an episodic format. So we write bigger stories, and spread the ideas out. Some readers like these longer narratives, and may appreciate the craftsmanship and the fact that they're bursting with ideas, but they become harder to dip into. So, if all you're tuning in for is a few well-turned lines and some funny badgers while you have a coffee, it's probably a bit of a drag.

And frankly, arranging arc plot continuities over multiple entries as a perfectionist is a pain in the backside. You have to have most of it written, and then rewrite it to make it all hang together nicely.

So, perhaps I now appreciate the TV writer's lot a bit better.

It really can't be easy.

But still, I'm a consumer! And I'm fairly sure what I want to read*.

[* I have no idea what you want, of course. I'm always surprised what goes down well. Feel free to tell me, I may choose badly.]

So, I'll just put this tale to bed after a thorough and lean workout, and then get back to some short, fun stories. Frequent posts. Daft ideas. Eccentric characters. Funny badgers. You remember, right?

Until I write my book, anyway; stay tuned for that.

And stay tuned for the conclusion of The Long Road Home.

It'll be worth the wait.

Though you may need a flask and sandwiches.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Symbolic prism was blatantly stolen from Eveek.

A Classy Signature Hit

2011-05-18T23:38:00.005+01:00

I'm pinned down behind a burned-out car as the hail of projectiles strike all around me.

Scones. Dozens of them, a seemingly endless supply. They shatter and spray their sweet filling as they hit the concrete on all sides. There's no way I can move without taking a hit, and my ammo is desperately low.

The pastry sniper is almost certainly Hoth, one of the young badgers. This calculated mayhem has his name written all over it. He's got good elevation and coverage, and plenty of baked ammunition. I've no idea who's putting the jam and cream in the scones for him.

If he connects with me, it'll be a messy - and classy - signature hit.

But it's probably a diversion, so that his brother Sollust can outflank me. I check left and right, and sure enough catch sight of a short, black-and-white blur twenty yards away. Moving closer behind cover, biding his time. He favours a well-aimed cluster of choux-bun grenades, and has the skills to deliver them.

I shake my head. Kids.

This post-apocalyptic wasteland - complete with a burning sky and mournful, smouldering ruins - is the centrepiece of iDifficult's latest videogame creation, PieSplitters. My best friend's creation is poised to take the virtual reality world by storm. We're testing his masterpiece level, with an awesome all-confection weapon set.

There's not many of us left.

Bear is tactically brilliant, but found his lack of mobility a problem - he was taken out by a volley of meringues at long range. I suspect it was 'Difficult, at an unfair advantage.

Yavin took to the sewers and engaged in guerilla warfare, taking out King and Abbey with custard pies at short range, before falling foul of his sniper nephew a few minutes ago.

As the scone attack begins again, splat after sweet-jammy-splat, I suspect that at any moment it'll just be the twin badgers and 'Difficult left in play.

Game Over, Indigo.

But wait. What's that? I hear the colossal boom and then the slow whistling descent. Good grief, someone's found a trifle mortar! There's a distant wet noise, and the scones halt suddenly. Somewhere up there, there's an angry young badger covered in custard, jelly, cream and sprinkles.

My tummy rumbles.

Did I just catch a break?

No, the diminutive form of Sollust breaks cover. He hefts the first of many choux-buns from his kitbag, determined to finish what his brother started. He advances quickly, skillfully dodging between the ruined outcrops to close on my position.

Dammit. This could be it.

Until the charging, monochrome lad carelessly trips the proximity detonator on an industrial blancmange.

Pink. Everywhere.

It isn't pretty.

I seize my chance, breaking away from the car and hurtling towards what I hope will be good cover for the final showdown. In seconds, I'm crouched behind a low wall, armed with a final lemon meringue pie that I'm saving for 'Difficult.

But I've lost track of my mad genius friend.

I wonder where he is?

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

A Sense Of Completism

2011-05-15T20:52:00.002+01:00

I sit on the window sill of my bedroom, and watch the world go by.

It's eleven thirty in the morning, and I've not long hauled my lazy backside out of bed. As I sit in the open window, my legs dangling comfortably out into the cool breeze of the late morning, I'm contemplating some serious downtime. There's things to do, but where's the rush?

I have a blog entry brewing, but it's not quite there yet. It's the final part of a longer story, and feels more important than ever to get it right. I have a great sense of personal achievement about my blog, and I've been planning this entry for months. I want it to be perfect!

But I wonder idly how many folk will get to read it? I've got lots of folk that read me regularly, but I've not broken through as a blogger yet. Part of me knows the statistics aren't important, but I'm determined to reach an audience and make it as a writer. And I badly want those numbers to be so much higher.

A movement in the street distracts me, and a young couple drift into view, ambling happily beside the park across the road. They're holding hands, and frequently exchange glances and smiles. They pause to kiss. It warms me to see it but, with a tiny green-eyed pang, I'm reminded that they share something I don't have.

As I continue to watch them, they halt suddenly so the fella can take a phone call. He detaches himself from his girlfriend and begins to tell an hilarious and rather lengthy tale to an unseen friend. The woman looks crestfallen; she's gone from centre of the universe to limbo in as many seconds. My blood pressure goes up more than a few notches - how bloody rude of him!

And he's not just rude, he's daft! I mean, seriously, just look at her! She's gorgeous! Long, wavy chestnut tresses framing a torch-singer's eyes. Her jeans and t-shirt are plain choices, but she carries herself with an unknowing sense of her own beauty that demands attention. And wow, yes, she has my attention.

I'm dragged from this blue reverie by the arrival of a brightly-painted van. A capped man get out and retrieves his cargo from the back seat. Ah yes, now this is what I've been waiting for! Looking up, he smiles and gives me a cheery wave before striding purposefully towards the house.

I wave this delivery guy to the ladder that rises to meet my window. But I don't need to - he knows the routine. As he climbs up to deliver the über-large pizza, soda and sides, I reflect that I've experienced Sloth, Pride, Greed, Envy, Anger and Lust in as many paragraphs.

The completist in me demands I finish the set of seven deadly sins off with some well-timed Gluttony.

I pay the fella and pop the pizza on the table next to the window. Flipping the lid, I retrieve the first of many hot, meaty, saucy slices of heaven.

And, sitting on the sill, I watch the world go by.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

And Thankfully Never Used

2011-05-10T21:11:00.003+01:00

I like my life. It's amazing.

Writing, drawing, eating, friends, family - what's not to like?

Okay, so it's also hectic, frustrating, bizarre and often impoverished. And despite my heroic height, mad skills and kind nature, some of the days end up being absolute shockers.

But I get through them, because there's always something better coming along.

Something creative and rewarding, imaginative and fun.

And dammit, I'm British. And proud.

Not proud of the government, you understand. They're shiftless, privileged wasters. Warmongers, liars and thieves, oh my!

But I'm proud of who I am and where I come from.

If I need a mantra for my days, it's this one, originally planned for use if we were invaded during World War Two, and thankfully never used. Advice for the besieged spirit.

It hangs on my wall as a constant reminder to keep it together.

It's such a quintessentially British sentiment.

My name is Indigo Roth, and I am British.

Keep Calm. Carry On.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Click to learn more about Keep Calm and Carry On

In A Variety Of Languages

2011-05-07T22:48:00.006+01:00

Cows are good for the soul.

I find that, after a trying morning in the office, a walk through Cambridge is a good way to clear my head. I can quickly get down to the river, over the old footbridge, and then walk along through Midsummer Common accompanied by the free roaming cattle.

They're gentle creatures, and I can almost feel my blood pressure dropping as we stroll together. There's not that many of them, by they seem to gravitate towards me. Perhaps I look like a sucker, a kind fella who'll give them some kind of tasty snack? Or maybe they see me as some kind of bull-headed kindred spirit?

I no more know that than I know who owns them. I assume it's a local farmer, exercising his right to use common land for grazing cattle, but I'm really not certain.

It's possible they're not owned by anyone but themselves?

In fact, they're an enigmatic bunch. Perhaps they're nomadic cattle, late of the Serengeti, electing to eke out their bovine existence on the windswept plains of Eastern England? They probably moved in when nobody was looking, and let everyone assume that, as cattle, they must be someone else's property. And problem.

I try to engage them in conversation in a variety of languages, but they refuse to acknowledge me or answer my simplest questions.

So I can't be sure.

But as I turn to head back to the office, I think I hear one of them talking on a cellphone in Russian.

And I can't find my wallet.

Indigo

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

For those who missed it, I invite you to share in my giddiness and check out the good news in my previous entry. Thank you.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Cattle photo blatantly stolen from Animal Photos

Not Quite Top Of The BIll

2011-05-05T20:03:00.008+01:00

Hey Everyone,

Indigo here. How's it going?

After the expository excesses of Part Three of The Long Road Home, I'm relieved that I can now post something short and simple. As are you, I'm sure.

I'm delighted to report that one of my tales has found its way into print. Yes, the Cup Of Joe Coffee House Flash Fiction Collection Vol 1 by Indie publisher Wicked East Press contains a tale by yours truly. It's a proper book, with pages, words, an ISBN number and a barcode.

They even put my story near the end of the book.

Top of the bill? Not quite, but damned close.

See how happy I am?

I'm not going to tell you which tale they published, of course, as you'd just go and read it here. Though if you're determined, you could read everything I've ever posted.*

[* Let me know how that goes, okay? It'll take a couple of days, and a lot of coffee and cake. Please remember to post some comments on the way through. And to save me some cake.]

Anyway, if you fancy owning a slice of publishing history - yes, I really do have big plans for a worldwide bestseller - go wander over and support all of the 100-odd writers that contributed to this excellent book. This includes my good friend Ms. Fin (hey Letisia!) whose piece is achingly elusive and beautiful.

Currently, the book can be bought from:
- Wicked East Press - the publishers. Tell them I sent you.
- Amazon USA
- Amazon UK
- Barnes & Noble

None of us will see a penny for our effort, but it's excellent exposure and a good-looking volume. And whether you like the book or not, you'll be doing us and other customers a great service by leaving a review.

See you soon, thanks for listening,

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Interlude: An Equation For String

2011-04-29T20:19:00.017+01:00

The Long Road Home - Part 3
| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 |

As I open the door of the car, the city howls of its cold, wet misery.

The rain is heavy, the clouds low and dark. Stepping out of the taxi into the downpour, my trunk automatically tucks inside the folds of my coat, and my ears fold forward to keep the water out. I turn to pay the driver, who eyes me fearfully. I mumble an apology for the bodies in the back seat and tip him a twenty. He drives away without comment, pleased to be gone.

I rarely visit Central, and I’ve brought bad weather with me. This draws a wry smile from me, or as close to one as I come without bourbon. Most days, this is a sunlit, teeming, cheery metropolis; in fact, this entire Reality is. The privileged folk who live here know no better, and rarely experience worse.

But not today. Today, the shining city at the hub of existence nods its head as an agent passes through its streets.

My name is Elliot Nesh. I work for The Agency. The Unity Agency.

Flipping the collar of the trenchcoat up, I turn my gaze skyward, my back to the rain. My destination is a looming art deco tower of some thirty storeys. A single light burns in its windows today, high up in the topmost floor; even the gods need light to read. The building broods darkly under sullen clouds, and offers no explanation.

I square the trilby on my broad head and cross the street to the lobby of the tower, seeking answers.

The skinny young clerk on the main desk lifts the phone and quietly says a few words to someone as I approach him. Replacing the receiver, he gives me a nervous smile. I enjoy his discomfort; they won’t get many biped elephants in here. Sometimes discomfort is all I have to work with, and even the short days can be long and hard. I hold his eye and idly flick the raindrops from my ears onto the desk. He doesn’t look down.

I raise an eyebrow, inviting him to get a move on. The spell broken, he jerks back into life and, producing a key, he steps away to the side of the desk, and hastily fumbles open the black baroque doors of what looks like an executive elevator.

Removing my hat, I manoeuvre under the doorframe of the elevator and turn to face the lobby. The interior is burnished gold rococo panelling. I really don’t like confined spaces, but I offer no sign of it as I replace my trilby and stand impassively. The clerk reaches inside to jab the button for the penthouse, and then retreats, slamming shut the doors of this wrought iron coffin.

As the tiny box lurches into upward life, I sigh and gather my thoughts, closing my eyes to blot out the claustrophobia as best I can. Okay, back to basics. Why am I here?

I’m here representing the Unity Agency.

Back in the day, The Agency was called the Department of Dimensions, but the science has moved on. Now each separate bundle of four dimensions – the three spatial ones and time – is called a Reality. Universes? The Multiverse? Old hat. We now understand that there are eleven dimensions, a mathematically elegant container for the numerous Realities that we now refer to as The Unity.

The Unity is run from Central. Though The Board Of Directors would say that it was overseen or moderated or something similarly bland and corporate. And probably under advisement.

And it is them that I’m here to see; The Board. Or rather, they’ve summoned me. I’m not accountable to them directly, but somewhere up the slippery pole they pull the strings.

This elevator must be unsettling me; I rarely mix my metaphors like that, even in a voiceover.

With an juddering clank, the elevator stops. By contrast, the outer doors swing open soundlessly.

I step from the elevator into a dimly lit boardroom. An oval table, and sixteen faces. All male, all well groomed, all with the hawkish look of men with Money. The Board promotes itself as benefactors, as a non-profit governing body. But as an outsider, I know you don’t get onto it by being talented or qualified.

Ah, Mr. Nesh. We’ve been expecting you.

The voice is steady, stern, authoritarian. It’s recognisably voice Number 7, The Headmaster. I can see his half-moon spectacles before I even focus on the speaker, and know instinctively that it will be the Chairman, Cecil Rhodes Armitage. Is he testing the water with me? He’s wasting his time if he is; agents don’t ruffle, and have little truck with authority. No, it’s more likely for the benefit of his colleagues, a show of strength.

He’ll probably try Number 5 next; The Public Servant.

Good morning, Gentlemen, I slowly scan across the gathered men; most meet my gaze with a mixture of mistrust and curiosity. I seem to have brought bad weather with me.

I stand, my hands thrust deep into my pockets, dripping on the immaculate carpet. They pretend not to notice and I don’t pretend to care. The Chairman smiles.

And we thank you for coming on such a dreadful day, Mr. Nesh, says the Chairman, switching to Public Servant. We were expecting two of our colleagues to be with you, he says, his delivery speckled with faux concern. I hope they didn’t get lost on the way here? He chuckles, but nobody joins him; this is not humour.

I offer my own smile, just as false. The two heavies who woke me up at Roth’s place were hired help, the usual combination of over-developed necks and shiny ID badges. I accompanied them on the jump to Central to save me the five-dimensional calculation while half asleep, but I went solo soon after; their IDs were the toughest thing about them.

Not at all. We parted company in the taxi. I shrug and offer an affable, I explained to them that I knew the way to the Boardroom. I’ve met with so many of your predecessors, after all. I let this thought settle on their shoulders. A few of them shift uncomfortably and exchange glances.

I love the smell of fear in the morning.

The chairman frowns subtly and decides to move the conversation along; I’m gently denting his authority. He shift to voice Number 2, Efficient Executive. I suspect it’s as close to his real persona as he gets without baring his teeth. Or selling his grandmother.

Mr. Nesh, I’ll come to the point. We Audit a great number of Realities here at Central. Heh. Audit. I grin lopsidedly. And it’s one of our many tasks to Rationalise them when we can.

Rationalise, Mr. Chairman? I know exactly what he means, but I have no patience for corporate double-talk, especially when it hides destructive behaviour. These are the kinds of men who put military advisors into Vietnam. I wonder idly how he’ll respond.

Yes, Mr. Nesh, he says coldly and clearly. Rationalise. We combine Realities when we can. He rises unexpectedly from his chair and leans toward me, hands on the table. Or just plain get rid of them if they are no longer needed.

The plain speech of a sociopath in authority. I give the man some respect.

And I suddenly realise why I’m here. Why they need me.

Mr. Nesh, we believe that the Reality spawned by an individual called... he consults his notes unnecessarily, Indigo Roth can be removed. He almost spits the name. Clearly he doesn’t approve of the antics of Roth and his friends. He probably has something against badgers.

You want to kill off Roth’s Reality? I pause and shrug, the very picture of bemusement. But why? It's unusual for someone to create a Reality through words, true enough, but his writing is harmless enough. Some funny stories, some colourful characters. Lions and Badgers and Bears, Oh My! I raise my heavy eyebrows in Garland-esque surprise, and enjoy watching the assembled execs shake their heads in worried dismay.

The wing-man to the Chairman’s right stands angrily. I recognise him as the third-in-command, a nasty weasel-of-a-man called Joshua Cane. Now see here, Mr. Nesh, he blusters, The Board considers that kind of comment to be unprofessional. Your levity in this matter is most unwelcome!

I scratch my trunk and flick my ears to hide a laugh. I’ve never seen The Board so skittish before. The Chairman gestures Cane back to his seat.

Realities are a precious resource, Mr. Nesh. They are supposed to important. Roth's is not. He waves a hand, We intend to remove it, and we shall.

What about the people that live in this reality?

Well, they weren't there before Roth somehow split his Reality off, and they won't be there after. It's Armitage's number two, a well-groomed young fella called Sebastian Drake. He licks his lizard lips and smiles. It's what we call a zero-sum deal.

I want to punch him. But no. Not here, not now.

Which leaves the sixty-four-thousand dollar question.

So why am I here, Gentlemen? How may The Agency assist you? More shuffling and mumbling results in the ranks from that. I’m not just some rogue bull elephant with big ears and a drink problem. I’m an Ambassador with a capital ‘A’.

Because we are told by our... advisors, the Chairman smiles ruefully – he almost said spies, I’m sure – that you have an ongoing case that is blocking our closure of Mr. Roth’s Reality.

And there it is. Their problem.

Oh, you mean the investigation of Roth’s friend iDifficult as a Potential Criminal! I wait for their response, but none is forthcoming. We’re straying into uncomfortable territory - Temporal Causality and Consequence. I wonder how long I can keep them there. Yes, that’s true. While we’re investigating Mr. Difficult, it’s not possible to kill off the Reality he inhabits.

What? Wait a minute, dammit! blurts a fella to the left of the group. Young, stocky, bad teeth. Ah yes. Jeffrey Pinkerton-Smythe; never the sharpest tool. Did you say Potential criminal? Dammit man, what the devil does that mean?

Some of The Board lean in, keen to hear my exposition, and relieved that they have a scapegoat to hang their ignorance on. I clear my throat.

Well, Mr. Difficult is a renowned inventor, quite brilliant in fact. He's well ahead of the curve in his Reality with regards to trans-dimensional travel. The Chairman sips at a glass of water while his colleagues stare blankly at me. I cut them some slack. Mr. Difficult invented a time machine. They seem to relax, apparently understanding that much. The schmucks.

The Agency became aware that, using this time machine, Mr. Difficult will at some point visit an off-limit event. I pause for effect, and lightning flashes past the window, perfectly timed. I give the next sentence some timbre. A hugely important event in human history!

Well, what event? And why don’t you just go there and stop him?! demands Pinkerton-Smythe. I chuckle.

Because. It’s. Off. Limits.

This patronage does not sit well with the young man, who rises from his chair in anger. He turns to the Chairman, incredulous. Cecil, surely we don’t need to listen to the fairytales of this fella?! He stabs a finger at me repeatedly, searching for an expression. He’s just a bloody elephant!

Armitage ignores him, and there’s much sucking of teeth from the rest of The Board; they know this is bad form. The Chairman casts me a genuinely apologetic glance. I nod without a word; I appreciate good manners, even in bad guys. Perhaps you might tell us what this event is, Mr. Nesh, he says quietly.

So I tell them.

Afterwards, they sit quietly for some time, worried and somewhat stunned. Even Pinkerton-Smythe falls silent. I fill in the rest of the tale while I have their attention.

We were unsure of the reason for Mr. Difficult’s visit to this event, but were obviously concerned. Potentially he intends to commit a crime, but we couldn’t be sure. I think ahead, discarding unnecessary parts of the tale that might raise awkward questions. And while we knew the destination of his time trip, we were in the dark about its starting point. So, I was assigned to be with Mr. Difficult for all journeys through time. Indefinitely, until he makes that one trip.

And how will that help? says a random guy on the left of the table, keen to add some value to these proceedings.

If I accompany him, I can watch the events unfold and discern his intentions. I put it in terms they'll grasp. You might consider me a Pre-Offence Parole Officer.

It's time for some sleight of hand. While they're thinking.

Until this matter is resolved, I've attached myself to him with this.

Removing my hand from my pocket, I reveal a length of string, tied around my chunky wrist. I carefully leave the other end inside my pocket; I tied it in the taxi, but they don’t know that.

A length of string? says a chap on the right-hand side of the table. I don’t recognise him; he must be new.

Yes, string. But the string is a metaphor. A five dimensional metaphor. He stares blankly at me. Moving between four-dimensional Realities that share a common starting point - what old-timers still call Parallel Dimensions - requires fifth dimensional travel.

I give him my best Joe Friday.

And that’s what I do for a living. That’s what The Agency does.

Ah, I see, says the man. I don’t need my lie-detector spectacles to realise that this rube has no clue what I’m talking about. Yes, five dimensions. A metaphor. Quite. He looks distant for a moment, trying to think of another question that does not sound foolish. And is this string tied to Mr. Difficult right now?

This raises a snort or two. Which is a shame, as it’s actually a very good question.

Yes, metaphorically speaking, I lie.

I wish it was tied to 'Difficult; I’d be with the pair of them. Damn Roth and his plate of buns! I should have been with them!

Must be a damned long piece of string!

You begin to see the problem.

Pinkerton-Smythe giggles to himself, then offers up sarcastically, But just how long is a piece of string, Mr. Nesh?

I eye him coldly, and speak automatically.

Twice the distance from its midpoint to either of its ends. His grin fades and vanishes as he considers that. It’s a meaningless expression of algebra, but it’s correct. I pick up pace.

And this metaphor is at the heart of your problem, Gentlemen. I’m lying past my tusks, of course, relying on their fear and ignorance. I’m not from Roth’s Reality, so this string - this metaphor - forges a link between two Realities. Until we get to the bottom of Mr. Difficult’s actions, the string must remain tied, and the Realities linked.

The Chairman, silent for some time, absorbing and assessing, finally speaks.

Well, we have the authority to cut the string and close Roth’s reality, of course, he muses, but then says with more teeth, This is Central after all.

My reply is flat; I have no time for this kind of elitism. There is nothing unique or original about this Reality, Mr. Chairman. It’s only Central because you say it is. Like all smart leaders, Armitage recognises the truth when he hears it, but is under no obligation to assimilate it into his belief system. He frowns, perhaps wondering if he’s lost this battle. Still, he’s creative.

But what would happen if we cut the string, Mr. Nesh? He’s accidentally slipped into voice Number 8, Curious Layman.

I was hoping this one wouldn’t come up, and have to lie again. I'm not giving up on this assignment easily. I hate the idea of letting these Suits pull the plug on something they don't understand. Besides, I want to know what 'Difficult is up to. Call it professional curiosity.

Well, the mathematics is complex and unpredictable... I seem to reflect, sounding as honest as I can, but in layman’s terms? Bad. Things.

Outside, thunder rumbles and clouds roil.

Inside, fifteen men hang on the next words of their leader.

He seems to reach a decision.

Well then, Mr. Nesh, he says, returning to Number 2 voice, it seems we have nothing more to discuss. For now. We regard each other levelly. The Board wishes you a speedy conclusion to this matter. You will, of course, keep us appraised of your progress?

I shan’t forget.

The Chairman laughs, and I don’t care for it.

Mr. Nesh, given your species, have you ever forgotten anything?

No, I lie.

It’s a myth, and like all good myths, it’s useful. I may need to rely on a few of them when I get back from this trip.

A trip to an off-limit event.

Without a word, I descend in the lift and head out stoically into the howling misery of the City.

Concluded in Part Four - Dreams Of Trinity

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Definitely Not My Water

2011-04-12T00:11:00.003+01:00

In a rare brush with reality, I'm driving through my home town.

I'm on my way home for the evening, and my social diary is wide open. Again.

I glance by chance to my right as I pass through the high street, and notice that there's a movie playing that I'd like to see. Which one isn't important, but before I realise what I'm doing, and with more spontaneity than is my norm, I'm pulling into a parking space right outside the theatre. What a piece of luck.

I walk inside and talk to the young fella on the main desk. He tells me that the movie is in half an hour, give or take a few minutes for adverts. Hey, not bad! My evening is taken care of, but I've half an hour to kill.

It reminds me about trying to fill up a jar with rough stones. They reach the top, but leave a lot of space.

I wander across the street to the fish and chip shop. Checking the menu, I see that they serve scampi. I adore scampi, and haven't had any in years. And while it doesn't totally agree with my current dieting regime (going well, thanks for asking), it seems too good a chance to miss. As I pay, the woman serving tells me they always cook it fresh, and it'll be five or six minutes until it's ready.

I'm thinking about the jar again, and how I've filled up much of the spare space with smaller stones.

Feeling rather proud of myself, but feeling the call of nature after a long drive, I wander next door to the pub to sneakily use their toilet. As I step inside the unusually quiet bar, the barmaid gives me a cheery smile and asks me what I'm having. This wasn't the plan, but I spy my favourite beer on tap.

What the hell, I have time. A quick pint.

She draws me the pint, and I take long, refreshing draught. Marvellous. But I'm reminded of my pressing need to use the facilities. I ask the barmaid where it is, and she points me up the stairs.

I head up, and once again marvel about the metaphorical jar representing my evening. I feel that in these few spare minutes, I'm filling most of the remaining spaces up with sand.

I laugh as I empty my bladder, imagining I'm filling the finest of spaces in the jar up with water. Not my water you understand; that would be gross. It's a metaphor, remember? But now the jar is most definitely full.

I head back down and noting the time, I pass a few pleasantries with the bar staff as I drain my pint. Delicious, the best I've had in ages.

I then head next door just as my food hits the plate. It's incredibly good, light breadcrumbs with a perfectly-cooked seafood centre. The chips are crisp and golden.

That done, I make my way back to the cinema and buy my ticket.

And flop into my seat, resolving the final recursion, just as the movie starts.

Two hours later, my mission accomplished, I head home.

What a great night. From nothing, I filled my time with random events which all dove-tailed beautifully. Not a moment was wasted, I enjoyed some wonderful hot food and cold beer, and made it home by bedtime.

Sometimes things just fall together. You can't plan it.

Such a shame that the movie stank.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

A Suitcase Of Used Notes

2011-04-02T23:02:00.000+01:00

Dear Reader,

I must apologise for the delay with Part Three of The Long Road Home. Circumstances (well, alligators) beyond my control are keeping me from my computer.

I feel this is an excellent excuse that will merit your trust, being both implausible and basically true.

But to sate your relentless appetite for The Truth, I present a photo that I received under plain cover this morning with a blackmail note.

Ah, the folly of youth.

I seem to recall that my mother keeps an 8x10 of this on the mantlepiece.

In fact, she may have sent the note.

I must remember to take flowers when I visit for Mother's Day tomorrow. Some really nice ones.

Happy Mother's Day to all of you maternal types out there.

You're the best.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Elephants Abhor A Vacuum

2011-03-20T18:26:00.021Z

The Long Road Home - Part 2
| Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

Time can be sliced in many ways.

If our paydays mark the passage of each month, and the church bells on Sunday morning cleave one week from the next*, then it is our meals that punctuate our days.

[* While annoying the hell out of us.]

I’m having a spot of brunch with my best friend iDifficult. My lounge is alive with delicious smells, both sweet and savoury. It’s courtesy of my lovely neighbour Abbey, who dropped in some warm baked treats for us on her way to church. She knows we’re non-denominational, but respects our belief systems, which include plenty of tasty grub.

Man, I groan delightedly, this nutty, caramelly, oaty thing is awesome! I’m forced to catching a shower of delicate, gooey crumbs as my enthusiasm gets ahead of me. How’s yours?

The part-time evil genius grunts appreciatively and grins broadly, Gorgeous, though I have no idea what it is! He then contemplates his confection seriously. You remember that Winston Churchill described Russia as a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma? I nod as I eat. Well, this little treat is a riddle, inside a mystery, wrapped in... he eyes it speculatively, well, wrapped in flaky pastry.

I chuckle and take a slug of my tea. I raise my cup.

To Abbey!

To Abbey! Wiping his lips with a napkin, ‘Difficult regards me curiously. Talking of whom, did you get to the bottom of that business with Abbey and the badgers?

I clear my throat and try to think of a sensible answer.

It’s hard. It’s been that kind of week.

It’s Wednesday morning. I’m puzzled that Abbey seems to know a lot more about the history of the resident badgers than I do; apparently, she’s been sharing stories with Yavin, their Chief Engineer. I’ve had many adventures with them, but rely on body language rather than spoken words. It works well, but means that while I know plenty about the present, I know precious little about the past.

The badgers’ sett is dim and musty. Books line the walls of this room, on everything from engineering to metaphysics. The latter is unusual reading for badgers, but we’re taking tea with the legendary ex-military scientist and freemason known only as The General. This venerable badger also happens to be Yavin’s grandfather.

The General sits resplendent in a smoking jacket, monacle and fez, with a gently wisping cigar in his ageing paw. He was born in 1933, which makes no sense. Badgers live fifteen years typically, and even though Yavin’s family come from tenacious stock, it doesn’t add up. I have so many questions.

Abbey sits between us, holding our hands, and helps us to... talk? I’m unsure. We’ve been here an hour, and while I know a lot more now than I did, but can’t really remember any actual words being exchanged.

Back in the now, my friend shifts in his seat and tries to fill my silence. Because I know she’s good with energy flows. So I figured she’d have some... he waves a hand speculatively, spiritual way of talking to them. He slurps his tea. Or something.

I smile and shrug. Yes. Well... yes. That’s pretty much it. Nodding without comment, ‘Difficult helps himself to an amaretto-laced über-éclair.

Curiousity, sparked by my meeting with the elder badger, gets the better of me. And this General fella, a lovely old boy, is quite a character. More nods amidst the chocolate and cream. He must be a hell of an age by now.

The éclair is replaced quietly on the table, and ‘Difficult thinks for a moment before preparing to speak.

The moment is interrupted by a knock at the front door.

A heavy, meaningful knock that does not repeat.

Hold that thought, I say as I head through to the vanilla-scented hall. It’s oddly dim out here. No light from the front door; I must have a large visitor. Ah yes. Elliot.

Opening the door, I behold a broad and eclipsing elephant in a trenchcoat. He stands proud on two legs and surveys the scene with an expert, jaded eye. I can almost hear a film noir voiceover. He brushes the brim of his trilby hat with a digit of a giant forefoot.

Mr. Roth.

Elliot Nesh is an agent of some unknown Department. He’s also iDifficult’s parole officer, though my friend claims to have no knowledge of his supposed crime. And I believe him. Why wouldn’t I? Besides, it’s a mystery, and we enjoy those.

Another puzzle is Elliot’s jurisdiction. It’s a total unknown, though we’re fairly sure he’s not from round here. All I know is that this elephant shows up whenever we’re about to embark on a time travel adventure, and then ties himself for the duration of the jaunt to ‘Difficult with a length of string.

Again, this doesn’t make sense, but so little does at first glance.

Today, I am not surprised to find Elliot on my doorstep.

Hey matey, nice to see you. Please, I step aside with a welcoming gesture, come in, come in.

As the elephant nods and strides into my hallway, I notice that he’s carrying a small ball of string. I wonder idly if I should fetch my toothbrush.

In the lounge, iDifficult rises in greeting, looking shifty. I assume momentarily that Elliot’s arrival has put him on the defensive, but then I spot that most of the cakes are gone. My friend waves sheepishly and smiles past a mouthful of choux pastry and almonds.

The parole office regards his ward amiably, but gets straight down to business.

Mr. Difficult, are you planning on making a trip today? The agent dons a pair of dark, round-lensed pince-nez spectacles. They seem unnecessary indoors, but who knows what goes through the mind of an elephant? As he patiently waits for an answer, he deftly adjusts the edge of one frame, as if he’s focusing a microscope. Finally swallowing, ‘Difficult looks genuinely surprised.

A time trip? No. Should I be?

The elephant fiddles with his glasses again. You’re sure?

Yes, certain. He looks to me and back to Elliot; no help there. Eager to move things along, ‘Difficult picks up the near-empty plate from the table and offers it to the agent. Cake?

Elliot sighs and removes his glasses, pocketing them quietly.

No thank you. Too rich for me. Do you have anything... plainer? I know what he has in mind, but we rarely keep sticky buns about the place. Elephants love sticky buns, everyone knows that.

Once again, as my friend starts to answer, there’s another knock at the door. The back door this time, a quiet and persistent rapping. For a moment, ‘Difficult seems to consider something, but then he pops the plate down and offers a simple, I’ll see what we have. Excuse me.

I’m left in the room with the brooding pachyderm. I sit and nibble on another delightful confection, wishing Abbey were here to keep the conversation afloat.

You know, Elliot, we never talk about your work. The elephant raises an eyebrow. For example, you accompany us on all out trips because of something ‘Difficult has done, though I’ve no idea what it is.

Elliot shifts uncomfortably, but I resist the urge to keep talking; I wait, and hope that he will fill the vacuum. Elephants abhor a vacuum. Or is that Nature?

I’m assigned to Mr. Difficult, he confirms quietly, seeming to consider his words carefully, but he’s done nothing wrong.

What? But then, the punchline.

Yet.

I’m lost for words. The puzzle pieces in my head scatter randomly. What does that mean? What exactly is Elliot’s job?

My train of thought is derailed by iDifficult’s return. He’s bearing a plate of warm buns and an easygoing smile. The buns are fresh and sticky and smell amazing. Elliot’s trunk and ears twitch. He says nothing, but his gaze is held by the contents of the plate.

These are fresh from the oven, says my genius amigo conversationally, and I think they’ll be more to your taste.

Well, I really shouldn’t, mutters Elliot, I’m on duty after all. He inhales deeply; this must be excruciating for him. Perhaps just one.

A few minutes later, the plate is empty, and Elliot is asleep. The ball of string sits between his legs, lightly dusted in crumbs.

I click my fingers in front of the dozing elephant’s closed eyes. Did you drug him? My friend lifts the ball of string from Elliot's chair and pockets it. When he replies, his mind is clearly distracted and racing.

Hmmm? No. Not at all. He always falls asleep right after a good meal. This is true. We’ve carried him home from the curry house on many occasions, though I had assumed it was the bourbon.

And anyway, where did the buns come from?

Yavin brought them over. I asked him to bring some fresh buns when a particular event finally happened. And, unexpectedly, it’s just happened. He’s firing up the time machine as we speak. I have no time to query this before ‘Difficult continues, his voice alive with new purpose. Right. We need to get moving.

What, now? Where are we going?

I’ll explain on the way. I open my mouth again, but he quietens me with a raised finger. I need you to go and fetch Abbey, before Elliot wakes up. We need a head-start.

A head start? In a time machine?!

His laugh reminds me of old times, and raises a smile in me, but I have a gnawing feeling that this will a very different kind of adventure.

Time can be sliced in many ways, but today?

Well, today I think we’re cutting it fine.

Continued in Part Three - Interlude: An Equation For String

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

A Shower Of Gravelly Memories

2011-03-09T21:01:00.019Z

The Long Road Home - Part 1
| Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 |

The past is beneath our feet.

It's Wednesday morning, and a sunny one at that. I'm having a healthy breakfast* in my kitchen-diner by the big back window. I have a day off work, and I'm lazily making the most of it.

I feel like a cat, basking in the sunshine.

[* And when I say healthy, I mean meagre and uninteresting. Muesli.]

As I munch another resistant mouthful, I notice my neighbour Abbey heading down the early-Spring garden. I smile as I take in her tousled red hair, her jaunty - almost skipping - step, the big smile, and the ever-bare feet. Pretty without pretense, this thirty-something lady is literally the girl-next-door. I'm not sure why she's in my garden, but it doesn't matter; she's welcome there, and I'm pleased to see her.

I knock on the window and as she turns her smile somehow gets wider. I wave her inside, and notice that she's carrying something small and square. I wipe the last spot of milk from my lips with a napkin.

Morning, neighbour! she beams as she breezes through the back door, the lightest of giggles bubbling through her words. I brought something to show you! Her sunflower scent has brought the Spring indoors.

She quietly pops a framed photograph on the table in front of me.

Isn't it amazing?!

It certainly is. A badger Freemason! And a very senior one, by the look of him. A memory shifts slightly. He's an important chap, too. The heavy chain of office, the ornate leather apron, the arm braces and gloves... if I had to guess, I'd say he was a Lodge Grand Master. My neighbour looks at me curiously. I laugh, realising her assumption. Oh, I'm not "On The Square". My dear old Uncle Jericho was highly placed in one of the American lodges. And talked a lot.

Our attention returns to the ageing photo. I can't help but laugh again; I love the moustache, monocle and top hat.

But a Grand Master?! He's a badger! I'm sure she's teasing me; she's been living here long enough to know how remarkable they are. And the memory shifts in my head again.

Well, Masonry is traditionally about craftsmanship, I note mildly, and these guys can build anything. Especially underground.

Like, say... tunnels? Abbey is now behind me, and now her tone is definitely teasing. Her tone jostles the thought again, and it suddenly tumbles free in a shower of gravelly memories.

Yes, tunnels! He's from the Grand Lodge of Tunnellers! Jericho told me about them when I was a kid. They're a smaller Lodge, but held in high esteem by the Brotherhood. My mouth moves silently. My jaw drops. Good grief, is this The General?!

She cheers and whistles, then hugs me. Yes, well done. It's The General, the first Grand Master of his Lodge. He has no other name that anyone knows about, and was one of the first badgers to work above ground. With people, I mean. Did you know he was actually a scientist by profession? I shake my head in amazement; the story is intriguing. But that's a story for another day. This photo was taken in 1953.

Incredible. A moment in history, a legendary figure, still with us through this simple photograph.

A new thought nudges me.

So Abbey, I frown, puzzled, how do you know all this, exactly?

Oh, she shrugs, Yavin shared what he knew with me. There's a slightly evasive quality to the words, and she doesn't quite meet my eye. And I'm still puzzled; I can communicate with Yavin well enough, but the old badger engineer doesn't say much. I wonder about how she had that conversation, but put that thought aside for now.

She's full of mysterious talents, is Abbey.

Well, I suppose he'd know the history of his profession and species as well as anyone.

True, but Yavin knows this bit of history especially well. She meets my eye. The General is Yavin's grandfather.

Wow. I had no idea. Life is full of surprises.

Today, the past really is beneath our feet.

Abbey grins. And he's just moved back to the garden.

Continued in Part Two - Elephants Abhor A Vacuum

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

It's Even The Same Colour

2011-02-27T21:15:00.006Z

Sunday is a day I have never mastered.

I usually stay home, but it's a mixed bag. If I have nothing to do, I get bored. But if I have a chore to do, I resent it. Because it's Sunday. Make sense?

So today, I decided to break the cycle of home activity polarity, and go out. My closest friend, the part-time evil-genius iDifficult, lives just a few miles away as the crow flies. Or as the squiddrel runs*.

[* A squiddrel, a hybrid of a red squirrel and a colossal squid, pays no regard to fences, roads or even buildings; they are determined creatures. One zoologist described one as the most dangerously single-minded creature he'd ever encountered. Before it ate him.]

As I knock on his door, I keep an eye out for 'Difficult's long-suffering wife. She's a lovely lady, but things have been uneven between us since what she refers to as The Firework Incident, or The Reason We Can't Get Fire Insurance Anymore. I have no idea why; we made good by planting new flowers and replaced all of the scorched/missing fence panels. The ragged wedding suit proved more problematic at short notice, but at least I got 'Difficult to the church on time.

Roth! bellows 'Difficult as he throws the door open, his broad smile radiating the rudest of health. Perfect timing! Come in, come in!

I'm hustled indoors, and barely have time to offer a hello before a cup of hot, sweet tea is thrust into my hands.

So, he grins, What do you know about fish? Garra rufa or Doctor Fish, to be precise!

My curiosity is piqued; I was discussing these miraculous little fish with a friend at work only a few days earlier. I gather my handful of thoughts.

Those are the fish that they use at spas to nibble away at dead skin on feet, right? I make unnecessary nibbling motions with my hands to emphasise the point. After a few minutes with your feet in a tank, you have the smoothest heels ever?

Precisely! Top marks! I wonder where this is going. I give up, realising that guesswork rarely works with an evil genius. So, have you tried it?

Nope. I shrug. It sounds interesting, but it tends to be expensive.

I see, I see, he muses, but you do have hard skin on your feet. Excellent. Do you get it anywhere else?

Um, well, I scratch my head, surprised at the line of enquiry, a bit on my right knee, and sometimes my elbows, I suppose?

He nods and makes enthusiastic listening noises while scribbling a few notes in a battered notebook. I think this was the same pad he used to sketch the time travelling pyramid he built.

Right, so these treatments are fine, but for the best results, perhaps some sort of immersive experience might be better?

Wait. What? Immersive?!

Noooo, I'm not sure that'd be a good idea! I scramble for some logic. Might be a bit weird. Some people don't like the sensation of the fish nibbling at their feet. But all over? They'd freak out.

Oh, but that's just nerves! He slaps me on the back happily, They get used to it. Most go back for further treatments, I'm sure. I'm not so sure, but the terrible tide of creativity sweeps me along. So. The single word has a finality about it. Do you want to give my new treatment a try?

I'm lost for words. Something tells me I need to find some really good ones. And quickly.

Aaaah, well, you know, it sounds interesting, I bluster, but the skin on my feet is like leather. Yes, leather. Years and years of poor footcare. Those poor little fish wouldn't be able to bite into it.

He laughs uproariously, and looks delighted. Is it too late to run?

I was hoping you'd say that! I have something for that very situation!

The words hang in the air, and I have a sinking feeling in my tummy. With icebergs.

Come on! I'll show you.

Opening the door under the stairs, he ushers me down into his cellar. Our footsteps echo hugely as we descend. Behind me, my friend slaps a switch, and bink bink bink there is light. The room, now lit by half a dozen fluorescent strips, is low and seemingly endless, and full of exotic machinery; these vanish into shadow ten yards away.

Dominating the near room is an enormous plastic crate. It stands six feet high, and resembles a picnic coolbox. I have one just like it at home. It's even the same colour.

Go on, take a peek! My friend's exuberance is infectious, and makes me want to scratch. He waves to indicate a ladder on the crate's side that leads up to what looks like a heavy lid.

I hesitate, but 'Difficult waves me upwards. The rungs are cold and slightly damp, but I reach the top without incident. The lid is more of a challenge; I have to get my shoulder under it to gain some purchase, and finally heave it up, one handed.

The box is full of dark water.

I look closer, insidious curiosity getting the better of me.

And the fish rise up to greet me.

What do you think?!

You know, I think I may prefer dull Sundays at home.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

When Dreaming in Dolby

2011-02-23T14:33:00.009Z

You know, I think that movie Inception was onto something.

It's last night.

I'm at home, being kept company by iDifficult and a large, empty pizza box. We're watching Pro-Celebrity Biopsy, sprawled on separate sofas, and chewing the fat.

Nothing for a pair!... shouts 'Difficult at the screen as the second procedure is performed. It's a blatant feed line for the second half of the host Johnnie K's catchphrase, which I provide at full volume.

... Not in this game!

We laugh like drains, but without warning I realise I'm tired. My eyes are suddenly heavy, my tummy full, and as I stifle a big yawn...

It's November.

I look around, disoriented momentarily, but with a look of dawning pleasure on my face, as my friends jump out to spring a surprise party on me.

Happy birthday, Indigo! growls Bear, giving me a hug that befits his name. As he pulls away, smiling, a newly red-headed Abbey steps in and a kiss brushes my cheek.

Happy birthday, Indy! she purrs, holding my eye for a second longer than is needed.

Next to me, matey! roars 'Difficult, steering me to a seat as I shake Yavin's badger paw and tickle his energetic monochrome nephews. They wriggle and grin silently as they dash in figure eights round my legs. It's an old routine, but it never feels old. They'll not be kids forever.

We sit. The table is piled high with presents and party food, and some bouncy South American music plays in the background. Everyone is having a wonderful time.

When I dream, I dream in colour and 5.1 Dolby.

Would you excuse me for a moment? I don't see my words coming, but find myself stepping out of the room. The hallway is cold as I walk upstairs. My bedroom is colder, and the bed itself colder still. As I close my eyes and yawn...

I'm nowhere.

The water is deep and dark and endless, the pressure dizzying. I look about in all directions, but see no difference. Is there slightly more light from above?

I'm suspended in time as the distant shape moves from utter black to merely bleak. It moves closer with languid sweeps of its tail. It dawns on me as utter terror freezes me, a fly in dark amber, that it is immense.

An immense shark.

It is not close, but as it faces me, the gaping maw of its mouth deader than its eyes, it fills my vision. Ancient and scarred, from the annals of the extinct.

I search for meaning in the moment, and find none.

The leviathan cruises to a halt, and is still.

And then, it is not.

I turn to flee, but I know I cannot escape it.

I feel the approaching wave of pressure as the water is pushed towards me. I know the serrated blades of its teeth will close on my legs at any moment.

But no. They pass by me on all sides, and the space ahead of me slowly becomes a jagged circle of light as the mouth of the beast closes around me, swallowed whole. Beneath my mask I scream, and...

I'm at my surprise party. The crowd is putting the finishing touches to a chorus of Happy Birthday, with Yavin conducting. The final line complete, they clap and cheer. And then, with an unexpected rush of sunflower scent, Abbey throws her arms about my neck and reaches in for a big birthday smooth. I close my eyes and...

I'm watching TV with iDifficult. He checks the pizza box for the third time and to his annoyance still finds it empty. My friend glances my way.

Hey, he notes, you dozed off there for a moment.

I did? What was I dreaming about? Ah, yes.

Yeah, sorry man, I must be tired. I yawn and stretch. Weird dreams.

Anything interesting?

I shake my head and grin. An encounter with death and a kiss, both missed by moments.

Not in the end, I muse, but I think my subconscious has got it in for me.

The doorbell rings, and my friend jumps up.

Wow, that was quick! he beams, and returns a thirty seconds later with a fresh delivery pizza. He proffers the open box and speaks around a mouthful. More pizza, old boy?

My mouth waters, and I take a piping hot slice. It smells delicious, hot and meaty and with the slight pungency of jalapeños and too much sauce. A dream come true.

I move to take a delicious bite, and...

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

More Than Just A Clipshow

2011-02-06T18:39:00.007Z

All kinds of ideas occurred to me about today's blog entry.

It's my 200th, and I'm pretty damned pleased about it.

Most of the concepts I came up with were flashbacks to earlier entries, and had more than a whiff of me bouncing up and down and shouting, Lookit all this cool stuff I done!

I'm proud of my blog, but it was all rather self-congratulatory.

And it misses the point, which is this:

I blog because I enjoy writing, but without folk reading it, I'd have stopped long ago. So, thank you for reading my blog over the last couple of years; you've made it all possible.

I'll write some more entries soon, and I hope you'll enjoy those too.

Pip pip,

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

No Distinguishing Features

2011-02-01T17:02:00.010Z

I've felt recently that life does not contain enough intellectual rigour.

On a typical day, I rarely encounter much that requires me to rub more than a handful of brain cells together. I mean, do I walk to work or drive? Wear blue socks or black? Or order a Mighty Meaty pizza with jalapeños or a Pepperoni Passion with black olives? Or both? *

[* I know, a total no-brainer.]

You see the problem. And it worries me. I don't want to lose my razor-keen mind; I may need it sometime.

Someone suggested that a white jigsaw might be the way to go. Have you seen those? One thousand similar-looking pieces, with no distinguishing features beyond edge pieces? I love jigsaws, have endless patience, and it would be a real brain-tickler of a challenge.

But no, I need more.

As you probably know, I'm an old hand at the Rubik's Cube. What could be more of a challenge than taking The Cube to the next level?

It's my own design, and I can't put it down.

I'm sticking close to the phone in case Parker Brothers call.

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

Hi all,

Thanks for reading today's post; you're the best.

My recent numbers have been great, and it's always a pleasure to see that spike in the stats when I post. But I'm curious because, beyond a handful of die-hard regulars who stop by the say hi, I've no idea who any of you are!

If you feel so inclined (and as a one-time thing), why not introduce yourself? You know, who you are, what region you live in, whether you blog, and maybe the first of my entries you read? Or anything else you fancy telling me about.

Just a thought.

Thanks, Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

In Awe Of Barefaced Talent

2011-01-27T22:34:00.013Z

Putting stuff in pigeonholes is a typical response to discovering anything new.

For example, when I saw two dozen badgers doing a rehearsal of a synchronised dancing and swimming routine in the garden pond, I immediately filed it under New Wave Buzby Berkley.

Shallow of me, I know.

So, when I tell folk how much I like the new album by Turtle Soup, they always ask me what it's like. But despite all my years of pigeonholing things, I never have a clear answer; it's terrific stuff, and hard to categorise.

I'm lucky enough to known the band's singer/songwriter, Fran Morter. Fran collaborates with guitarist Steve Segar to craft the songs, which are introspective and very personal offerings. Husband Roger Morter plays bass, and Phil Edey produces an amazingly versatile percussive sound with a single African Djembe drum. Here they are:

This piccy (L to R: Roger, Fran, Phil, Steve) is one of mine, and sans logo might be used by the band at some point. By the way, the picture is definitely worth a click. Lots of cool detail.

The new album, their second, is called Never Alone. Six tracks, dark and elusive, and very rewarding. And ahead of the album's CD release, the band have decided to make all of the tracks available to listen to; just click here to launch their website.

But can I pigeonhole it, musically? I know you want me to.

Well, I sometimes say it's folky, but less so than their first offering.

And sometimes I say it's alternative, but that's more of a battered bucket than a useful description.

I think the offical music biz line is that it's progressive folk, but the best description I can think of is that it's bloody marvellous!

That gets people's attention. And better yet, it's true.

Go on, check out these lovely talented people! *

[* UPDATE - if you feel so moved, I've been told that you can buy the album as a download from Amazon and iTunes, and that a physical CD release is coming soon. 10% of the proceeds from Never Alone will be donated to The Marine Conservation Society, the UK charity protecting our seas, shores and wildlife.]

Right, the badgers are filming tomorrow, so early to bed.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

Speaking With Distant Cousins

2011-01-18T23:09:00.010Z

Sometimes I'm way too patient.

Mr. Roth?

I look up to see the smiling and slightly embarrassed face of the receptionist. She stoops slightly towards me as I sit in the uncomfortable waiting room chair. Shifting in my seat, I smile politely.

Yes? I try to keep impatience out of my voice, but I’m pretty sure I've blown it.

Oh, hello Mr. Roth, sorry for the delay. She pauses, waiting for me to say that it's quite all right, perhaps? I don't; it's been two hours. I've never had to wait so long to see Dr. Johnson, the practice's chief physician, but my doctor seems to be the only one working today. Doctor will see you now. Her voice is low and suggests a wringing of hands. She nods encouragingly. Room 5.

Thank you. I sigh, and she scuttles away as I stand slowly. My knees complain at their sudden use. I'm reminded of a line from John Masefield's The Box Of Delights, and mutter it as I shuffle up the well-lit corridor towards my doctor's office.

Only I do date from pagan times, and age makes joints to creak. Or doesn't it?

I should think it does. I knock at the door of room 5 and wait. The usual welcoming bellow does not come.

The door slowly opens on its own.

The figure behind the paper-strewn desk is dressed from the pages of medical cliché: a tweed suit, patched at the elbows with leather; a white collared shirt that has seen better days; adorned at the neck with a stained red bowtie; the half-moon schoolmaster glasses.

But this is not my doctor.

It’s a rhino.

And a old and crusty rhino, at that. As he scribbles away at some notes as only doctors can, I take in the dusty face and the matted hairs caked in dried mud on his neck. A fly circles him, but it doesn't appear that its heart is in it; it's as if it's expected. This guy is vain, too; a flat ginger wig with a centre parting rests just above his spectacles.

Ah, Mr. Roth, I've been expecting you. Wow, I've not heard that one since I last saw the evil genius Doctor Wang*. The ageing rhino leans back and eyes me with something resembling indifference. I'm Dr. Luther. Do come in.

[* This is definitely worth a click. Best regards, Bear]

Stepping into the office, I leave the door open and take a seat.

Hello. Sorry, but I was expecting Doctor ...

So, he says smoothly, what can I help you with? Yet there's ice in the voice; it hurries my thoughts along. Accept, adapt, advance.

Well, I wanted to talk to you about...

Yes, yes, he waves a dismissive and badly-manicured hoofed foot, let's speak plainly. I'm a busy man. You've come to see me about a bad back, or a sore knee or chest pain, or some other trivial ailment.

He pauses meaningfully.

Well...

And so I feel compelled to remind you, an educated man, that the body has amazing recuperative qualities. He gestures broadly. Whatever it is that you believe your suffering from, and I use the term suffering very loosely... The rhino looks down his long nose at me across the top of his half moon glasses; the effect is authoritarian, even if the wig does slip a little. Well, this thing will sort itself out in a few days. Do you follow?

Well...

I see we understand each other. He smiles in a way that would make a crocodile blush. Take two aspirin, get some sleep, drink plenty of fluids, and come back and see me next month. Or never. He waves a nagging digit. You can crack this problem on your own. Medicine will not help you. And neither will I.

Wow. I'm lost for words. My jaw works up and down a bit.

The toupéed ungulate turns and taps away at a keyboard with a pencil and peers at his computer screen. There's a deep, chesty grunt of disapproval. The fly keeps its distance and hovers suspiciously; I want to do the same thing.

However, I see from your your medical records that you've not had any recent medical screenings for male health issues. His emphasis is sinister.

Male health issues? Oh. My heart sinks. Those ones.

Yes, and this is not a good thing. Let's bring your file up to date, shall we? The rhino opens a drawer and pulls a bottle of jumbo sized rubber gloves.

What? No. He can't be serious. I'm not dropping my trousers for a rhinoceros.

Well, I think I'd prefer to do this with my regular doctor...

He freezes in the middle of tugging a rubber glove from the box.

Dr. Johnson? You didn't hear?

I'm aware my jaw is working again. Excuse me? I'm almost whispering. Heard what?

I'm afraid Dr. Johnson was involved in a terrible accident. The rhino meets my eye and speaks with a distant cousin of solemn sadness. He was found terribly injured at his home yesterday.

Good grief, not nice old Doctor J? I have fond memories of the man; he brought me into this world. Mind you, when he delivered me he claimed excess postage.

Indeed. He'll recover, but may never speak or practice medicine again. The old sawbones eases back into his seat and raises an eyebrow. He'd been trampled and gored quite badly.

Trampled and gored?! I find myself shuffling back in my chair. Do the police have anyone in custody?

The old doctor smoothes the hair on his horn absently.

No, he smiles, but his injuries were probably self-inflicted.

Seconds pass.

I'm the new chief doctor for the practice.

He stands and snaps on a rubber glove.

So, let's get these tests done, shall we?

Behind me, the door closes.

I never want to cough again.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

The Symmetry Of Eleven

2011-01-15T23:05:00.008Z

As I flick through the news, I notice that some bright spark of a scientist has been upsetting people by pointing out that classical horoscopes are wrong.

His closer examination of the sky reveals conclusively that there's a thirteen zodiac sign - Ophiuchus the Serpent Bearer - and that this means changes to the dates of all the others. Did you see that?

Were I truly interested in my Scorpio heritage and the fact that apparently I'm now a Libra, I might get upset. However, I've been a devout follower of The Elevenfold Zodiac for years. This was cobbled together by myself and iDifficult after a particularly heavy night out. The ale was good and the curry superb. Just when we thought it was all over, the schnapps gave us second wind. And then the curry gave us our third, and we had to evacuate.

When we awoke, we discovered the horoscopic secrets of the universe written in crayon on iDifficult's lounge wall. We considered this an epiphany, and of overriding importance to the world. But that was not accepted as a defence by iDifficult's long-suffering wife, and once again we had to evacuate.

Happy days.

Anyway, to give you a taste, here's today's horoscope.

Elevenfold Zodiac
by Mystic Fred, Week Ending Wed 19 January 2011

	The Cosmic Sock (Jan 2 - Feb 7) Termites in your wooden leg get the day off to a bad start. You may soon feel you're moving in strange circles. Lucky fruit: Kumquat.
	The Rusty Saw (Feb 12 - Mar 15) A flock of seagulls prove once and for all that you really shouldn't wear white before Arbor Day. Or indeed, black. Lucky swelling: Gout.
	The Swing (Mar 19 - April 22) You know, then you don't, then you know, then you don't. Just decide, already! Blueberry muffin, ice cream, or both? Lucky egg: Chocolate ostrich.
	The Traffic Light (April 25 - May 29) The gaping hole in your social life turns out to be a collapsed sewer. Hairy men with buttcracks will knock soon. Lucky soup: Butternut squash.
	The Casserole (June 3 - July 10) Royal matters consume you today, but the Queen Of Sheba is not your friend. I mean, seriously. Think about it. Lucky medium: Watercolour.
	The Stain (July 13 - Aug 15) Time is a great healer, but lousy at removing ground-in treacle. Shock therapy provides relief from an embarrassing itch. Lucky bird: Gooney.
	The Inflated Bladder (Aug 20 - Sept 25) They're somebody else's piranha, perhaps a heartbroken child's. So check the lost and found before keeping them. Lucky celebrity: Topol
	The Stuffed Terrier (Sept 28 - Oct 28) A trip to the great outdoors will inspire you to stay home more. Remember that canned goods last longest. Lucky cake: Raspberry danish.
	The Paint Pot (Nov 01 - Nov 20) As a wise man once observed, liquorice is no substitute for charcoal. Rain will almost certainly stop play. Sorry. Lucky president: Adams.
	The Crowbar (Nov 22 - Dec 27) Violence may be the answer! Be sure to carry your chainsaw for the Zombie Apocalypse descending after lunch. Lucky vein: Hepatic portal.
	The Amoeba (All unlisted dates) You confirm that you're the glue holding the universe together when you end up stuck to an aardvark. Lucky mammal: Not the aardvark.

Some small-minded types have suggested that there is actually a twelfth zodiac sign in this system, and that it was lost to the world because the crayon broke. Even though I can't remember, I'm going to scotch this rumour. I'm not going back to fix it all on a whim of some non-believer; it's just a bit of fun after all.

By the way, we've still not been forgiven by iDifficult's wife for the crayon on the lounge wall.

Nor for the fireworks.

But that's another story.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011

And Ten Minutes The Poorer

2011-01-02T23:30:00.014Z

The search is beginning to feel fruitless.

I slam the wardrobe shut and head out onto the landing. After a thorough check of the third bedroom, my token box room, the check of the upstairs on my house is complete. The result? Nothing. And ten minutes the poorer.

Actually, not quite. I've accumulated a gumball, a wizened prawn cracker, and what amounts to a pocketful of loose change from various dim corners.

I thump downstairs dejectedly. This is not how I wanted to start the New Year; looking for things is one of my least favourite activities. I love finding things I'm not looking for; this is one of the great joys of window shopping. But hunting for things at home? I can't stand it.

There are only two rooms downstairs; a comfortable lounge and the kitchen diner. They are both bright and airy; I can't imagine for a moment that I'll find what I'm looking for in either of them.

The lounge takes but a moment, as the sofa and TV furniture stand clear of the floor. A quick scoot around the room on all fours, including checking under the bottom of the curtains, results in my bounty swelling by three small coins and a paperclip. I am also reminded that I really need to hoover, as a menacing dust bunny mocks me from behind the TV.

The remaining room offers a little more challenge. I circle the dining table in the kitchen diner, checking carefully, and once again check behind the curtains. No more copper coinage here; I must have vacuumed recently.

I move into the kitchen area and sigh; the linoleum floor is clear, and it just seems pointless checking in the tiny cupboards. But I do, one at a time, hunting but finding nothing, and feeling a fool for doing so. I have no idea what possesses me to look down the plughole in the sink; the pressure must be getting to me.

As I step back, I trip over my own feet and crash unceremoniously onto my backside. It hurts. This is too much!

Why do I put myself through this?!

Why do I let myself get driven crazy by this search?!

My heart pounding, adrenaline surging, and my butt aching, I screw my eyes up and bellow my frustration at the house in general.

OKAY, I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANY MORE! I GIVE UP!

It feels good to say it, to shout it out loud.

When I open my eyes, I am surrounded by four figures, dressed in black. Sharp, cunning eyes regard me coolly behind ornate dark masks, and lethal weapons glisten in the early morning sun of my kitchen.

Game over.

You know, the next time the Ninjas come over wanting to play Hide-and-Seek, remind me to suggest Monopoly instead.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Picture borrowed from the DHD Multimedia Gallery, with thanks

Never To The Hardy Boys

2010-12-31T17:19:00.017Z

At some point in your life, it's important to have a rock with a note tied to it thrown through your window.

It makes you feel like you've lived.

And when I say lived, I mean been stunned senseless.

Five minutes ago, I'm writing a list. I do this a lot more than I used to; I find if I don't write things down, I forget them. Shopping without a list? Winging a presentation without bullet points? Ordering everything on the menu without a menu? Forget it.

So anyway, I'm writing a list of things to do in 2011. These aren't New Years Resolutions, which are generally things that you're not going to do in the year to come. What I'm doing is writing a list of things I want to do during 2011. It's a positive spin thing; I've not spent twenty years in corporate life without learning something.

So far I have decided that I want to:

1) Spend more time with friends. I always mean to, but always end up getting sucked into some escapade or another, or doing selfish solo stuff at home.

2) Take some exercise. I enjoy it, it's good for me, and I usually meet friendly folk while I'm doing it. This may even help number 1 along too?

3) Go on some dates. After four years of being single, I could say it's time to be in a new relationship, but hey - small steps, gently taken.

4) Complete at least one of my long-term creative "to do" projects. I have loads of these, things that have been on the back-boiler for years. For example, design and publish a set of playing cards, or hand-make an over-sized Scrabble set or Monopoly set.

Of course, number 4 could be acceptably nudged aside if I start work on my novel. I've long-since proved I have the discipline. It was the very reason I started to blog in fact, and I did 80 days straight. Apparently, I've written over 150,000 words since I started, which is enough for two novels. So who knows? Maybe it's time.

Quite excited, I ponder a possible number 5.

There's another goal lurking in my head, but it eludes me. Something important. I was thinking about it only yesterday, but now it's gone. What on earth was it? It's so frustrating to forget things. But that's why I write lists.

Ah well, I'm sure I'll think of it tomorrow.

Something heavy hits the back of my head. And I pass out.

Back in the now, I gently explore the rear of my skull and find no blood; it's tender, and there's a lump. Angrily, I grab the rock from the floor and note the incongruously pretty blue ribbon round it, holding the note in place.

I'm sure that never happened to the Hardy Boys.

Turning, I see the window is wide open; at least they had the decency to choose a closed one when they delivered their message. Whoever they are.

Peering left and right, I'm surprised to see myself standing in the bushes to the left of the tree, next to the hedge. Yep, definitely me. Suit, tie, hair swept back; looking good. The figure gives me a cheery wave and, without a word, vanishes through the hedge, seemingly without regard for the awesome business clothes.

I stand, rubbing the back of my head, and consider my options. I could pursue myself, but it always gets complicated. Instead, I turn my attention to the note. Tugging the ribbon aside with a fading ember of irritation, I unfold the hand-written message and take it in. It says:

5) Avoid involvement in time travel and the ensuing paradoxes.

It doesn't have the positive spin of the first four, but as I wander downstairs to find an ice-bag for my head, I decide these are words to live by.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlefolk

2010-12-23T20:16:00.013Z

To the tune of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.*

(* Oh go on, sing it! You know it'll be fun!)

God rest ye merry, gentlefolk!
__Let nothing you dismay!
For Mssrs. Roth and 'Difficult
__Are saving Christmas Day!
They're bending rules and breaking laws
__To make sure all's okay
Great tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,
__Great tidings of comfort and joy

It started with a simple note,
__Delivered Christmas Eve
Old Santa's gone, the message said,
__Us elves, we can't believe
There's no-one here to run the show,
__Saint Nick you must retrieve!
Roth, please help us and find the old boy, find the old boy,
__Roth please help us and find the old boy

A task like this was far too big
__For one man to succeed
So Roth called on iDifficult
__And told him of his need
I've just the thing, said 'Difficult,
__To Santa it will lead!
And unveiled a magnificent new toy, to find the old boy,
__Wow, a Santa seeking-missile, what a toy!

They both hopped on and blasted off
__Into the twilight sky
The radar showed no sign of him,
__Both east and west were tried
Then on a hunch, Roth steered them South,
__And then he gave a cry
At the South Pole! That jolly fat old boy! Santa Ahoy!
__In Antarctica, that jolly fat old boy!

They swooped in low, the radar sang,
__And Santa they did spy!
A prisoner of Jack Frost he was,
__With no word of a lie
A cage of ice, with penguin guards,
__A rescue they must try!
Roth just grinned and said that he had a ploy, to save the old boy,
__And hoped 'Difficult had brought all the right toys!

They landed safe just out of sight,
__And rummaged in the hold
A penguin suit, and burlesque clothes,
__A chainsaw and some gold
So Roth got dressed to try the plan,
__In the Antarctic cold
And he knew they would rescue the old boy! With him as decoy!
__Oh, these heroes, they would rescue the old boy!

The penguin guards just gawped at first,
__Could not believe their eyes!
A sexy dancing penguin babe,
__With garters on her thighs!
They rushed at Roth, then fought for dibs
__They wanted the first prize!
Roth just gave them some bump and grind, so coy! What a bad boy!
__As they fought away he tiptoed off, oh boy!

Behind the fray, young 'Difficult
__Freed Santa from the ice
The chainsaw made it easy work,
__He leapt free in a trice!
The penguins had forgotten Roth
__And how he'd looked so nice
So they legged it for 'Difficult's cool toy! Boosters deploy!
__And the trio blasted north upon that toy!

Jack Frost sent off a storm of snow
__And hoped that they'd get stuck
But Santa had some magic left,
__They had no need for luck
I'll get you next year! Frost did scowl,
__And Santa cried, You Schmuck!
And they flew to the North and certain joy! North pole ahoy!
__Roth and Difficult has rescued the old boy!

Their rescue done, they touched right down,
__The elves sent up a cheer!
Forget the milk and cookies lads,
__Said Santa, Who's for beer?
They toasted Life and Love and Friends,
__And Hope for the New Year!
And then Santa delivered worldwide joy! To all girls and boys!
__And great tidings of comfort and joy!

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

With love,

Indigo, King, Yavin, Hoth, Sollust, Bear, Clarice, and Abbey x

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Comfortable And Undemanding

2010-12-14T22:03:00.019Z

Sometimes things don't go to plan.

I'm dreaming about yesterday.

It's Sunday. Instead of doing Sunday things like most folk, I head to the office to finish off some work that needs putting to bed. I work a thirteen hour day, punctuated by sandwiches, tea, and cake, and after leaving a note to say I'll be in late, I head home around ten thirty.

My dreams are getting way too literal.

The drilling saves me from reliving the cold drive home.

In fact, the drilling is shaking the bed.

Back in the now, I crack my eyes - they're really not ready to open - and take a few moments to introduce the curtained room into Monday's reality. My room. My bed. My juddering teeth as the drilling restarts.

A glance at the clock tells me it's a respectable hour, but earlier than I would have liked; eight-thirty in the morning. There's a quiet knocking at the door. I open my mouth to respond, but manage little more than a cough. Still, it's enough.

Yavin enters the room, bearing a laden tray. The badger is in his usual engineering dungarees and flat cap, his pipe and tobacco tin poking from opposing breast pockets. He approaches the bed and nods a good morning.

Hey Yavin, good morning. I exercise my slow jaw from side to side, and am rewarded with a reluctant crack. I cough again absently. What on earth is that drilling?

Ignoring my question for the time being, the badger proffers the tray, and my slow early-morning senses are assailed by the delicious smell of fried food. Good grief, is that breakfast?

No reply is forthcoming; clearly I'm being rhetorical. The tray is seriously loaded; a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, mushrooms and beans. A rack of granary toast. Butter, jam, marmalade. And a pot of tea. Ooh, and a tiny ramekin of ketchup.

My tummy rumbles. Yavin's coarse facial fur rearranges into a smile.

Wow, this looks amazing. Thank you. But why? The diminutive engineer is remarkably expressive most of the time, but not when both of his paws are busy. It this a karmic thing? Was I kind to badgers in a previous life?

This comment receives no reply as outside, the drilling restarts. Yavin glares sideways at the mostly-closed curtains and the street beyond. With a deft flick of stray digits, legs extend from the sides of the tray, and he deposits it carefully onto my lap; he has to stand on tip-toes to do this. That done, he turns his attention to the juddering without.

Thank you. Strolling over to the curtains, the badger casts them wide with a flourish and surveys the street scene below. Workmen?

Yavin wrinkles his nose with distaste and nods. He has a keen distinction between skilled engineers and labourers.

Three of them? One drilling, one doing nothing, and one with a clipboard who looks important but who's also doing nothing? This is just a guess, based on years of observing road crews, it but receives another nod and a heaved sigh.

I tuck into the breakfast, menacing a sausage first and moving onto the bacon and a generous shovel of beans. Toast is dipped in bean juice, and tea is slurped. It really is amazing; just the right temperature, bursting with flavour and - best of all - made by someone else. Though I still have no idea why.

So, how come I get breakfast today?

I realise that Yavin is no longer in the room. I've just reached the halfway point of my plateful, and the drilling has faded into the background of my attention. I cast my eyes about, and bizarrely wonder if the badger is under the bed, before recommencing my feast; the mushrooms are particularly good.

A moment later, as I'm pouring myself a cup of tea, Yavin wanders back in with a newspaper under his arm. Quietly padding round the bed to the empty side, he hops up, makes himself at home in the mound of pillows and settles down to read. This familiarity is comfortable and undemanding; the company of friends always is.

The pneumatic excavation thunders into fresh life.

I'm just about to enquire about breakfast again, when both the drilling and my chewing are halted by a high-pitched chittering roar from outside. A shiver passes down my spine; I know the sound all too well. Stunned silence follows, abruptly ended by a second outburst, the clatter of dropped tools and some unmanly screaming.

Yavin changes page behind his paper, apparently unmoved.

Hey Yavin, was that a... squiddrel? I move to get up, but a friendly paw pats my hand and gently stays my exit from the bed. Yavin, I should go and see; I thought we'd caught it. I can't believe it.

Several months ago, I spent a terrifying and enlightening day with iDifficult tracking his giant hybrid squid/squirrel down, across park and town. Though, to be honest, most of the time it was close on our heels making that terrifying noise; it didn't care for our inept attempts at capture. It was a character building experience, though we required some serious laundering afterwards.

A minute of internal turmoil passes. The breakfast cools slowly.

I'm brought back to my senses by heavy animal footsteps making their way quickly upstairs. And then I hear the roar again from the landing; it's deafening. Stirred into action, I lift the tray and move it aside, placing it in front of the stoic badger.

Just as I'm about to put a foot into a slipper, the bedroom door crashes aside, and I'm faced by the terrifying visage of the mighty red squiddrel. I stifle a cry* and retreat back onto the bed. The faceful of wet, suckered tentacles extends in my direction and the creature's beak opens to scream its rage on cue.

[* a manly cry, a shout of surprise. Obviously.]

Actually, framed in the doorway, the beast is smaller than I remember. It's barely five feet tall, in fact. And I'm puzzled to see that it's carrying a clipboard and a length of pneumatic hose.

Time goes glacial for an endless, surreal second.

Then, with a giggle, the top falls off the red-furred beast. Black and white legs wiggle comically from the up-ended torso, and a young badger face peeps out from inside the legs.

In my peripheral vision, I spy that Yavin's newspaper is shaking up and down with some voiceless mirth.

HOTH! SOLLUST! I laugh - relieved - at Yavin's twin nephews, You guys scared me to death!

Young Sollust grins impishly over the bottom half of this pantomime costume, and offers up a black-and-white salute; he's the image of a sub-mariner poking out from a conning tower. He also looks tired, but I guess he's been running around with his brother on his shoulders for the past few minutes.

Hoth waves from inside the head with a pink tentacle; he seems in no hurry to leave his costume. And to make the point, he roars in his own badger voice and starts to chase Sollust round the bedroom. They collide at the foot of the bed and collapse into a tussling, growling heap.

I settle back to continue my breakfast. As I replace the tray on my lap, I notice that my teacup is empty. And there's the sound of toast being munched upon behind the newspaper.

Yavin?

The paper drops and wise old eyes gaze back at me.

I've been working really hard of late. Starting early and coming back late. I'm finished now. He nods his understanding. This breakfast was just what I needed, and very kind. Thank you. But why?...

He smiles indulgently, and I realise that I've answered my own question.

Guys? Two curious snouts rise about the footboard. Thanks for sorting the drilling crew out. They wave the captured clipboard and hose, and roar at each other between their giggles. The uncostumed twins then hoist themself onto the bed and set about the remains of my breakfast. I sip at a cup of tea and smile.

Sometimes things don't go to plan.

Sometimes other people's plans trample on the best laid plans.

But sometimes, other people's plans are perfect.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010
Drilling borrowed from The Museum Of New Zealand, with thanks!

In Line With My Worldview

2010-12-06T14:03:00.009Z

It is a long-held and oft-voiced belief that I am a slacker.

You're such a slacker, Roth! they say*.

[*See?]

As an honest fella, I've never denied this to anyone except wage payers. But while correct, it displays a lack of vision.

I am not just a slacker.

I am a slacker at any level of scrutiny, at any resolution. Zoom in on any of my actions and you will find slacking that is identical to my entire slacking worldview.

I am a fractal slacker.

And I stand proud.

Well, slouch. But proud.

Pass me the pizza, please. And the remote control.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010
Fractal excellence borrowed from exoteric.roach.org, with thanks!

Chaperoned By Needy Fog

2010-11-25T09:21:00.011Z

A watched pot never boils.

This is one of those homespun truths that wallow unscientifically in the collective consciousness. I accept it as an axiom, knowing that perception has little to do with science.

I'm sitting in my post-breakfast kitchen, waiting somewhat impatiently. The dishwasher program has been running since 6am, and seems determined to continue indefinitely. The switch moved into the Done setting perhaps three minutes ago, but I'm waiting for the final signal before opening the door.

These have been impossibly long, frustrating minutes, stretched to form virtual hours of boredom. If Einstein had been born a few decades later, he could have used a dishwasher to investigate distortions in the Space-Time Continuum.

No doubt he had someone to wash up for him.

While I've been waiting, I've managed to eat a slice of toast and wash up a handful of breakfast things, open the curtains and blinds to welcome in the sun, and read a page of Hemingway.

And still, I wait.

I make a note to not do this kind of thing before heading off to work. The evening is always easier, less stressful.

But yes, finally! I hear the signal, a sharp rapping from the depths of the machine. Without hesitation, I pull the handle, and the machine unfolds in a rush of fragrant steam that fogs my glasses. A coughing reaches my ears as a figure unfolds and raises itself from the innards of the appliance.

My friend and part-time evil genius iDifficult emerges from the hot mist. He is dressed in his best Admiral's uniform and cap. His clothes steam wetly.

Good grief, that's better! he near-bellows. Ah, Roth! he exclaims, clapping me on the back as he strides into the kitchen, chaperoned by the needy fog.

Feeling better? I ask, pleased to see him, as ever.

Indeed! He inhales hugely, delighted to fill his lungs. That decongestant you added to the detergent cleared my tubes up a treat! He sucks in another fill of hot air. Yes! Capital idea, old fellow! And these clothes have never looked cleaner!

Combining showering with laundry, I grin. Inspired. I notice the gentle rain on the floor in his wake. I tell you what though, I reflect, you're a bit wetter than either of us expected.

My friend pats himself a few times and frowns.

Yes, true. Any suggestions?

I step over to the door of the tumble drier, and swing it open theatrically.

Care to go for a spin?

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Making A Break For Venezuela

2010-11-14T22:35:00.009Z

When we were kids, everything was in black and white.

We never questioned it; we didn't know any better.

I'm standing with my best friend iDifficult in the office of Horace Bristle, the headmaster at our boarding school. The old boy is blustering wonderfully as he reads the thick report at his desk.

It seems we're in trouble. We're twelve years old.

Mr. Bristle drops the report and looks our way. Mister Roth. And Mister Difficult. He almost spits our titles; it's part of the bluster. I suppose you know why you're here?

Sir? Sir? we say in unison, summoning all the innocence we can into our voices. I find this quite easy; I'm not aware of having done anything wrong at this point. Well, anything specific.

I've been hearing reports, he indicates the paperwork, about more odd goings on. Horace fixes us with his best steely glare. His left eye tics, which ruins the effect somewhat. And I know you two are at the bottom of it.

The headmaster has no idea that he's an anachronism. A clicheé. Not that he'd understand the words. He comes from an education system that's based on thrashings. And rugger. And tuckshops*. He's never heard of pastoral care, innocent-til-proven-guilty, or sex education.

And he certainly wouldn't approve of his speech being in pink.

[* And midnight feasts, of course, but we still have those. It's food, after all.]

I arrange my face into blank and polite interest. I notice that 'Difficult is doing the same, but that he looks less comfortable; I think he's carrying his ferret in his britches again.

When I was your age...

The headmaster launches into a tirade about responsibility, school values, moral fibre and back-in-my-day, but we're not listening. Curious, I tilt my head slightly and try to read the top paper in front of the headmaster. I glimpse a few words as Old Horace rants away; a vat of apple sauce... Peruvian passports... squid in a barrel... monster trucks... gold lamé wetsuits... and lard.

Oh. Sunday.

I smile. Now there was a day truly conquered.

A cough from 'Difficult brings my attention back to our accuser. The Headmaster has obviously finished, and is awaiting a response. His complexion is darkening; our silence seems to be infuriating.

Well?! he bellows, thrashing his came onto the table. What do you have to say for yourselves?

As we ponder our reply, the old teacher heaves a sigh.

I despise these two boys, I imagine his internal voice saying.

They're never broken a school rule, it continues, but usually only because what they've done is so bizarre there isn't a rule for it.

They've never done anything that's led to injury. The curmudgeon in him grumbles that this is nothing but luck, but deep down he suspects that it's something to do with meticulous planning and daredevil execution. People who can do that tend to make their own luck.

Though they've never done anything that's actually dishonest, either, it concedes. Despite his dislike of the pair's antics, they seem to have some sense of right and wrong.

If only they weren't so bloody creative and capable! wails his outraged disciplinarian heart.

I am aware that time is passing, and that nobody is talking.

Well?! He repeats to us, somewhat hoarsely.

Sorry, Sir, mutters 'Difficult, gazing at his shoes with a well-practised look of contrition.

Won't happen again, Sir, I sniff in a similar vein, knowing this will probably be sufficient.

The headmaster sits down and seethes quietly, knowing he has to swallow both his anger and his pride at any moment.

If it were up to me, he growls, you'd be packing your bags.

He pauses to let that sink in, but we're waiting for the punchline.

But the Board of Governors has other ideas. They seem to admire your... he chews the words and spits them out one at a time, Creativity. And. Spirit. Of. Adventure.

Thank you, Sir! beams 'Difficult. Horace casts him a withering look, but he knows he's lost this one. He looks about for something on his desk distractedly.

May we go now, Sir? I ask, keen to get my friend out of range of the Bristle's cane.

No, you may not, Roth! the master scowls as he finds the paper he's looking for. He indicates it; it seems to be a list. There's a few things to settle.

We reassume the blank expressions of the innocent.

First, where is the School's aardvark?

I'm not sure, Sir. I'm telling the truth; the last time we saw the armoured mascot, he was making a break for Venezuala on a motor scooter. Do you know if he had his passport?

The headmaster grits his teeth ticks a box on the list.

Next, where is the front lawn?

I sent it away to be cut, Sir, explains 'Difficult.

It'll be back Tuesday, I add helpfully.

Horace stared blankly at my friend for a moment, then calmly ticks another box.

And finally... The Governors have asked if you would... he wrestles with the concept, if you would bring the library building back from... he waves a vague hand, from wherever it is right now?

We exchange a momentary grin, and then gift the headmaster with our most reassuring smiles.

We'll get right on it, Sir.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Or At Least A Christmas Card

2010-11-09T21:08:00.009Z

It's not been the best of weeks.

I'm tired. Work has been insane. Long hours, too many days. Sleep has been a luxury.

I'm adrift on blog entries, one of my great pleasures. Forgive me, Father, it's been nine days since my last entry.

I'm broke, though there's nothing new there. Working in Her Majesty's Secret Service is not the life of Riley that you might imagine. I must drop her a note sometime, or at the very least a Christmas card.

I'm behind on a creative project for a friend. I'm really enjoying it, and it's going well, but it needs some time and a clear head to get it finished. A bit of inspiration would go amiss, too.

I'm ignoring everything else. Blogs have gone unread, mails unanswered, movies unwatched, and I've not fed the cat. Luckily, I don't have one.

And I'm sensing the imminent arrival of Christmas, though to be fair I've had that since the Summer. I suspect I'm not alone.

All in all, I'm feeling pretty burned out.

But hey, I've had worse. And I'm a Roth, dammit! It'll pass.

Until then, the only other thing I need to deal with is the anonymous person who's been dumping zebras in my recycling bin*. The bin men won't touch them!

[* I have a pretty good idea who it might be. ]

I'll keep grinding away. I'll be victorious.

For everyone else who feels the same, stick with it.

You're amazing, and never let them tell you different.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010
Photo borrowed from vi.sualize.us, with thanks!

Echoes Of An Empty Box

2010-10-31T00:30:00.009+01:00

Midnight awakenings are never good for me.

I quite often wake from improbable dreams around this time, and spend what feels like minutes shaking it off. It's an unnerving feeling, being unsure of reality, and trying to separate the Now from some darkly conjured metaphor.

So for a few seconds, I am unsure about the knocking. The banging. A gentle, rhythmic drumming, slow and deep. Like the echo of an empty box.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I'm immediately aware that I'm scared. In fact, I'm terrified. I want to turn in bed, to hear more clearly, to dismiss the sound. But I can't. Terror has me, and I feel like I did at ten years old when the gnarled tree outside would claw at my window on windy nights.

I'm cold. I can't move. But I listen.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It's coming from the kitchen. Downstairs.

I have no idea what it might be. Two hours ago I locked the house up tight, same as ever. And when I turned out the light, I expected nothing more exciting than dawn light to wake me.

The light. Yes, I should turn on the light.

My hand feels clammy as I reach for the bedside lamp. I don't find it, and fumble left and right in the darkness, trying to locate the cable. I find it on the third or fourth pass and move along it 'til I reach the control.

My heart pounds as I flick the switch.

Nothing. The darkness holds fast. The power is out.

Downstairs, the thumping stops. My heart tries to join it.

Nothing. No sound. Have I shaken the dream off? Am I dreaming still?

Light would drive a dream away, but there is none. I try to remember where the fusebox is? Ah yes. With the candles and the torch in the utility room. Beyond the kitchen. Downstairs.

Then the drumming starts again, a measured and menacing beat.

My heart races ahead of the score now, playing whole bars over the slow, heavy background rhythm. But somehow the spell has lifted a little, and as I swing my legs from under the impossibly heavy duvet I fumble about for something heavy. Keys. Socks. The paperback Hemingway on my bedside table; For Whom The Bell Tolls. Ironic, but no help there.

Treading softly, I move to the chair on which I hang my clothes, and try to locate something to wear. I have no wish to confront an intruder in my unmentionables.

Nothing. Not a single item. And I know I put them there. Along with my phone, also absent.

So I move onto the landing, dressed and armed as nature intended. The light here is poor; it's a cloudy night out, and the street-lights are on the other side of the house. I can see my way, but my feet are in no hurry.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

There is none of the usual glow in the hallway. It should be illuminated from the street, but it's not. Again, I wonder if I'm dreaming. But the bannister feels solid in my hand, and my instincts tell me that this is real.

The unnerving rhythm is slower now, and closer. Louder. I find my cautious steps down the stairs falling into line with it, as if it's drawing me down. I try to stop, I want to stop, but my legs keep moving.

I have to find out. I have to know.

The hallway is short during daylight, but my steps towards the kitchen door seem endless. And always, that damned thumping.

I step boldly into the dim kitchen. I'm aware of the patio doors, the table, the fridge, the sink. I'm running on adrenaline, and my mind is telling me to run, to fling open the front door and make for the road. Though the front door is locked, and my keys are upstairs.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It's coming from the cupboard by the sink. I step forward hesitantly.

My mind races. What can it be?

I reach out with a trembling hand.

And the noise stops. I pause, waiting for it to start again. Time passes, hideously distorted seconds. I'm frozen in mid-reach, a solitary frame from a movie reel.

The silence is endless.

Ro-o-o-o-th, comes a low, drawn-out hiss.

The masculine voice is behind me, and I spin, crying out, my hand at my mouth.

There is a silhouette sat at the kitchen table. How did I not see him? The damned noise must have held my attention.

The figure stands, the chair scraping noisily.

Ro-o-o-o-th. The voice is familiar. You've kept me waiting.

He takes a menacing step toward me. He's tall, broad.

But he's just a man. And this is my house.

This guy has no idea who he's dealing with.

This guy is in trouble.

I raise my fists and prepare to fight.

The figure chuckles darkly and moves closer.

And I see his face in the faint glow from a high window.

Good grief, It's me. Indigo Roth. What? How can it be me? How is that even possible?

But there's question about it. It's me.

My jaw drops as realisation dawns over me.

Good grief, I'm in trouble.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Happy Halloween!

In Playful Defiance Of Gravity

2010-10-24T15:02:00.011+01:00

Sometimes things are simpler than they seem.

I've never much cared for parties. Small gatherings of friends, music and snacks and few drinks? Yes. But a full blown party? Crowds of strangers, boom boom boom music and not being able to hear myself shout to the person next to me? No.

And I tell you, those badgers know how to party.

Today is Yavin's birthday, and the celebrations are in full swing. There's a marquee in the garden, and the badger world and its coarsely haired black-and-white wife is there. Glugging back the mushroom juice and slurping down the worm canapés, while their kids wrestle in the long grass.

But like I said, I'm not one for parties. Too noisy, too confusing, too much smalltalk with folk I don't know very well. But it's not some deep-rooted shyness, or a terrible social inadequacy on my part.

It's simpler than that. I just don't have the knack.

So, I've slipped out to the front of the house for some peace and quiet. The early evening is cooler here, quieter. I like it better.

In my hand is a string. And bobbing at the end of the string is a helium balloon. It's blue and made of foil, and monogrammed with the letter 'I'. I liberated it from the balloon archway at the party which no longer spells out HAPPY BIRTHDAY YAVIN.

I like helium balloons. When you let them go, they fly away. This makes me happy for what might be any number of reasons.

Some people might say it's because I'm a big kid, and like balloons. They may be onto something there, but I don't think that's the reason.

Some suspicious types might say that I like helium balloons because their playful defiance of gravity appeals to my love-the-underdog British nature. Again, these folk clearly understand something of what makes me tick, but they're wrong.

And some folk might think deeper still, and say that when loosed, each balloon carries my hopes and dreams away with it, soaring above the earth. And while I respect the sentiment, again it's incorrect.

I let the balloon go, and watch it fly away.

Things are often simpler than they seem.

I think I just like to set them free.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

The Butler Didn't Do It

2010-10-17T23:09:00.021+01:00

Sometimes, you get a break just when you need one.

After some very stressful weeks getting important stuff done*, I was delighted to be invited to one of Bear's parties. He's just got engaged to his girlfriend Clarice, and I can think of no better reason to celebrate. Anyway, the pair of them love an excuse to dress up, so they decided to hold a murder-mystery party based on CLUEDO/CLUE.

[*Vague, I know.]

I just got back. Here's a picture of us, all dolled up.

(The picture's worth a click, there's tons of detail.)

From left to right:

Colonel Bear Mustard - The lad himself. Trust him to nab the best costume opportunity. But he carries it off magnificently, don't you think? The moustache was a nice touch; I can just see him sipping a gin and tonic in Poonah, India during the Reign of Victoria. And trust me, this fella can roar like a general.

Miss Clarice Peacock - Bear's beautiful fiancée. An American bear, originally from the deep woods in Augusta, Georgia. She'd not played the game before, so I explained that we were there to solve the murder of Doctor Black. For added realism, King provided a dead zebra, which he declared was Dr. Black-White, a close relative. I thought he'd never stop laughing.

Professor Indigo Plum - I dug out one of Uncle Idaho's old smoking jackets. I think he'd been smoking kippers in it. There was still one in the pocket, in fact. Luckily, there was time to dry clean it, else I'd never have got a date. On which subject...

Miss Abbey Scarlet - My lovely next door neighbour, and date for the evening. Blonde today, in a simple red t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Bare feet, as ever. Not exactly pulling out all the stops on the costume front, but every time she spoke to me I forgot my name.

Reverend iDifficult Green - Taking time off from invading Bolivia in a submarine, 'Difficult brought his own murder weapons along. I salute him; when he method acts, this guy goes deep. Of course, the Reverend's attire is his own. He's diverse.

"Mrs" T-101 White - A late addition to the party. This decommissioned Terminator has been in the shed for a while, but agreed to cross-dress to play the cook and make up the boy/girl ratio. He rather liked the idea, actually, and already had his own pig-tailed wig. Worrying. The chef's apron was another late addition; we didn't want to frighten the horses.

We had a lot of fun.

And the butler didn't do it.

It turned out it was iDifficult in the Garden with the Telescope.

Some things never change.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

It Must Be The Sunflowers

2010-10-06T23:06:00.015+01:00

I sense her presence rather than see her. The scent of sunflowers brings a picture of a summer garden to mind, and the smiling presence of its bearer.

Hello Abbey.

I look up from the internet, and offer my neighbour my best smile. I can’t help it, I like the woman. It’s not her good looks or her unfashionably-together sense of dress, or her from-the-toes laugh. I just feel good around her. Relaxed.

Hi, Indy. Her hand flies to her mouth, and she looks uncertain. Sorry, may I call you that?

Well... I hesitate. I’ve never cared for it, but somehow it's good on her. I notice she’s gone brunette from blonde; that's good on her too. I grin, Please do. I like your hair, by the way. I’m rewarded with a delighted flash of white teeth. I didn’t hear you come in.

Why, thank you! Abbey blushes, fluffing her locks theatrically. I laugh as she makes a throwaway gesture towards the doorway to the hall. King let me in.

I frown. I have a vague recollection of stealthy pawsteps on the stairs. This is unusual. He normally crashes about, growling operatic tunes with impressive bass. The only time I ever see the house’s resident lion move quietly is when he’s about to introduce himself to a zebra. Or having just stolen one of my neckties.

He was at the door before I rang the bell. Handsome beast. And very charming.

Putting thoughts of stolen neckties from my mind, I slip Occam’s Razor from its logical sheath and offer a simple reason for the lion’s welcome. Well, he has a terrific sense of smell, I say brightly. He probably smelled you coming. Her face falls momentarily, but she rallies magnificently to the perceived slight. Hands on hips, bare feet planted squarely, her shoulders at a jaunty angle. I recognise the body language long before my gaze reaches her raised eyebrows.

Excuse me?

My mouth works a few times. I’ve not known Abbey for that long; I guess I’m still working her out. I’m unsure how to field this one, so I fall back onto good old honesty.

I just meant that you smell nice? My voice is quieter and less certain than I intended. And where did that question mark come from? I fumble about for an explanation. You know... Summery. Sunflowers. Sunshine.

Smell like sunshine? Good grief, man. Can you hear yourself?

I needn’t have worried. Abbey steps closer chuckles and drapes an arm round my neck as I sit at the table. S’okay. My neighbour plants a sisterly kiss on the top of my head apologetically. I’m just kidding. I knew how you meant it. She moves on. So. What are you doing?

I shuffle in my chair and turn the screen towards her.

Just checking mail on this dating website. My neighbour leans closer to the screen, clearly interested. I’ve been thinking about joining up for a couple of years, and so a while back I did.

A little internal voice whispers that maybe I didn’t want to talk to Abbey about looking for dates, but I’m not thinking too clearly. It must be the sunflowers.

If she’s disappointed, she doesn’t show it. Cool! How’s it going? Any luck? I experience my own disappointment instead.

Nope. Not a thing.

Really? She looks my way. None today?

I chuckle darkly, Nope, none at all. In three weeks.

What? Why?! Her shock is perversely uplifting. What on earth did you write in your profile?

Man, I’m so not ready for this.

Oh, you know. The truth. She rolls her eyes, like this is the last thing I should do. But hey, I deserve more credit than that. What I mean is, I’ve not told any lies. I’ve presented myself well, and tried to sound sane, appealing and... well, decent.

Uh huh. A few intuitive clicks on her part make my defensive mumblings somewhat redundant; she now has my profile in front of her, and is gently edging my butt sideways from the chair with a few expertly irresistible hip nudges.

Would you like a cup of tea? I'm keen to be out of the room for a few minutes. You know, to take a cold shower, or die of embarrassment. Or something.

Yes please, that’d be lovely.

As I’m boiling the kettle, and wondering what the hell she’s making of it all, King wanders past, humming The Ride Of The Valkyries. I’m too distracted to ponder whether this is some kind of leonine joke, message, insult or warning.

There's a splatter of tiny splashes in the lion's wake on the floor; he’s just got out of the shower, and is off to shake himself dry in the garden. He doesn’t smell as nice as Abbey; wet animals are pretty hard on the nose. Wet lions are also not as magnificent as dry ones, but he’s gone before I get a good look at him.

I hear the back door open and close in the utility room.

The kettle boils. I pour a spot of water into the teapot and let it warm for a minute before making the tea.

Being on the dating site has been rather a gruelling experience. A lot of hours, sifting and sorting profiles, trying to identify women with whom I might click. Then personal introductions, tailored to the profiles of each, trying to make a connection. Light, informal, pleasant, funny, interesting. Finally, the buzz, the thrill of clicking Send, and wondering where it will lead.

Sadly, it’s not been leading anywhere but the void.

Mails have been read, my profile viewed, but silence is all that’s greeted me.

If I wasn’t such a superb, upbeat fella, it could get me down.

I take the teapot through on a tray of china cups and saucers, milk, sugar and cake. Abbey is engrossed with the computer as I pour and stir. I clink the spoon noisily into the saucer to draw her attention, but it’s unnecessary; she’s already closing the lid of the laptop.

She runs a hand through her dark brown locks and shrugs, almost apologetically.

I don’t get it. Nothing at all?

I smile humbly in silence.

Makes no sense. Your profile isn’t perfect, but it’s fine. Confident, optimistic, interesting. Okay, so I tweaked a few words here and there, but... My jaw drops a little, but she ploughs ahead. And I deleted one of your photos that didn’t do you justice.

You did?

She nods. Of course. She frowns, concerned, maybe noticing my droopy jaw. Sorry, you wanted me to lend a hand, right?

Well, I’d not thought about it, but...

And by the way, she continues into my silence, I thought your mails were nicely done.

She read my mail too?

I thought you’d at least have got a courtesy mail back. A Thanks-but-no-thanks, right?

I nod emphatically. Exactly! That’s what I thought! I wave my arms, clearly more agitated about this than I realised. I understand we’re all looking for different things, but every time I hear nothing back I’m surprised. A simple Up yours, ugly doesn’t take much effort. I sigh. I don’t know, maybe it does. Maybe my expectations are set all wrong.

Abbey comes to sit next to me on the sofa and gives me a hug unexpectedly.

If you were right, I’d agree with you, she soothes, but you’re not. I’d feel exactly the same as you. It must be pretty grinding. She pecks me on the cheek. Their loss. Keep at it. You could try a different website maybe, but you’re doing all the right things. You just haven’t found Miss Right yet.

I gaze into her eyes, and time slows. And stops.

But only for a split second. Upstairs again, King starts to roar out the closing verse from Nessun Dorma as he descends the stairs. Puccini would be proud of him; the voice is magnificent and rather moving.

Which reminds me, sighs Abbey, standing, I’d best get moving soon. She retrieves her tea and nibbles on a slice of bakewell tart. There’s suddenly something awkward in her manner.

Are you busy tonight? Where did that come from? I pause, bemused, then blurt, I was going to ask if you fancied having dinner with me?

My neighbour smiles me a winner, but rebuffs me gently. I’d love to, but I’m having dinner with King.

Pardon?

My neighbour winks at me, I wasn’t kidding when I said he was charming.

On cue, there’s a polite knock at the door and King pushes it open. He’s standing his full two-legged height, his mane fluffy and unbraided; the shakedown in the garden did a better job than a hairdryer. He’s sporting a pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, and my best blue sevenfold-silk necktie.

The bastard.

Abbey goes over, slightly straightens the lion’s tie, and then fusses him behind his ears.

My, don’t you look handsome? she purrs. He growls appreciatively.

I watch from the window as they head out, and sip my tea dejectedly.

The scent of sunflowers lingers in the air.

I sit down at the laptop again and lift the lid.

Looks like I’ll need to keep at it.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

With A Skip In My Mental Gait

2010-09-29T23:07:00.010+01:00

I don't believe in signs.

You know, Omens. Portents.

It's too easy to want something so badly that you tease meaning out of chaos and call it a harbinger of its fulfilment.

Tripe. Clearly.

The sound of a letter hitting the doormat is a rarely heard in my house; I deal with everything electronically these days. Oh sure, I get junk mail, but that sounds different.

This has a more satisfying thud.

I put down my tea and shuffle down the hallway towards the front door. As I glance at the letter, I immediately know what it is.

Three weeks ago, I'm choosing one of my blog entries to submit for an anthology that's being published later this year. I find the choice difficult for two reasons. Firstly, I'm rather proud of them all, but second - and more important - I haven't go the faintest clue what will go down well with a publisher.

Eventually, I decide to submit a tidy and typically offbeat entry called A Disconcerting Little Tune which I published back in June*. And, with an excited little skip in my mental gait, off it goes via email.

[* You can click the link if you don't recall it.]

Two weeks ago, I receive an upbeat and rather congratulatory mail. They've accepted my blog entry for publication! It's going to be in a nice paperback book in December. I'll see no money for it, of course, but still. I'm being published.

I feel rather giddy as I fill out a pair of contracts. But I notice with some irritation that Wicked East Press are Publishers of Fine Fiction.

Hey, it's a fictional anthology!

Good grief, I know my life is unconventional, but anyone would think that I make this stuff up!

It makes no odds, though; I'm proud that I'll have a tale in the Cup Of Joe - Coffee House Flash Fiction anthology.

I sign and date the contracts and despatch them off to South Carolina.

Back in the now, I examine the envelope on the doormat with an degree of disbelief. I almost invent the word bewildishment to describe my thoughts adequately.

The lovely handwritten address draws the eye, and the bulge of my folded contract inside urges my spirit do a touchdown shuffle.

But it's the stamps that make my heart pound.

The stamps are made for me. They are me!

The first thing that goes through my head?

It's a sign! A good omen! A portent of future success!

But I don't believe in signs. Right?

It's a sign!

I'm demanding the resignation of my subconscious.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

The Butterflies Are Relieved

2010-09-20T19:45:00.027+01:00

I'm falling. Hard and fast.

The glass-and-steel building blurs past me, and I'm still accelerating.

I didn't plan this when I got up this morning.

Wow, that's quite a view.

It's five minutes ago, and I'm standing on the roof's edge of a very tall building. As skyscrapers go, this is very scrapey indeed. Two hundred and one floors. The world's tallest. Roth's Spire in Cambridge, England.

What would my shrink make of this thrusting edifice?

It's 2023. I moved house today. It's been hard. The penthouse is a beautiful location, but not when the service elevator is out of service.

Two hundred floors carrying a sofa takes it out of you.

I had help, of course. Bear and iDifficult did most of the heavy lifting, and Yavin and an army of badgers shifted all the smaller boxes. Industrious lads, one and all; everyone lent a hand or paw. Even King turned up - with a dazzling new necktie for me as a housewarming present - though my favourite lion only made it as far as the lobby.

(And of course, he looked very fetching with it tied round his neck as he slipped away later.)

Behind me, an access door clanks open.

Framed in the doorway, diminutive but commanding, is Yavin. The badger casts his gaze about, adjusting his tweed cap to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun as he does so. And, seeing me, he waves briefly and wanders over, the buckles on his workman's dungarees ringing gently against the pens in his breast pocket.

Hey, I thought you'd all gone. This is true; I remember waving them all off as they started the long trudge down the stairwell. Was he there? It's not important. It's been quite a day.

Yavin produces a spotted red handkerchief and mops his brow with a nod. As he folds it away, he hops onto the edge next to me and takes a long hard look down. He huffs a breath; clearly he's impressed.

Yeah, it's a long way down. I wave expansively and look down on the hundred of years of history murmuring in the spires and colleges of the university town. The river is an irridescent ribbon from up here. Hell of a view, mind.

A quiet cough draws my gaze downwards. Meeting my glance, the badger taps his watch meaningfully. This draws me back into focus.

Good grief, am I late to meet Abbey for dinner?

Yavin see-saws a paw meaningfully and then points to the stairs.

You're right. I'd best get moving.

I move to step down from the edge and pause. A strange notion is forming in my head. It does a few orbits and feels even stranger.

I gaze down at the distant sidewalk.

Of course... I mutter, almost to myself, I could take the direct route.

Two hundred floors? Freefall? Am I insane?

Yavin is regarding me thoughtfully. Perhaps he's having the same doubt, judging my sanity for the umpteenth time in as many years. He takes a long look over the edge and then back to me. He frowns and points towards street level, raising an eyebrow and shrugging his confusion.

How will I do it? I shrug back at him. Oh, I'll think of something.

The badger tilts his head at me, and suddenly makes a splatting motion with an articulate gesture.

Oh, it'll be fine, I enthuse vaguely, I'll do what I always do - improvise!

We stare at each other as clouds gather overhead.

Twenty seconds ago, Yavin is rushing off a quick text to the emergency services as I reign in my hesitation on the edge, and spread my arms wide.

Ten seconds ago, I swan-dive with a whoop. Spinning, I see a concerned badger waving me off before he runs for the stairs.

Back in the now, I'm still falling. The wind roars in my ears, and the butterflies are frankly relieved that they're safe in my tummy.

I pass the observation platform on the hundred and tenth floor. I'm almost halfway down.

Man, what a rush!

I didn't plan this when I got up this morning.

But sometimes, you have to seize the day.

And sometimes, after a difficult month has run its course, you have to seize it real hard.

But enough of this introspection; time is against me.

Ah well, best get moving.

I don't want to be late in any sense.

Looking about, I start to improvise.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010