Sunday Scribbles XXXVI

If you're a blues fan, then write down this name: Neil Worboys. Kiwi chap. And I've just acquired the album by him and the Real Time Liners called "Some Day Soon". It is fantastically good, ands should be high on every blues-lover's wish list. NW has been around a long time: Hogsnort ruper and the Bulldogs allstar band.. he's getting better with age, much like a good cheese. Not that the music's cheesey - far fromit. Look for Neil Worboys and the Real Time Liners in your favourite music shop, and make them rich.
I've also been listening, over and over, to Little Bushman. Too good to be true.
Jenny and I have been talking music lately, and our regrets at not having learnt to play an intrument in our more junior years. Well, she took piano lessons, under the firm and excruciating tutelage of the Little Sisters of St Mary's Convent: apparently as evil a place that has ever existed in New Zealand. To cut the short story long - we're seriously considering buying a guitar and electronic keyboard, and learning to play. All we need is the cheap instruments. Might be a time to go looking at Trademe.
It's a cool morning in Auckland. We've definitely hit winter: although in comparison to the temperatures at Reporoa, it's positively balmy. Here it is, just gone 9 on Sunday morning, and I'm in shortsleeves. Trousers too, of course.
We have the crock pot out, which is another sure sign of winter. Today, I'll be doing a new beef curry. Expecting guests, so I may have to crank up the pucker factor.
Rehearsals start in earnest on Tuesday. I even dreamed about them: that I'd completely forgotten all my lines, and how to read. Sigh.
Listening to: Well, you know.
Reading: "Shakespeare", by Bill Bryson. One of his more serious writerly exercises: so far, it hasn't told me anything new. I hate to say this, but I might be setting dear Bill aside.
More "Paper Heroes":
The four can feel a faint vibration through the floor: all they can feel or hear of the maelstrom of sound in the White Room.


The monitors in front of Paulus’ eyes shift, and flicker. “Awakening,” he says.

“Which one?” a bark from Charles.

“All three, as planned..”

“Which one?” the same question, but this time from Adam.

“Ah. Yes. I think the big one, Whistler, will waken first, but it’ll be a close run thing.”

“A pun? Surely not from you, Paulus,” teases Cienwyn.

“Sorry?”

“A pun – a close run thing. Waterloo.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

In the room the colour-shifting light is flickering through the spectrum so fast that the three forms are bathed in searing white. The sound thunders and snarls, and even in the protected booth the four observers feel the vibrations grab them and shiver them.

In the White Room one of the bodies rolls to its side, and the lights snap off. The thunder stops. The storm is over. Cienwyn clears the window.

“Power use?”

“Just under 8. Less than half we expected. – and Paulus, you were wrong again. It’s the older man.”

“Still big, though.”

“Yes. Still big.”

The man is, in fact, far larger than the watching people. He groans, rubs an arm over his eyes, and stands. Cienwyn murmurs again, and the force-field which has supported the man over the past eight months is turned off.  Then, as the man goes to lean on it for support, she mutters a curse and instructs her P-See to turn it back on. Too late. The man’s reflexes are quick, though, and he regains his balance.

And stops.

And looks down, at his foot. His right foot. He lifts it, curls his toes, counts his toes, and puts it down again on the floor.

The surface is rough, and he knows his feet will grip hard if he has to move. He looks around him, his face expressionless.  He can see there are five other occupied beds in the room, two of them in circles light, as he is. He steps backward, to get himself out of the light, but the light moves with him.

One of the two lit figures stirs, then the other. He can hear their voices. Male, groaning, stifling swear words, slow to get to their feet. He can see that they’re both fit, and the smaller one, like him, carries a network of scars. The bigger man is just short of plump, but there’s a lot of muscle under the fat.

Charles opaques the window, and the sudden change attracts the attention of all three men. The smallest of the three speaks first.

“Where.” He stops, and coughs. “Where are we?”

“Good question. Are you Blunt?” the big man asks in response.

“I’m. Yes. A moment.” The man wipes his face with his hands, and looks about. “ Blunt. Yes, Andrew Blunt. Who are you? Wait: I know. You’re Crayne. And where are we?”

“Yes. Thomas Crayne. “I don’t know where we are. And you, sir, your name? Whistler?”

“Sean Whistler.”